Dominion's Daughter

Cold?

Owo woke as she always did—slowly, reluctantly, in pieces.

Blink.

Stretch.

Yawn.

Shiver.

She frowned, eyes still closed. She never woke up cold.

It felt—off.

She yawned stretching her arms up and wide. Sat up and stepped out of bed only to fall and catch herself with her legs still tangled in the sheets.

Her usual graceless face-plant. Only this time no witnesses. She checked. A smile on her face. She jumped up, gathered the evidence back on to the bed.

“I did move,” she finally announced to the empty room. She had never once managed a clean dismount from that ridiculously soft bed. One of these days—

She could see Asha’s calm face even now: “Situational awareness? Lacking. You would have handed yourself to an attacker on a platter. With a pretty little bow.” She could see Asha in front of her, fingers pinched, an imaginary bow in her hands. Her hand reached for her curls. Asha would have cuffed her on the back of her head. “Owlet not paying attention again.” Although it had been a while since she had called her that. Not much since she turned sixteen.

Followed by a morning of callisthenics. Hard enough to make a saint weep. Consequences.

Owo shook her head, smiling faintly at Asha’s insistence on making her combat-ready. She couldn’t understand why she needed to be combat anything. The world she lived in was safe.

Deep within one of the most fortified estates of the six houses. No one could harm her.

None would dare.

Nothing bad happened here. Nothing interesting either. Nothing ever had.

It was Asha’s quirk. A dangerous one. Training Owo to fight was not a carer’s responsibility.

That a carer could fight was unimaginable.

If Owo ever revealed what they did together, Asha would disappear. She never let herself think past that word. Disappear.

Owo’s eyes flicked up to the ceiling. The light flickered. Blue to green then back to blue again. She stared at it. She should talk to Asha—no, the factor. The estate was now her responsibility. She would have to deal with him herself. She shook her head.

Owo paused.

Caught by her reflection in the mirror at the dressing table. Grinned. Eighteen. The smile fell. But today, she took a deep breath. Today—her first day as an adult. As a matriarch. Ruler of Dominion.

A frown on her face. She saw it in the mirror. It was too quiet.

Asha should have been there.

She wasn’t.

She looked down at her hands. The nails Asha had painted the night before. Shell pink. This would be the last time Asha would paint them. Tomorrow Asha would be gone.

She was eighteen.

Soon to become an enforcer.

Join the church.

She waited for the excitement to arrive.

It didn’t.

Instead—

Tomorrow. Once the ceremony was over. She would rule.

Her mother’s confident face came to her. She was nothing like her mother. Asha still had to remind her to stop running.

She closed her eyes.

She had seen it before.

Her mother’s words followed by the thump on chests as all obeyed.

No questions asked.

Ice flowed down her spine.

Could she be her? Become her?

She swallowed.

Hundreds of people. Watching her every move. Expecting her to be her mother.

She was not ready.

And—Asha.

Asha—would be gone.

She looked away from the mirror.

The waft of fresh coffee, missing. Warm, buttery pastry, nowhere to be found. Instead—ozone. Burnt. Sharp. Coating her tongue. And beneath it, a faint hum.

She walked to the closet.

Glanced at the clock. Five minutes late.

Asha was never late.

Hesitating, she crossed to the bathroom. Without Asha, the morning had no shape. The mirror first. She scrubbed sleep from her eyes. Water in her palms to run through her curls, convincing them to behave was the next order of business. Her heels bounced against the floor, restless.

This day had finally arrived. She had been desperate for it to arrive. But now. The morning of. Some quiet part of her wanted it not to.

A necklace she had found on one of their little escapades dangled from her fingers. It was worth nothing. But. She put it on. Her little secret.

She returned to her room.

Still no Asha.

Their last morning. Asha might have done something—a surprise, a gesture.

She straightened her back. She was the heir to House Dominion. Chin up. Shoulders back. She crossed to the door. Her hand found the latch. She stopped. Asha could be playful. But not today. Today was too important for games. Asha would know that.

Asha was late.

From the corner of her eye, she caught that flicker of blue lights.

She swung her head to look at the security strip. Bit her lip and frowned. She had never seen them do that before.

Wrong.

Her grip tightened on the doorknob.

Owo turned the handle.

Copper in the air. Blood?

Asha’s name formed on her lips as she turned it.

Maybe Asha was testing her.

The door opened.

Asha’s name died in her throat.

Chaos.

Servants screaming. Batons rising and falling. Bodies lay across the pristine marble floor, limbs twisted at impossible angles.

All of it—just beyond her door.

Until now.

A scream cut off mid-cry. A baton struck flesh. Wet. Heavy.

The smell of blood—copper and close. It coated the back of her throat.

Frozen. Mouth open.

Familiar faces distorted. People she had known all her life. Bleeding. Broken. Still.

Across the corridor, one of the armoured figures paused.

He lifted his head from the maid at his feet. Xuli, her personal maid.

Something she did—something she said—had his head swinging towards her. He saw her.

Her hands tightened—claws now—around brass and wood.

He straightened. Began walking towards her.

“No!” A voice in the distance. A shout from somewhere. She heard it. But it was far away. Her eyes locked on his visor and would not move.

He didn’t rush. Didn’t need to. Mouth a grim line. A weapon in each hand.

He kept coming.

Looming over her. Mint in the air—a fresh note against the cacophony of blood and sweat.

Her eyes glued to him as he approached. She could not move. Her brain screamed instructions. Her body refused. Asha had trained her for this. For exactly this. Her body frozen. Her mind—

Move. Block his hand—fingers splayed, wrist locked. Step back—shift weight. Slam the door. Let the room’s security system save her.

Nothing.

Her hands fused to the brass and wood. Her legs had forgotten they were hers. Asha’s name lodged in her throat like a shard of bone. A scream built behind it—hot and frenzied, clawing.

She tore her eyes off him and looked down at her hand.

Shell-pink nails. Looking impossibly innocent. Nothing like the claw she had imagined.

Close the door.

Close the door.

Close the door. The thought beating with her pulse now.

She didn’t move.

Then—

His hand closed on her shoulder. Leather creaked. Pain cracked through her collarbone like something breaking.

Sound flooded back.

Her scream tore free.

She clawed at his grip—no training now, just blind panic.

His other arm came up. The pistol grip caught the light from the crystal chandeliers—black polymer, sharp-edged, indifferent to what it was about to do.

The weapon struck her forehead.

That calm voice, detached: this was the first time she had seen a pistol up close. It catalogued the details with the same quiet efficiency it brought to everything.

She had time for exactly that much.

A crack. Blood, immediate and warm. Copper flooded her mouth as her teeth found her tongue.

Then darkness—not rushing, not gradual. Just there. All at once.

Her last image: her own face in his visor. Distorted. Unrecognisable. Mouth open. Begging. Asha would be so disappointed. Not one punch landed.

The voice—went quiet last of all.