All three of them.

One’s head sat at an unnatural tilt, eyes still open.
Another twitched once. Then stopped.
The third had tried to scream- his mouth still hung open, stuck on a silence that would never finish.

She stood among their bodies, breathing quiet, eyes blank.
Blood climbed her arms in slow, sticky lines. A splatter streaked her cheekbone, half-dried.
It could’ve been anyone’s. Maybe all of theirs.

The hall had fallen still.
No sound.
Not a breath, not a whisper.

They didn’t run. They didn’t blink.
They watched.

Horrified.

Some took a step back. Some just stared, too slow to understand what they’d seen.

Up above, the Duke watched.

And then-
The corner of his mouth shifted. Just barely. A twitch. Not surprise. Not pride.
Satisfaction.

He stood. Took his time coming down.
Each step deliberate, echoing in the silence.

She didn’t move. Not an inch.

He stopped in front of her.

Drew his sword-
and pressed the cold edge beneath her chin,
His voice following- low, deliberate, slicing through the air like frost.

“Anastia.”

A pause.

“That’ll be your name.”

She stared ahead. Blank.
No reaction. No thought behind the eyes.
Just breath. Just bone.

Name?

What did that mean?
She’d had no name before.
They had called her it. Thing.
Now- this?

Names were for people.
Things didn’t need them.

He leaned closer, his voice dropping further, colder-
a whisper like steel scraping bone.

“From today on, you are mine.”

Not a lover's whisper.
Not possession wrapped in warmth.
No hunger in his tone.
Just domination.
Like a man claiming a blade.
Useful. Dangerous. Replaceable.

And then-

“If you ever betray me- ”
his words slid in beside her skull,
“ -I’ll burn every goddamned thing I’ve built.
Just to watch you fall with it.”

She nodded.

The sword lifted from her chin.
He turned. Left.
The silence behind him was louder than footsteps.

The others still hadn’t moved.

Some stared at her like she was cursed.
Others like she was dead already.

---

Later, she was shown her quarters.
Stone walls. A single bed. Clean.
No chains. No rot.
Not lavish.
Not cruel.

She sat down. Slowly.
Laid back.
Stared at the ceiling.

Her lips moved.
No sound.
Just the word forming again and again.

Anastia.

As if it might mean something.
As if saying it enough would make it real.

She closed her eyes.
The name still echoing in the dark.

---

Hours later, the corridors of the palace stood hollow as the moon climbed to its throne.
The duke made his way to his private study.

The candles burned low,
casting long shadows across maps bled with borders, pins stabbed like tiny red deaths.

The Duke stood by the window, arms folded, staring out.

He should’ve felt victorious.

The three she’d eliminated weren’t just threats -
They were the continent’s most heinous operatives. Criminals even elite knights struggled to subdue.
Men with body counts high enough to be whispered about in royal war rooms.

She killed them like they were made of paper.

No scream.
No hesitation.
Just method.
Like war had been wired into her bones from birth.

He exhaled. Not tired. Just…calculating.

What are you?

Before the thought could settle, the door creaked open- not loudly. Not rudely.
A single step echoed inside.

“Don’t bother. I already tried,” came a voice- low, calm, composed.

The Duke didn’t turn.

He didn’t need to.
There were very few people allowed in unannounced.

And only one would speak before being spoken to.

Commander Cael Varent.
Tall. Light in movement.
Sharp cheekbones that made him look constantly amused,
though nothing about him was soft.

Where the Duke was shadow, Cael was controlled flame.
Quiet enough to be trusted.
Deadly enough to be needed.
A man who used charm like a weapon and silence like armor.

“I tried digging into her before you even asked,” Cael continued, stepping further in,
eyes scanning the table of war plans like maps to the bones of the kingdom.

“But her file’s sealed. Not just by the Corps.
The Royal Palace itself wrapped it in a steel coffin and threw the key into the ocean.”

That made the Duke turn.

His eyes met Cael’s. Unreadable. As always.

“I want that file.”

Cael gave the barest tilt of his head. Not surprised.
“Of course you do.”

He moved to the window beside the Duke, folding his arms, mirroring the stance without mocking it.

“What you saw out there wasn’t training,” he said.
“That wasn’t discipline. That was instinct. Born in blood.”

Silence lingered. Comfortable only for those used to war.

Then-

“She’s not just useful,” Cael added quietly, eyes fixed on the glass.
“She’s a storm someone buried. And hoped never got dug up.”

The Duke said nothing.

He turned away from the window.
His gaze dropped back to the battlefield map below them.

“Start with the palace clerks. Bribe them, threaten them- doesn’t matter. I want that file.”

Cael smirked, though his eyes didn’t match.

“Of course. What are friends for?”

The Duke remained still, eyes lingering on the smoke curling from his glass.

Monsters could kill. Minds won wars.
And he was after both..