Chapter 1
Lyra’s blade gleamed under the pale moonlight as she twirled it effortlessly, her movements precise and deliberate. The training ground was quiet now, save for the rhythmic hum of her strikes against the practice dummy. She liked this time of night—when the other recruits were asleep, and the suffocating watch of the instructors eased for a few hours.
Taken from her family at the age of six, Lyra barely remembered her parents’ faces. All she knew was the cold, rigid discipline of the king’s training camp, where children were molded into warriors with no pasts and no futures—only loyalty to the crown.
“Still training, Lyra?” A familiar voice broke the silence.
She turned sharply, relaxing only when she saw Callen, the prince, standing at the edge of the grounds. His dark hair fell into his eyes, a boyish contrast to the commanding presence he carried.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, wiping sweat from her brow.
He shrugged, stepping closer. “Couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d find you here.”
Lyra frowned, lowering her blade. “You shouldn’t be out here. If your father—”
“Will lecture me about propriety and appearances,” Callen finished, rolling his eyes. “Let him. I’m not the one sneaking out of the palace every night to train in secret.”
Her lips quirked into a reluctant smile. “I’m not sneaking. This is what they raised me for, remember?”
“Raised you for,” Callen echoed, his tone darkening. “Lyra, you’re more than a weapon for my father to wield.”
She wanted to believe him, but years of conditioning had ingrained the truth deep within her. She was a soldier. A tool. And yet, when Callen looked at her, she felt like something more—something she couldn’t quite name.
“You should go,” she said softly, turning back to her practice. “If anyone sees you here...”
“Let them,” Callen said, stepping closer. His voice was low, earnest. “You’re not just another warrior, Lyra. Not to me.”
Her heart stuttered at his words, but before she could respond, a sharp voice rang out.
“Prince Callen!”
Both of them froze as a royal guard approached, his face a mask of disapproval. “Your father is looking for you. You shouldn’t be here.”
Callen straightened, slipping easily into his princely demeanor. “I was merely checking on the recruits. Return to the palace; I’ll follow shortly.”
The guard hesitated, his gaze flicking to Lyra, before nodding stiffly and retreating.
Once he was out of earshot, Callen turned back to her, his expression softening. “Be careful, Lyra. My father... he won’t approve of this.”
Lyra nodded, watching him leave with a mix of longing and dread. She knew the king’s disdain for anyone who dared to step out of their assigned place, and she was acutely aware of how dangerous her growing bond with Callen had become.
As she resumed her training, a new determination settled in her chest. She would not let the king—or anyone else—define her. For better or worse, her fate was her own, and no crown or sword would take that from her.
