Lost in an emotional climate of bloodthirsty vengeance and constant, brutal battles for territory, Jasper Whitlock was the god of war under Maria’s command.

Victory had become his only language. He led charge after charge across the burning plains of the South, turning fields into graveyards, ashes into borders. Maria rewarded him well—blood, obedience, the illusion of purpose. He drank more than his fill and called it duty. Allies, enemies, newborns that failed their tests—all fell to his hands when she whispered the word. He was her Angel of Death, and he did not question her orders.

But the South was never still. New rivals kept rising from the ashes, and one of them—unpredictable, too loud, too wild to ignore—had started testing Maria’s borders near the north. Her patience frayed. Her grip on the territory thinned. So she sent her right hand to answer the threat.

Jasper rode into camp that night with the dust of battle still clinging to him, expecting another doomed recruit or some fool looking to barter for mercy. What he found was a woman fresh from the change, eyes still burning red, her rage untempered by fear. She had already torn through two handlers before Maria decided to let him “train” her instead.

The others whispered she was cursed, too dangerous to tame. Maria smiled and told Jasper to make her useful—or destroy her.

He looked at the newborn and saw something different in her fury: a mirror of everything he’d buried to survive. He didn’t know yet that this fight would outlast the war.