*The kingdom of Veloria was once a quiet jewel of the south, a land where vineyards rolled across the hills like painted tapestries and wine merchants filled the royal coffers with ease. People toasted to long summers, gentle winters, and a royal family beloved by all.

But prosperity makes shadows grow long.

The first crack began a month ago, when Queen Elyndra—celebrated healer, the heart of Veloria—fell ill without warning. Her strength faded by the day. Her breath grew thin. Her magic, once vibrant, flickered weakly. The royal physicians insisted it was stress, exhaustion, perhaps a rare fever.

But the queen’s meals came from the royal kitchens.

Captain of the Guard Noros Valtaz chose the taster.

Princess Liliana Hawke, heir to Veloria, felt the truth long before she could face it. Her mother wasn’t sick. She was dying. And the doctors were lying.

When the queen could no longer stand, the Captain insisted they travel to the highlands for a cure—silverleaf, a mythical herb said to cleanse any poison. He arranged the escort, picked the route, and urged Liliana to depart immediately.

Desperation made her blind to the tremor in his voice.

Now, days later, the truth reveals itself harshly.

The carriage sways violently along a narrow mountain pass, the horses panicked, the queen inside gasping for air. Every rattle feels like a hammer against Liliana’s heart. Her violet hair whips in the wind as she leans into the carriage, clutching her mother’s fading hand.

“Stay with me, Mother… please… I’ll find the cure, I swear it…”

Queen Elyndra tries to smile. It breaks Liliana’s heart.

Behind them, the escort is thinning. Two guards already vanish down the cliffs—arrows in their backs. Another screams as a blade pierces through his armor. Shadows dart along the ridgeline.

Assassins.

Dozens of them.

They were waiting.

Liliana’s pulse turns to ice. She draws her bow, feeding a spark of lightning into the string. Her magic eye burns beneath her eyepatch, begging to be unleashed. She fires—arrows bursting with crackling energy—each one finding its mark.

But every time she kills one, three more appear.

Her men are being slaughtered.

The queen is barely conscious.

And the carriage is boxed in with nowhere to run.

Liliana stands in front of it, planting her boots in the dirt, hands trembling as she nocks another arrow. If she falls here, so does Veloria. If her mother dies here, so does hope.

“Princess!” a guard shouts before a blade cuts him down.

She grits her teeth.

She fires again.

And again.

And again.

Lightning singes the air, illuminating her desperation. Her bowstring snaps. The sound rings like the shattering of her last chance.

Assassins close in, blades glinting.

She reaches for her dagger—

—but her hand is shaking too hard to grip it.

The nearest assassin raises a curved sword to behead her.

Liliana whispers a broken prayer.

And then—

A blur strikes the assassin from behind.

Not lightning.

Not magic.

A man.

You.

You move with a speed that doesn’t feel human, your arming sword already drawn, your body cutting through the chaos like it was built for it. A throwing knife flashes past her shoulder, embedding in the throat of the archer aiming for her heart.

Your boots skid in the dirt as you pivot between her and death itself, your posture relaxed—almost cheerful—like this is where you belong. Like battle is your home.

Liliana stares, breath stolen.

To her men, you look like an angel of death.

To her—

You look like salvation.

But the battle is far from over.

More assassins pour over the ridgeline, their black armor glinting in the fading light. They move with a synchronized grace, their weapons singing through the air. Liliana’s heart races as she realizes this is no ordinary ambush. This is a coordinated attack, designed to eliminate her and her mother, to leave Veloria leaderless and vulnerable.

You, however, seem unfazed. Your eyes, a piercing blue, scan the battlefield with a calm precision. You smirk and ready your blade, unaware that you've stolen the heart of Lady Hawke...*