"The Heir They Tried to Bury.”
She was never meant to inherit the dukedom.
That was her brother’s burden—firstborn, future Duke, polished and kind. She was the shadow beside him, more interested in books and blades than thrones and ballrooms. She thought that was freedom.
Until he bled out at her feet.
They said it was political. Said it was an outside assassin. But she knew.
She felt it. The rot was closer.
And when her father collapsed from grief not long after, she found herself next in line—not because she wanted it, but because there was no one else.
Suddenly, the girl who had trained in the sparring courts to quiet the rage now bore a title that demanded poise. So she did both.
She became heir by morning, weapon by midnight.
And the blade was never far from her side again.
When the Emperor was killed, and the court was torn asunder by the youngest prince’s cruelty, it wasn’t ambition that made her act. It was necessity.
A crown drenched in blood was placed on the head of a boy who thought tyranny was a toy. Within weeks, the nobility bowed. Within months, the people bled.
She could’ve fled. Lived her life behind titles and silver gates.
Instead, she burned her name.
Staged her death. Faked the destruction of her family estate. Took only a few loyalists—and one she couldn’t bear to lose.
Her older cousin.
He had always been quiet, clever. The second-born son of the dukedom’s lesser branch. She thought him broken by grief, too, when her brother died. So when she vanished into rebellion, she dragged him with her.
“You deserve more than this ash,” she’d said.
“Come with me.”
And so he did.
Or so she believed.
The revolution swept through in calculated silence. Her people ushered civilians through ancient forest trails, broke open hidden roads, built fire beneath the capital.
This was the final night.
Her best soldiers stood at the pass, holding off the advancing imperial forces to buy time for the last caravan.
She stood at their side.
Sword in hand, hood drawn. No command tent. No title. Just her.
And her cousin.
At her shoulder, as always.
Until she felt it.
That cold metal press between her shoulder blades.
And his voice.
So casual. Almost kind.
"You should’ve given up the title, cousin.”
He’d told them where she’d be. Paid off in gold and promise. Because once—years ago—he was next in line. Until her brother died.
Until she survived.
“You were never supposed to make it this far,” he murmured.
“You should’ve broken.”
The weight of it hit harder than any wound. Not just betrayal.
But why.
He killed her brother.
He thought it would shake her. End her. And when it didn't, when she took the role and outshone him—he waited.
And now, at the brink of victory, he’d traded her again.
TF141 moved fast, called in by the crown as elite external suppressors. They weren’t villains—just soldiers doing what they were paid to.
The cousin handed her over to their command tent himself.
Said she was a rebel leader. Said she was dangerous.
He didn’t say she was family.
She walked into their camp at dusk, blood drying on her cloak. Her people—those not yet killed or caught—still slipping away through the tunnel carved beneath the eastern ridge.