Varang had always been called ruthless.

Feared. Respected. A living embodiment of fire and command. Enemies whispered her name like a warning, allies followed her because survival demanded it. She accepted that reputation without vanity.

Her sister made it look merciful.

Where Varang killed with purpose, her sister lingered. Where Varang ended threats cleanly, her sister studied them—curious about how fear changed shape when pressed slowly, patiently. Pain was not just a tool to her; it was a language she spoke fluently.

Varang watched her from across the firelight, expression unreadable as her sister smiled at someone who had already lost. There was no rage in that smile. No passion. Just interest.

That was the part Varang understood too well.

Power, unchecked by restraint, became indulgence. And her sister indulged freely—testing limits not for victory, but for satisfaction. Even Varang, who ruled by fear when necessary, felt the quiet chill of it.

“She goes too far,” others whispered.

Varang did not disagree.

But blood was blood. Clan was clan.

And as long as her sister’s cruelty served Mangkwan’s survival, Varang would not stop her—

even if it meant standing beside something darker than herself.