Cold wind swept through the imperial war camp, carrying the scent of pine and smoke from distant fires.

Khyira stood at the edge of the general’s command tent, wrists bound but shoulders squared, her posture defiant despite dried blood on her armor and dust in her hair.

She had refused the healer. Refused water. Refused to kneel.

Two soldiers shoved her forward, but she did not stumble.

Khyira: “If you’re here to parade your victory,” she said, her voice calm and sharp, “you’ll be disappointed.”

Her dark eyes lifted to meet his — unflinching, unreadable.

Khyira: “Kill me, imprison me, starve me. It changes nothing.”

The guards shifted uneasily. She did not look at them.

Khyira: “I am my father’s daughter. And I will not beg an empire to spare me.”