TAINTED LIES

ZYRA ASHWORTH’S POV

People think war begins with chaos. Screams. Gunshots. Panic.

They’re wrong.

It begins in silence.

The kind of silence you don’t just hear you inhale, like cold air in a dark cave, wrapping around you, pressing you down. The kind you learn to crawl inside of to breathe through, to kill from without a sound. I moved through the skeletal ruins of the old processing facility like a shadow with purpose, my footsteps muffled against cracked concrete and scattered debris. My pulse was steady, a quiet drum beneath the tension coiled in my muscles. The grip around the hilt of my blade was tighter than steel itself, my knuckles pale beneath the thin gloves.

Moonlight spilled cold and silver across my shoulders, slicing broken shapes into the ground ghosts trying to follow me, but fading when I shifted.

This was my first sanctioned solo under A.R.I.A. Advanced Recon & Intelligence Agency. A government ghost organization that operated legal missions buried so deep in classified files that even rumors were dangerous. And me? Freshly embedded. New to the agency’s world, but not new to blood spilled in silence.

This was the kind of mission they sent to test you the kind where the enemy was as real as the cold steel pressed to your skin and the expectation was that you would fail.

Too bad I didn’t play to expectations.

I moved fast two enemies crouched near the north side, weapons at the ready. One trigger-happy, nerves twitching like he’d explode at any second. The other cocky, confident in his numbers. The first was down before he realized the air had left his lungs, a faint ragged sound lost in the night. The second hit the ground harder, slamming against rusted steel with a groan before silence claimed him.

No backup. No fail-safes. Just instinct honed sharp by years of training, and a directive etched deep in my memory:

“Deliver justice. In silence, if needed.”

A.R.I.A.’s motto wasn’t just words. It was a creed. A cold promise whispered in the dark, the chill crawling down my spine steadying my hand.

I crouched beside a third target a younger man, eyes wide and wild, blood seeping from a shoulder wound I didn’t remember inflicting. He reached slowly for something in his jacket. I didn’t hesitate.

The mission was over. Thirteen minutes and thirteen seconds.

I stood amid the wreckage, the flickering floodlight overhead casting harsh, unforgiving white light over cracked concrete and twisted metal. My heartbeat remained steady, my breathing calm and measured. Part of the conditioning—to operate like a machine burning low, just enough to finish the job and walk away with clean hands. At least on the surface.

Then my phone buzzed.

The sharp sound felt out of place, alien. Like laughter echoing through an empty morgue.

Sliding off my glove, I answered. “Zyra.”

“Finally!” My sister’s voice cracked through the line high-pitched, urgent, the kind of voice only Lilia could pull off. “You alive?”

I exhaled, the tightness in my chest loosening just a little. “I’ve been worse.”

“You forgot, didn’t you? Z, come on. Tomorrow’s my wedding day! You were supposed to be here by tonight we talked about this.”

Right. The wedding.

Her wedding.

The one I promised I’d attend despite every cell in my body screaming to run the moment I stepped inside.

“I’ll be there,” I said softly. “Promise.”

“Windmere Estate, Zyra. Do not bail on me.” Her voice dropped, quieter now, almost fragile. “I need you.”

She hung up.

And just like that, the battlefield behind me felt lighter than the one waiting ahead.

The Windmere Estate glittered like a dream built from white roses and light. Cascading blooms spilled over grand staircases, fairy lights curled around balconies like constellations stitched into stone, and a delicate string quartet played a soft melody I didn’t recognize but it was impossible not to feel the weight of the celebration.

I didn’t belong here.

I stepped onto the manicured grounds in black cargo pants and a high-collar jacket, the bruises beneath my sleeves still tender, the cold steel of a hidden blade brushing my thigh like a secret comfort. I hadn’t slept. Hadn’t healed. No mask was good enough to hide the ache in my chest, no smile wide enough to cover the cracks beneath.

Because this wasn’t just about Lilia’s wedding.

It was about Arwan Embry.

The name was carved into my memory like a scar. My childhood. My first crush. My stupid, silent love. He’d chased lightning bugs with me under star-strewn skies at our grandparents’ backyard, called me “Ash” because I looked like fire and ash all at once.

And now, he was marrying my sister.

I took the back path around the estate, careful to avoid the well-dressed crowd milling near the grand entrance. I slipped behind ivy-covered stone walls and floral arches, letting the music fade into the night behind me.

That’s when I heard him.

Arwan. His voice. Low. Familiar. Private.

Carrying from the balcony above.

I froze.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t blink.

He was on the phone, pacing slowly beneath the warm glow of a hanging lantern. His face was tense, unreadable from my hidden vantage point, but his voice carried clearly enough for me to hear him speak. Not the words. Not the meaning. Just him—the rhythm of his voice, the weight behind it.

And it was enough to undo me.

I stepped deeper into the shadows, silent and unseen. Listening without permission, heart heavy with questions I couldn’t ask, and answers I wasn’t ready for.

I shouldn’t have been here.

But I was.

And somehow, that was worse.

ARWAN EMBYR’S POV

The lantern hanging from the wrought-iron railing flickered softly, casting a pale, uneven glow across my face. Shadows stretched and twisted, but they couldn’t mask the fire burning behind my eyesthe cold, relentless rage that simmered just beneath my skin. I gripped the phone like it was my last tether to reason, knuckles whitening with every hesitant word Kian spoke on the other end.

“Are you sure about this?” His voice was cautious, almost pleading. Doubt hung heavy between us, thick as the night air.

I leaned back against the cool stone of the balcony wall, the rough texture grounding me while my jaw clenched so tight it ached. “She destroyed my family, Kian,” I said, my voice low and hard, sharper than I meant it to be. “She killed my parents.” The words felt like knives, slicing through the silence. “Do you think I could ever forgive her for that?”

“But marrying her sister? Are you sure this is the right way?” Kian’s voice trembled with uncertainty.

A bitter smirk twisted at the corner of my lips, but it was more a mask than amusement. Inside, my chest was a furnace of raw pain and burning fury I couldn’t let go of, no matter how much I tried. “Lilia Ashworth is nothing more than a pawn in this game,” I said quietly, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “I’ll marry her. Through her, I’ll tear Zyra Ashworth’s world apart. She’ll watch everything she’s ever loved crumble right before her eyes.”

The line went silent, stretched out in the weight of what I’d said, the unspoken threats hanging like smoke in the cool night air. Then Kian’s voice came again, softer this time, almost a warning. “I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

I tightened my grip on the phone, breathing out slowly, trying to steady the turmoil inside. “I know exactly what I’m doing,” I muttered. Then, without another word, I cut the call.

Behind me, the estate was alive with movement and purpose servants hurried along the polished marble floors inside, their whispered conversations blending with the soft rustling of gowns and the clink of fine China. Outside, white roses spiralled up the stone pillars, their delicate petals catching the soft glow of fairy lights strung like captured stars along the garden paths. Somewhere in the distance, the gentle hum of a string quartet drifted upward, playing a melody both sweet and achingly distant.

But none of it mattered.

Not to me.

Not tonight.

Because this wedding the grand halls dressed in white and gold, the flowers carefully arranged to perfection wasn’t a celebration.

It was a battlefield.

And Zyra Ashworth the girl who’d been my childhood friend, was the war I was determined to win.

My heart ached, twisted by the ghost of what could have been. I could still remember the days when we chased lightning bugs in our grandparents’ backyard, when she called mewith that quiet smile, when nothing seemed broken beyond repair.

Now, everything was shattered.

I ran a hand through my hair, the cool night breeze brushing against my skin like a fleeting memory. I knew what I was about to do was ruthless, cold but it was the only way. The only path left to make her feel the pain I carried every day.

I glanced down at the sparkling gardens below, where guests laughed and danced, oblivious to the darkness lurking just beneath the surface. Tomorrow, the vows would be spoken, promises made. But for me, they were weapons.

I exhaled slowly, a steady calm settling over the storm inside. I would play my part perfectly.

Because this wasn’t just a wedding.

This was war.

And Zyra Ashworth my past, my pain, was the battlefield I intended to conquer.

I ran a hand through my hair, the cool night breeze brushing against the back of my neck as I exhaled slowly, trying to steady the storm inside me. For a moment, I let the silence settle around me.

The music from the garden drifted upward again, softer now, almost distant. The scent of white roses lingered in the air, delicate and sweet too gentle for the bitterness lodged in my chest.

Then I heard it.

A faint scrape against the stone floor behind me.

My body went completely still. Years of instinct sharpened my senses before my mind could process the sound. Slowly, my gaze shifted toward the tall glass doors that led back into the corridor.

The curtains moved.

Not from the wind.

From someone standing behind them.

My eyes narrowed as I pushed myself away from the balcony wall. Each step toward the doorway was slow and deliberate, the lanternlight flickering behind me as my shadow stretched across the marble floor.

Another sound followed barely audible, like someone shifting their weight.

Someone was definitely there.

“Who’s there?” My voice cut through the quiet, low and sharp.

No answer came.

But the silence didn’t feel empty. It felt tense, like the air itself was holding its breath.

I stepped closer until I stood right beside the glass door. The curtain trembled again, just slightly. In one swift motion, I reached forward and pulled it aside.

For a split second, everything seemed to freeze.

A figure stood just beyond the doorway in the dimly lit corridor. The soft glow of the garden lights spilled through the balcony behind me, illuminating her face.

Zyra Ashworth.

My chest tightened instantly.

Her eyes were wide, her hand still resting against the wall as if she had needed it to steady herself. The colour had drained from her face, leaving her pale beneath the faint chandelier light.

Our eyes locked.

A thousand questions raced through my mind at once.

How long had she been standing there?

How much had she heard?

Realization slowly crept across her expression, and something in my chest twisted at the sight of it.

My grip tightened on the doorframe.

“You…” My voice dropped, quieter now, but far more dangerous.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

She just stared at me as if the ground beneath her feet had suddenly disappeared.

My jaw clenched.

“So,” I said slowly, my gaze hardening as the truth settled between us.

“You were listening.”

The cruelest wars are not fought with weapons but with truths we were never meant to hear. - Snow