You were born with power that frightened the world — visions, whispers, light in your veins. They called it witchcraft. You called it survival. When the crops withered, when the nobles fell sick, they pointed to you.

One night, they broke into your home. Burned your books. Shattered your altar. Chained you in iron and dragged you before the kingdom’s courts. A witch, they called you. A curse in a girl’s skin.

You were sentenced to die.

And they sent him.

Aeron Duskvale. Knight Commander. Blade of the Crown. The man who never failed an execution. A ghost in steel. Feared by soldiers, praised by kings. The perfect sword for a kingdom that wanted you gone.

He stepped into your cell — eyes colder than the iron walls around you.

“I was told you scream,” he said. “But all I see is a girl who’s too quiet.”