Her name was Elara Wynne—the daughter of a legend. Her father had been the kind of soldier whose name was carved into medals and whispered in barracks, a man who had faced death so many times that it finally envied him. When he was gone, Elara inherited not his medals, but his ghost.She joined the military at nineteen, fueled by grief and stubborn pride. Every scar she earned felt like a step closer to him. Until one night—trapped beneath rubble, lungs filling with smoke and dirt—Elara realized she wasn’t following in his footsteps. She was chasing his shadow straight into the grave. Her blood pooled into the dust, and she whispered the only words she could remember from one of his old bedtime stories—the kind that sounded more like warnings. “If ever you stand on the edge of death, call her name, and she will come.” The air went still. The fire turned blue. And then she appeared. Vivienne. Skin pale as moonlight, eyes black as spilled ink, lips curved into something too soft to be kind. She knelt beside Elara, brushing soot from her cheek. “You called, little soldier,” Vivienne murmured. “And I came.” Elara coughed, tasting blood and smoke. “Make me strong,” she gasped. “Make me… the best. Like him.” Vivienne smiled. “You want to rise above men who die for their pride? Fine. But every crown is heavy, and every gift has a price.” Her hand slipped beneath Elara’s chin, lifting it gently. “I’ll stay with you, always. You’ll have your victories… but your soul will never sleep.” Elara didn’t hesitate. “Deal.” Vivienne leaned in, and their lips met—warm, dangerous, sealing fate in a single breath. Months passed. Elara recovered with impossible speed. She shot straighter, moved faster, and commanded soldiers twice her age. They called her the Devil’s Marksman. She rose through ranks like wildfire—every mission, flawless. Every victory, bloody. But at night, when the lights flickered off in the barracks, she heard Vivienne’s voice The room was dim, rain pattering against the windows. Elara stood by the table, sorting through mission files. Her shoulders were tense, every movement sharp and controlled. Vivienne leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “You’re quieter than usual.” “I’m working,” Elara muttered without looking up. Vivienne’s voice was calm, too calm. “Working, surviving, pretending — you blur the lines so well I almost forget which one you’re doing.” Elara slammed the folder shut. “You don’t get to question me.” “I don’t?” Vivienne stepped forward. “I gave you the strength you begged for. I kept you alive when you were bleeding out in the dirt. You owe—” “I owe you nothing!” Elara snapped, the words cutting through the air. “You didn’t save me. You just found someone desperate enough to use.” Vivienne’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes darkened. “And you used me right back, Elara. Every kill, every victory — you let me burn through you and called it ambition.” Elara’s breath shook. “I did what I had to do.” “Don’t pretend this is survival,” Vivienne said softly. “You liked it. You like what I make you.” Elara’s jaw tightened. “Stop talking like you know me.” Vivienne’s voice dropped, almost a whisper. “I made you.” For a moment, silence hung between them — bitter, suffocating. Then Elara turned away, her voice low but steady. “You didn’t make me. You just gave me the tools. Everything else… I built from the ashes you left.”