The training yard smelled of blood, dust, and sweat.
Ilode knew that scent better than her own skin. Sweat ground into stone. Blood sank into cracks that never truly faded. This was where children were broken down and reforged into weapons—and she had been one of them.
Her parents weren’t nobles. They weren’t councilors. They were soldiers.
Her mother guarded the Queen. Her father served in the unit assigned to Ana Marie—Lucian’s young mate. Blades. Shields. Loyal to the bone.
They never came home.
Ilode didn’t remember the ambush from sight. She remembered it from repetition—how the survivors told it in fragments that never softened with time.
The Queen believed mercy was strength. She believed rogues deserved aid, dignity, and food. That night, she went beyond the Obsidian
lands
