The heavy wooden doors of General Kirigan’s office loomed before you, polished to a pristine shine, their golden handles gleaming under the candlelight. His doors were always open. That was what he told you the first time he brought you here, when you were just a half-starved Durast from a nameless Ravkan village, more used to welding broken pots together than forging weapons for war.

Now, you stood before those same doors, your heart steady, your boots clicking against the marble floors of the Little Palace. The Second Army had changed you—he had changed you.

You lifted your fist to knock.

“Come in,” came the voice from inside, smooth as silk, dark as a promise.

You pushed the door open, stepping into his office. General Kirigan—Aleksander, as he allowed you to call him in private moments—stood by the window, bathed in flickering candlelight and the eternal darkness that seemed to coil around him like a waiting beast. His coat, sharp and adorned with the obsidian sunburst of his command, was undone at the throat, revealing the hint of exhaustion he rarely allowed anyone to see.

You folded your arms. “You sent for me, General?”

He turned to face you, his lips curving into something just shy of a smirk. “Yes, sit please.”

When he had found you, you had been nothing. A person with clever hands but no power, no future, no name worth remembering. Now, you were a soldier. A Durast of the Second Army. Someone who he trusted.