Chapter 1
The great hall of Velmora’s fortress was cold in a way that had little to do with the stone of its walls and everything to do with the heavy air pressing down on all who stood within it. The fires burned deep in their hearths, flinging reddish sparks across the ancient tapestries where bloody battles had been stitched in fading thread, yet the chill endured.
Lord Boris of Velmora had never been a patient man, and in that moment it seemed as though impatience itself was boiling beneath his skin.
The blow came without warning, cleaving the air with a swiftness that allowed no defense.
His hand—broad, heavy, adorned with a massive gold ring turned inward—struck Mura’s cheek with a short, harsh crack. Her head snapped to the side so violently that, for an instant, the entire hall spun around her. The metallic taste of blood flooded her mouth almost at once, followed by the wet heat pooling on her tongue and the stark, brutal awareness that her skin had split.
A thin ribbon of red slipped from the corner of her mouth and traced a stubborn line down her chin.
The two guards holding her arms tightened their grip instinctively, as if fearing she might crumple to the floor. But she remained upright, shoulders drawn back, knees locked, denying him the satisfaction of her collapse.
“Do you dare defy me?” Boris roared, his voice climbing to the vaulted ceiling and crashing back like a furious echo. “Do you dare tell me no?”
Mura lifted her gaze slowly, unhurried, as though each movement were an act of will.
She did not cry, though her eyes burned. She did not tremble, though her arms were wrenched cruelly behind her back.
She looked at him directly, wrapped in a silence so stubborn it bordered on defiance.
And that silence enraged him more than any protest or plea ever could.
“Speak!” he burst out, seizing her chin and squeezing until blood ran over his fingers. “Have you forgotten who raised you? Have you forgotten that you breathe only because I have permitted it?”
Mura straightened as much as she could, despite the throbbing pain in her cheek and the guards forcing her arms back, and in her eyes there was not the faintest shadow of submission—only a cold, wordless resolve.
“I have forgotten nothing,” she said quietly, clearly, without lowering her gaze.
The next blow came almost at once—harder than the first—and her head was flung aside again. Her lip split fully this time, and blood flooded her mouth so quickly that she had to spit it out onto the floor, right at his feet.
An uneasy murmur rippled through the hall, but no one dared to intervene.
Lord Boris stood motionless for a moment. Then his eyes—cold, a soiled shade of gray—darkened further, as though her silence insulted him more deeply than any act of resistance could have.
“If you do not accept, you are dead to me, Mura,” he said deliberately, stepping so close she could feel his breath against her face. “Dead. You will have no name, no rank, no family. You will have nothing.”
Family. What a strange word for Mura, who had never truly known its meaning. For as long as she could remember, her only family had been the monster standing before her now, striking her without hesitation.
Her father had died before she was born, fallen on a battlefield in a war that brought him neither glory nor victory—only a young, pregnant widow left alone in a world that did not forgive weakness. Her mother, fragile and frightened, had trusted her husband’s closest companion when he swore to protect them and care for the child she carried. Out of fear—perhaps also helplessness—she accepted him as her new husband, never suspecting the life that awaited her.
At first, Boris played the protector. But soon enough he revealed his true nature, and the house that should have been a refuge became a prison. Mura’s mother fell pregnant almost every year, yet no child lived to see the light of day. His frequent blows and rages forced miscarriage after miscarriage, until one night her frail body could endure no more, and she died alongside the infant who might have been the only one to escape a life of torment at his side.
Mura was left alone in the world, defenseless before the executioner who was her stepfather. Yet as a child she had been nearly invisible to him, for she held no value in his eyes. She grew up mostly among the castle’s people, sustained by the pity of cooks, servants, and aging soldiers who slipped her a crust of bread, a kind word, or a heavier cloak in winter. The years passed with Boris scarcely sparing her a glance.
Only when she grew into womanhood—when her beauty began to draw attention and he realized she could be used as a bargaining coin—did he remember she existed. From that moment on, Mura was no longer a shadow drifting through corridors, but a valuable piece in a game he had long been preparing.
Boris began to pace before her, his strides wide and restless, gesturing sharply as he spoke like a man already watching his plans set into motion.
“Lord Dimitri of Avaran needs a wife,” he continued, raising his voice. “Seven sons and a wife dead in only a few days from the cursed Red Fever. Do you know what that means? It means he is desperate for an heir—and he would give anything for one. He has gold, he has armies, he has granaries bursting and land as far as the eye can see.”
Red Fever had been a nightmare for the entire North—a sickness that began with raging heat and red blotches staining the skin, moved on to delirium, and most often ended in death within days, leaving behind empty villages and families erased in a single breath.
“He is old, yes,” Boris said with a crooked smile, “but he is still capable. And he still desires. And he wants you—because you are young, beautiful, and healthy enough to bear him a child.”
His gaze slid shamelessly over her body. Mura felt her jaw tighten, but she did not move.
“You will give him a child. And when that child is born, everything that belongs to him will, one way or another, come to me.”
There it was—the truth.
This was not merely an alliance. Not simply an arranged marriage to secure a domain or fill a few more granaries. It was his old dream—stubborn, almost fevered—a dream he had carried since he was young and ambitious.
Boris had dreamed of Drakovia since the years he wore his armor with pride and believed the world could be conquered by sword and fire. He dreamed of access to the sea, of open ports where ships heavy with spices and gold docked without fear; of mountains rich in iron and silver that could supply an entire army; of endless forests and deep rivers cutting through the land. But above all, he dreamed of those plains—black, fertile earth that yielded abundance without end and made Drakovia a realm coveted by all.
“This marriage is a strategic alliance,” he said more calmly now, stepping close to Mura again, as though explaining something simple and reasonable. “You will bear Dimitri a child, and after that, matters will settle themselves. Old men die. Accidents occur. And I know how to ensure certain things happen at the proper time. You will return under my guardianship, and if necessary, I will marry you again wherever my interests demand.”
His eyes fixed on her with a suffocating intensity—not as one looks at a daughter, but as one assesses a carefully weighed possession.
“You are far too valuable to waste.”
In that moment, Mura understood—with a painful, piercing clarity—that she had never been a daughter to him. She had only ever been something to be used when the need arose.
An asset to barter. A piece on his game board. A blade drawn from its sheath only when it served his purpose.
“Say yes,” he whispered, leaning so close that his breath brushed her face, mingling the scent of wine with that of blood. “Or I swear that by sunset you will cease to exist, and no one will remember you were ever here.”
The guards tightened their grip on her arms again, pain shooting up into her shoulders. But her mind remained clear.
While he stared at her, waiting for submission, Mura was already calculating in silence, weighing every possibility with cold lucidity.
If she accepted, she would live. And if she lived, there would still be a chance to escape—even if that meant losing her title, her wealth, and everything she had been taught defined her.
She would escape.
Better free and with nothing than trapped forever in the house where she had been raised like a caged thing.
She licked the blood from her lips without haste and met his gaze directly.
“Yes,” she said, and her voice was so cold that even Boris blinked in brief confusion.
“Louder,” he demanded, dissatisfied.
“Yes, Father,” she repeated, firmly.
A satisfied smile curved his lips, and that cold light appeared in his eyes—the look of a man who believes he has won.
“That’s better. And you will be cheerful,” he added. “Dimitri must believe he is desired, not that he is taking a bride by force.”
Mura held his gaze without blinking.
“I will play the part,” she said calmly, for she knew that sometimes survival begins with a well-played role.
Then she leaned forward slightly and, her lip still bleeding, spat directly in his face without hesitation.
“One day I will kill you,” she added.
And the words did not sound like a threat hurled in anger, they sounded like a promise.
The hall fell silent, and even the fires in the hearths seemed to crackle more softly.
Boris burst into laughter—a thick, contemptuous sound.
“If you live long enough,” he replied, certain that time itself stood on his side.
He rubbed his hands together, pleased.
“You leave at sunrise,” he said curtly.
At dawn, when the mist still drifted along the fortress walls and the horses were only just shaking the cold vapor from their nostrils, the caravan set out for Avaran. Wagon wheels ground against the damp stone, carrying her away from the place where she had grown up.
Mura did not look back.
She knew that behind her stood the walls that had been both home and prison, but she refused to let even a flicker of weakness slip into her soul.
Beneath her heavy cloak, her fingers were clenched so tightly that her nails bit into her palms. She did not feel the pain. Her entire body was governed by the cold resolve that kept her spine straight.
She did not cry, nor did she intend to. Tears would not return what she had lost, nor would they alter the fate awaiting her.
The vow she had made burned within her more fiercely than any Red Fever, deeper than any wound. That thought kept her mind clear.
She would escape—no matter how long it took, no matter what she had to endure until then.
And one day, when no one expected it, Velmora would burn. And that fire would not belong only to stone walls. It would belong to every injustice that had raised her in shadow.
