Prologue
The blade whistled through the air, missing me by a heartbeat. I leapt aside, feeling it vibrate in my hands from the force of the sudden motion. Every fibre of me screamed as the steel tore through the wind. This sword isn’t just a weapon — it’s a message. The wolf-and-moon emblem, etched with meticulous precision, radiates power, ferocity, a silent, unrelenting threat. Whoever wields it does not falter. Does not hesitate. Hunts. And destroys without mercy.
At least, that’s the discipline drilled into us every day.
The silver gleam of the blade caught the shadows, casting a cold, almost spectral halo. Its dark presence forced doubt into the hearts of enemies, a crushing weight on their chests, as if predatory eyes were watching, hungry for blood, ready to strike with savage precision. Every movement I make with it embodies a beast on the hunt — agile, unflinching, ruthlessly lethal.
And now, I am that beast.
I must be.
Holding it, I feel the weight of centuries of tradition, of endless hunts and sleepless nights. The blade never fails. Never. The cruel precision it demands is a burden I carry. It is not just the weight of metal in my hands — it is the weight of everything it represents. There is no mercy. No forgiveness. It is the sentence. And I am its executioner.
The snow sliced through my boots like shards of ice, but I could not afford to falter. Gavril, leader of the Ruinários — or simply my father — showed no mercy.
I had to stand out. Be the best. Be the strongest.
Be his pride.
“Again!” he roared, raising the heavy training sword.
The weak morning sun reflected off the scars etched across his face, cruel mirrors of the life we were forced to endure. Each mark told a story of pain and survival, of a man shaped by the brutality of a world without compassion.
I planted my feet, curling my fingers around the hilt. I inhaled sharply, muscles taut, and advanced with absolute focus. Every fibre of me knew that a single mistake would be my downfall. Gavril demanded strength, speed, perfection. And I had to give him all of it — or face consequences as merciless as the blade he wielded.
His sword came down with blinding speed. The clash reverberated through my bones as I blocked the strike. My body shook, hands burning from the impact. The metal vibrated in my palms, but I could not allow myself the luxury of pain. There was no room for hesitation, and Gavril would not grant me even a breath.
He attacked without pause. Every movement was deliberate, cold, merciless, as if I were no more than another enemy to crush beneath his strength. His strikes were like lightning, each one faster, deadlier than the last. Yet, deep in my soul, I knew he held back.
“Slow!” he roared. Another strike, another clash of steel. In that instant, my right foot slipped, and I fell.
“Too slow, you fool!” he bellowed, eyes locked on me, fury mingled with disdain. He pressed the tip of the sword against my head.
“Too weak. Too distracted…” he muttered, twisting away, his other murmurs lost to my ears.
I thanked whatever gods that I couldn’t hear them, yet my heart sank under the weight of each word he spoke. I sprang to my feet, ignoring the laughter around me, and we resumed the battle.
After all, I am a weapon of war, the anchor for what he desires most: the crown.
When I was younger, everything cut deeper. My schoolmates spoke so warmly of their parents, who always showed up at festive performances with smiles and treats for their children. My father never stepped foot there, never offered a smile, never a candy.
His contempt was tangible. Not only for my failures, but for my very nature. I was an extension of him, yet also a reminder of all he despised. He wanted someone invincible, someone without weakness, yet also someone he could control, subjugate. So he delighted in every mistake I made, each one confirming I was not what he desired. His anger was not only directed at me, but at what I represented: the unfulfilled promise, the weight of his legacy.
No matter how much I trained, it was never enough — and that moment of hesitation was all it took for me to miss the sweep and collapse to my knees.
“Ah!” I gasped, as pain shot through my right shin like lightning.
The impact against the ground was brutal, and a burning ache spread through my leg, forcing me to clamp my mouth shut against the scream rising in my throat. The pressure of the pain seemed to swallow everything else, shaking my focus for a moment. My shin throbbed, and the sensation that my body was failing me became unbearable. I tried to rise quickly, but the weight of the pain dragged me down, as if the earth itself held more power over me than any sword strike ever could. Sweat streamed down my forehead, but it wasn’t just from the exertion. It was the weight of shame, frustration, and rage. He was still there, watching me, and I… I was nothing more than another failure in his eyes.
The Ruinários circled around us, and I knew what was coming next. Low murmurs and muffled laughter — a sound that seeped into my bones like poison.
“What a shame, Gavril’s little princess!” Kira spat.
I didn’t even look.
“She’s like a lamb pretending to be a wolf,” Anastasia sneered.
“Maybe we should finish this now,” James called, his voice thick with malice. “A mistake like that on the battlefield would mean a quick death.”
Their words burned deeper than any blow. The bitter taste of humiliation mixed with the anger that flamed in my chest. I clenched the sword so hard my knuckles whitened and hauled myself up, swallowing every shard of pain in my muscles.
I rose first on my left leg, then the right, the foot scorching with pain when it met the ground — as if it might snap; agony licked at my tongue.
Damn it, I was so weak.
I lifted my chin and drew a breath that steadied me; my eyes were hot with hatred and resolve. I would not yield. I would not break — not before them.
My father arched an eyebrow, interested, as he always was when I reacted like this. Pushing me to the edge was what he demanded of me.
Blood dripped from my torn palms onto the hilt. I did not feel pain. Only fury. Only… fear. Fear of failing. Fear that, however hard I tried, I would never be enough.
“Again!” I shouted — and this time I moved first. The blade sliced through the air with brutal precision. If my father wanted a beast, he would have one. If Kira, Anastasia and James wanted a spectacle of blood, I would give it to them, even as breath scorched my lungs.
Fighting Gavril was never just a duel with one man; it was a performance for them all. I would prove I was no mistake. No flaw. That the blood of the Ruinários ran in me as fiercely and as lethal as in any of them.
My boots cut shallow tracks across the snow, feet planted, posture steady, hands dug into the grip. Gavril met my strike without hesitation, a measured motion, blades colliding in an earth-shaking clash. The impact shivered up my arms, but I did not fall back. I pushed harder, forcing him to step back — if only a single pace.
“Finally,” he murmured, a sound almost satisfied but edged with the same hardness. “A little action at last.”
He shoved me back with a sharp swing of his sword. I staggered but held my balance.
“See that, Radek?” Kira’s drawling voice slithered through the air like venom. “Seems our little darling has fire in her veins… every now and then.”
“More like a frightened cat trying to show its claws,” Anastasia laughed. “I’d bet anything she won’t survive three more strikes without falling.”
James chuckled, arms crossed. “Easy money, Anastasia. The poor thing’s already at her limit.” He paused, leaning slightly forward. “But tell me, do you think she’ll cry this time? Or run to daddy like she used to when she was just a brat?”
“Shut your mouths and pay attention,” Radek barked.
Radek. Always so contradictory. It hardly seemed like he was the one who despised me the most.
Blood boiled in my veins. They were waiting for me to fail. They wanted to see me fall. My father said nothing, didn’t reprimand them. Rarely did he. Because, deep down, he agreed with them.
As hard as it was to swallow, it was the truth. And yet, one of the countless reasons they hated me was that my purpose wasn’t to fight — though I had to.
My purpose was to be beautiful.
Still, I trained until I could barely stand. It was cruel, the things they said, when I gave everything I had — everything I could — and it was never enough.
I swallowed hard, teeth clenched. My eyes burned, not with tears, but with rage.
I struck again, the blade singing through the air, aiming at Gavril with lethal precision. He blocked, of course, but the impact hit harder. He felt it.
“Yes!” he growled, and suddenly he lunged at me with terrifying speed.
I barely had time to react. Steel flashed in the air, and only a quick reflex saved me. I leapt to the side, rolling across the snow, feeling the ice tear at my skin. Air ripped from my lungs as I slammed hard into the ground.
But I couldn’t stop.
Gavril never stopped.
I rose just in time to block another strike, but my arms began to throb from the effort. Every bone, every muscle screamed in protest, but I silenced the pain. The only thing that mattered was to keep going.
Another strike. Another block.
“That’s all you’ve got?” Gavril taunted, eyes assessing me, daring me.
A roar tore from my throat, and I struck again. This time, it wasn’t just strength — it was speed, precision, a whirlwind of steel and fury. Gavril had to step back twice to adjust to my rhythm, and that’s when I saw it: a small opening in his guard.
Now.
I moved without thinking, pure instinct, and the tip of my blade slid along his flank, slicing through the fabric of his shirt and leaving a thin line of blood.
For the first time, I drew his blood. Over a thousand trainings, and this was the first.
Absolute silence.
Gavril looked down at the cut, then back at me. The air between us grew thick, almost suffocating.
Then, he laughed. A deep, dry sound.
And then he struck with everything he had.
The world became a blur of steel and ice. I fought back, gave everything I had, but Gavril wasn’t holding back anymore. He didn’t want to train me—he wanted to crush me.
The final blow was brutal. His blade met mine, and the impact was so strong my fingers gave way. The sword flew from my grasp, landing several meters away, half-buried in the snow.
Silence returned. The cold felt sharper, crueler.
I was unarmed. Gavril lowered the tip of his sword to my chest.
“Dead,” he said—his voice calm, merciless.
The world tilted around me. My breath came in harsh bursts of white against the frozen air. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak.
And then—the laughter began.
“I told you!” Anastasia shouted, clapping her hands. “Not even three strikes!”
“How pathetic,” Kira sneered. “And she actually thought she could win? Lucky for her he never aims for the face, or she’d look worse than Adam.”
“The shame of the Ruinari,” Radek muttered, before I heard his footsteps fade away.
The shame of the Ruinari.
Those words hit harder than any blade.
Their laughter echoed in my ears, slicing through my chest like knives. Gavril stepped back, reclaiming his sword. He didn’t look at me. He didn’t speak.
And maybe that was the worst part.
Because it meant he agreed with them.
Humiliation burned through me, heavy as stone. The snow beneath me seemed ready to swallow me whole. But I didn’t cry.
The tears had dried long ago—I’d grown used to it.
I stood, fists clenched, breath ragged. Limping, I picked up my sword and turned my back to them. Pain seared through my ankle, my palms slick with blood—but even so, I forced myself to look at their mocking faces.
I needed that pain. I needed to remember.
I would never forget.
Every laugh. Every word. Every look of disdain.
I remembered it all.
And one day, they would remember me.
