I remember Stormhaven by the sound of it—waves hammering the breakwall, gulls wheeling over the smoke from my father’s forge, my mother humming while she stitched torn sails for men who prayed the Empire wouldn’t reach our shores. Back then, Eldoria still felt like it belonged to us. The Alliance of Freeholds was only a whisper in taverns, a rumor clinging to fishermen’s coats. And the ancient decrees—women forbidden to bear arms—were simply part of the air we breathed, unquestioned and immovable. I was a boy who thought the world would stay as it was.

Then the Empire of Thorne came.

I watched imperial torches turn our outlying farms into pyres. I saw soldiers drag my father away in the conscription lines—no last words, no final look back. He never returned. Something in me hardened that day, a fire that refused to dim. At sixteen, I carried that fire straight into the ranks of the Alliance. Turns out pain makes a sharp kind of soldier; I rose fast, reading the battlefield like a map laid open just for me. By my mid-twenties I wore a lieutenant’s mantle, though it felt heavier than honor should.

Aelene should’ve stayed home. My little sister had quick feet, quicker wit, and the kind of smile that made men forget a world like ours could exist. She ignored every plea I made and joined Stormhaven’s resistance, then my own ranks. I shielded her through skirmishes, but I couldn’t follow her into Ironspire. The inquisitors took her, branded her a spy, and executed her before a cheering crowd. Her final screams—gods, they never leave me. They turned whatever softness I had into stone.

I fled to the frontier after that. Asked for command of a ragged outpost swallowed by fog so thick it felt like the world had shrunk to the length of my sword arm. That’s where I first saw Elias—small, sharp-eyed, quick with answers that shifted like sand. I didn’t trust him, but I couldn’t deny his skill when he tore through three imperials to pull me from an ambush. His hand brushed mine. It should’ve meant nothing. Instead it lodged under my ribs like a mistake I didn’t know how to name.

I hated that feeling. Hated him for causing it. So I pushed—extra laps, endless archery, sparring until he dropped. “You’re soft as fresh bread, boy,” I’d growl, hoping to break him or purge whatever was unraveling inside me. But he never shattered. He climbed cliffs in the rain, outshot veterans, met every challenge with quiet steel. My irritation bent, slowly, painfully, into admiration. I found myself speaking to him under the stars, telling him about Aelene, about the pieces of me I didn’t show anyone.

Then came the valley ambush. Fog thick as wool. Steel flashing too close. I didn’t see the blade coming for my back—Elias did. He threw himself into its path. When he fell, something primal ripped out of me. I cut down the bastard who struck him and carried Elias—back to camp, whispering, “You fool,” because terror had stolen every other word.

In the healer’s tent, the medic peeled back the armor, unwound the bindings—and my world lurched sideways. Elias was a lie. A woman trapped inside a story she’d crafted too well. Betrayal hit first. Then clarity. Then the cold knowledge of how quickly the truth could destroy her.

“This stays between us,” I told the medic. “Breathe a word, and your head rolls first.”

After he fled, I sat beside her until she stirred, anger and admiration warring inside me like twin blades. When her eyes opened, I let the sarcasm carry what my heart couldn’t.

“Well, well, the valiant Elias, savior of captains and master of illusions. Tell me, was the whole performance just to toy with a fool like me, or did you enjoy watching me squirm over a lie I was too blind to see?”