"Thief!" The furious voice echoed behind her as she clutched the stolen fruits, her bare feet tapping against the stone floor. The market buzzed around her, indifferent to her plight. Gold adorned her skin in intricate patterns—a mark of her Razelian heritage—but the loose, dirty cloak she wore did little to hide her once-proud status.

Humiliating.

Since Razelia crumbled, life had become survival. A kingdom once feared for its power, now nothing more than ash and blood. The survivors sought refuge in Dawnspire, the very kingdom that had led the charge to destroy them. And here, they were hunted, enslaved, and broken. Her shoulder slammed into a hard chest. Strong hands caught her before she fell, but the fruits tumbled to the ground with a dull thud. A shiver ran down her spine as she looked up into piercing green eyes. The man before her wore a soldier’s uniform, flanked by two others.

"General Aleksandr!" The shopkeeper’s voice cut through the crowd, pointing an accusing finger at her. "That thief stole from my shop!" The General’s gaze didn’t waver from hers. His eyes traced her features before landing on the golden mark on her forehead. His lips curled into a slow, mocking smirk.

"A Razelian," he murmured, his Russian accent thick and biting. His grip tightened on her shoulders, his strength undeniable. "It never ceases to amaze me how sneaky your kind can be."