Ruthless Lord

Cora POV

The makeshift archery field stretches before me, little more than a patch of uneven earth marked by straw targets and weathered posts. Yet it is mine, carved out of necessity, and I stand within it as though it were a sanctuary. The last breath of summer clings to my skin, warm and fleeting, and I wonder if I will remember this sensation when the frost returns.

My father, Lord and General of the southern armies of the Vanguard Kingdom, sent me here, far from the Southern capital city of Amberfall, to live on this small farm with Aliah and her husband, Bastion.

Bastion is more than a farmer; he is my personal guard, sworn to protect me, though sometimes I wonder if his duty is to keep me safe or to keep me hidden. Ten winters have passed since I last saw Amberfall, its giant spires and crowded streets, the place where the rest of my family still resides. I am twenty now, and my father’s bitterness has not softened with time. He blames me for my mother’s death the day I was born was the day she left this world.

Aliah tells me I look just like her. My hair, white as untouched snow, falls in waves that catch the light. My eyes, pale blue, mirror the sky before a storm. A slim face, full lips, and a gentleness I never knew but am told belonged to her. Each year, as I grow into her likeness, my father’s anger deepens, as though my very existence is a wound that refuses to heal.

Agatha, my older sister, carries the same bitterness. She was five when I was born, old enough to remember the warmth of our mother’s embrace, and old enough to resent me for stealing it away. She is hollow in her grief, a mirror of my father’s rage. Wrex, my eldest brother, was fifteen then, old enough to understand that death does not choose its victims, and that blame is a cruel inheritance. He never held me responsible. One day, Wrex will be Lord and General of the southern armies, and perhaps when that day comes, I will be allowed to return home. Or perhaps not.

Until then, I remain here, in this fragile heaven carved from exile.

“You are slacking, Cora,” Bastion’s voice cuts through my thoughts, steady and unyielding.

“I’m only enjoying the last of the summer,” I reply, forcing a smile that feels lighter than the weight pressing on my chest.

Bastion has been training me in the art of combat. I falter with swords, their weight drags me down, too heavy, too unwieldy. I prefer the bow, the dagger, weapons that demand precision rather than brute strength. Together, he and I hunt for our food, while Aliah tends the vegetables with patient hands. Supplies arrive only in the winter months, when the earth hardens and the animals vanish into hibernation.

It is a simple life, but uncertainty lingers in every shadow. How long will I remain here? How long until my father’s wrath finds me again? The farm feels like a sanctuary, but I know sanctuaries can crumble.

I draw the bowstring back, the arrow trembling against the taut line, my focus narrowing on the straw target. Just as I steady my breath, movement flickers at the edge of my vision. A rider, alone, thunders across the distant field, the horse’s hooves pounding the earth with urgency. Dust rises in a frantic cloud behind him.

Before I can react, Bastion’s hand clamps over mine, pulling the bow from my grip with practiced speed. His voice is sharp, commanding. “Quickly. Go change.”

The order leaves no room for hesitation. Noble ladies of the kingdom are not meant to wield weapons, not even in secret practice fields. To be caught with a bow would be scandal enough; to be seen training would be worse. My heart stutters as I rush inside, stripping off the worn leathers that cling to my skin.

Aliah is already waiting, her hands steady though her eyes betray unease. She thrusts a simple green dress toward me. “What do you think is happening?” I whisper, fumbling with the fabric.

“I’m not a physic, child,” she snaps, tugging the corset strings tight until my breath catches. Her tone is brisk, but I hear the tremor beneath it.

There is no time to change my boots. Mud clings to them, betraying the hours of training, but I pray the rider will not notice. My palms are slick with sweat, and I wipe them against the folds of the dress as we step back outside.

“Stop fidgeting, Cora” Aliah scolds, her voice low and sharp, as though the rider might hear even from a distance.

The horse slows, its breath steaming in the cooling air, and the rider pulls hard on the reins. He dismounts at the gate, movements quick and deliberate, securing the animal with a soldier’s efficiency.

Bastion steps forward, placing himself between me and the stranger, his stance rigid, his hand hovering near the hilt of his blade. His eyes are narrowed, calculating. He is ready to kill if the situation demands it. The rider’s gaze fixes on me, sharp and assessing, as though weighing my worth against the dust of the road. “Lady Cora?” he asks, his voice carrying the formality of court even here, at the edge of exile.

I nod, my throat tight, and at once he drops into a deep bow, the kind reserved for nobility. “My Lady, a letter from your father.”

From within his cloak he produces a large scroll, the seal glinting faintly in the fading light. Bastion steps forward, hand outstretched to claim it, but the messenger jerks the parchment back with a firm shake of his head. “This is for my Lady’s hands only” he declares, his tone leaving no room for argument.

A ripple of unease passes through me. My father’s words, carried across miles, now rest inches away, yet the weight of them feels heavier than any sword. I force my steps forward, each one deliberate, until I stand before the rider. He places the scroll into my hand, his fingers rough from travel, mine trembling despite my attempt at composure. “Thank you,” I murmur, clutching the parchment as though it might vanish.

He bows his head again, respectful, though his eyes flicker with curiosity. I sense his scrutiny, the way he measures me against the stories he must have heard.

“How rude of me,” I say quickly, trying to summon the grace expected of a noblewoman. “You’ve come a long way. Would you care for something to drink? Bastion, please tend to the horse.”

I stand behind him, the weight of uncertainty pressing down on me. Who rides so fast, so far, to reach this forgotten farm? And what message do they carry that cannot wait?

The words feel rehearsed, borrowed from a life I have not lived, but they spill from my lips with practiced steadiness.

The messenger’s expression softens. “Thank you, My Lady. It is very kind of you.”

He follows Aliah inside, leaving me standing in the yard with the scroll pressed against my chest. Bastion lingers near the gate, his eyes never leaving the rider’s back, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade. The air feels charged, as though the letter itself carries a storm within its seal.

I glance down at the parchment, my palms damp against its surface. My father’s words await me, but I cannot yet bring myself to break the seal.

I lower myself onto the worn bench, the scroll heavy in my hands, and my eyes fall upon the wax seal. The crest is unmistakable, pressed deep into the crimson wax, its lines are sharp and deliberate, as though carved to endure centuries. At its center lies a shield, its clean edges stark against the soft sheen of the seal. Behind it, two swords cross in a fierce diagonal, their straight blades forming a rigid X that frames the shield in perfect symmetry.

Encircling the emblem is a narrow double ring, the inner band etched with words that have haunted me since childhood: Never Yield. My family’s motto. My family’s curse.

The sight of it sends a chill through me. This is no casual message, no passing note. This is formal correspondence, the kind that carries weight and consequence. My fingers hesitate, trembling slightly, before I press against the wax. The seal breaks with a sharp crack, and I unroll the parchment with care.

Across the page stretches my father’s handwriting bold, and severe. Each stroke of ink feels like a command, each letter heavy with the authority of the man who has never forgiven me.

Cora,

You are commanded to return to the Southern capital within a fortnight. The King himself has sanctioned your union with Lord Garrion Darkmoor, General of the Northern Armies. Your belongings will be taken from this farm and delivered directly to his estate in Nordvaar, where you will reside after the wedding.

The wedding shall be held in one month’s time, within the walls of our castle, before the eyes of the court and the Kingdom. This matter is not subject to debate, nor will your voice alter its course. You will fulfill your duty to this family, as is expected of you, without hesitation or defiance.

Do not mistake this for a request. It is an order.

Lord Tharion Blackthorn, General of the Southern Armies

Aliah sits beside me, her presence steady though her hands tremble faintly against her lap. The messenger mounts his horse once more, the leather creaking, hooves striking the earth with finality as he rides away. The sound lingers, echoing like a warning.

I hand her the parchment, my fingers reluctant to let it go. She unrolls it, and the moment her eyes skim the words, she gasps a sharp intake of breath that chills me more than the letter itself.

“How much do you know about Lord Garrion?” I whisper, though the question feels dangerous even spoken aloud.

Her voice drops low, almost conspiratorial, as though the walls themselves might betray us. “He is ruthless. Kills without mercy. When the King desires someone gone, Garrion is summoned. They say that part his face was torn apart in battle when he was only sixteen. The scars are so deep he hides behind a mask, covering most of what remains.”

Her words coil around me like smoke, suffocating. My stomach twists.

“Is he old?” I ask, though the answer hardly matters. Age will not spare me from his bed, nor from the duty of producing heirs strong enough to carry his name.

Aliah shakes her head, uncertain. “Perhaps late twenties… but I cannot say for sure, Cora.” She squeezes my shoulder, her touch meant to comfort, though it feels more like a tether keeping me from collapsing. Her eyes are heavy with sympathy, but sympathy cannot alter fate.

I stare at the broken seal lying on the bench, the family crest glaring back at me like a brand. My father’s command is absolute.

Ladies like me do not marry for love. We are bargaining chips, bribes, and political favors. And now, I am to be bound to a man whispered about in fear, a man whose mask hides not only scars but the promise of violence.

The air feels colder, though the sun has not yet set.