"Why do the men always have the honor to fight in war when women have the power to bring the army down to there knees"
A ruthless man is nothing but a man
A ruthless woman is everything a man wishes he could be.
What happens if the rebellion didn't...
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The day had arrived, and with it, the crushing weight of inevitability. Conscription Day—a rite of passage for the children of the damned , a day that would strip away any semblance of innocence and replace it with the cold reality of war where they send children to their death. A day when every person, every soldier, would either rise or fall.
As I dressed in my flight leathers, my movements were deliberate. There was purpose in every action, a quiet determination in the way I cinched the straps and adjusted the buckles. The leather, worn and sturdy, felt like an old friend, reminding me of the battles fought, the scars earned. They weren't supposed to be mine, these leathers—not without years of training. But I'd pulled enough strings to claim them. I'd earned them, in my own way.
I braided my hair with practiced hands, each strand woven together tightly. It was a small act of control in a world where chaos loomed, but it was mine. It was a signal to the world—and to myself—that I would not be swept away.
The imposing silhouette of Basgiath War College loomed in the distance as I made my way there, its stone walls standing like a grim sentinel against the sky. The path to its gates felt endless, and with every step, the dread I'd been holding in my chest grew heavier.
When I arrived, the air was thick with farewells. Families clung to their loved ones, exchanging whispered promises and unspoken prayers. The rawness of their grief—of the uncertainty in their eyes—was palpable, but I couldn't bring myself to care.
I could barely stomach the sight of it. What did they expect? This was war or more or less training for it. There were no happy endings here, only survival and sacrifice.
I ran my fingers over the hilts of the daggers strapped to my thighs, feeling their weight, their sharpness. The blades, arranged neatly across my chest, gleamed in the early morning light. They were a legacy. The legacy of warriors who had come before me, who had fallen, who had fought for something—something I wasn't entirely sure I understood no one else understood.
"Nora Freysson," I said to the weary-eyed scribe when it was my turn. My voice was steady, emotionless but quiet.
The scribe glanced up at me, recognition flickering in his gaze as he lingered on the relic wound around my arm—an intricate design that spoke of a past few dared remember.
"As in Cade Freysson?" he asked, his voice dropping a little.
I nodded once, sharply. The word was hung in the air between us, an unspoken truth.
"Wasn't he Fen Riorson's right-hand man?" the scribe continued, curiosity and caution battling in his voice.
"Key word: was," I replied, cutting him off. I wasn't here to talk about ghosts. Not today.
I walked past him without another word, my footsteps steady and resolute, cutting through the sea of people as I headed toward the heart of the college.
Then, my eyes found her—Violet Sorrengail.
She stood at the edge of the gathering, trembling yet poised, a figure who seemed both out of place and entirely at home in the madness that had come to define this world. The weight of her name—her mother's name—hung over her like a cloud, and I couldn't help but feel a twinge of disdain.
"Pathetic," I muttered quietly, my voice barely above a whisper, but loud enough for me to hear. She was just another soldier in a long line of them. Another pawn to be used in a war I had no interest in.
I didn't move toward her. I didn't say anything. Instead, I stayed silent, watching as she interacted with others, her shoulders stiff, her eyes wary and a constant tap of her foot letting her nerves shine through.
Then, as if drawn by some invisible force, my gaze met his. Xaden.
He stood a little behind me, a presence that filled the air with tension. His black onyx eyes met mine—sharp, intense—and for a brief moment, I felt an undeniable pull. Something unspoken passed between us. But it was a dangerous thing to acknowledge.
And then I heard it.
"Are you ready, Violet?" a voice asked. A girl, her tone soft, full of concern.
Violet's head turned, and before I could react, Xaden spoke. His voice rumbled through the air, low and unmistakable.
"You're General Sorengail's daughter," he said to Violet, his words thick with a knowledge that wasn't entirely friendly.
"And you're Fen Riorson's son," Violet responded, her voice calm despite the storm in her eyes.
Xaden's posture stiffened. His eyes narrowed, and I could see the strain in his jaw as he breathed in deeply. "Your mother captured my father. And killed him."
The words hung in the air between them, like a challenge, a thread pulled taut with unspoken history. I felt a flicker of heat rise in my chest. My father's death was a wound I didn't talk about. Not to anyone. Certainly not here.
I stepped forward to disrupt the tension. But before I could speak, I felt it—a brief, piercing glance from Xaden. His eyes met mine, sharp and cold. Don't say a word.
It was a look that held everything. A warning. A reminder of the consequences. I swallowed whatever retort I'd been about to make, holding my silence in place. I didn't want my cover blown—not here, not now. Not with so much at stake.
Xaden turned back to Violet, his voice dropping, cutting through the space between them like a blade.
"Your mother killed my brother," he said flatly. "I think that calls it even."
"Are you going to kill me?" she asked.
Xaden chuckled softly, the sound low and almost amused. "Why would I kill you when the parapet will do it for me?"
My hand rested on the relic around my arm. It was covered but I still felt the sting, a constant reminder of my legacy. I wasn't foolish enough to speak right now. My cover as a Freysson was fragile. The last thing I needed was to make a scene.
Xaden's voice dropped, just for me. "Remember what I taught you, Nora."
His words were quiet, serious. A command. A plea.
I didn't respond, only nodded, my eyes fixed ahead.
Turning, I stepped onto the parapet, the cold wind biting at my skin. My heart raced, my thoughts spinning, but I kept my focus. Silence was my shield now. The weight of my past, my name, all of it would remain buried—for now.
*** Hi guys this is just a little Authors note, Please let me know how you are liking the story so far and if you guys want to see anything happen. I would love to hear your guys thoughts and ideas.****
