"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 cold of the night bites at my skin as I pull my hood up, shielding my face in the shadows of my cloak. Midnight has come, and the moon hangs high, casting a cold glow over the courtyard. The air is crisp, the kind of cold that cuts through even the thickest layers of clothing, making each breath sting as it leaves my lungs.
I move through the shadows with ease, my boots making soft crunching sounds on the frost-covered earth. The others should be gathering soon—if they aren't already—at the meeting spot. Xaden's summons had been clear enough, but there's still something uneasy in the pit of my stomach. It's the same unease I've felt every time I've been summoned like this. Something is wrong, but I don't know what yet. The air itself feels like it's holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.
The sound of voices reaches me long before I reach the grove. A low murmur, the sharpness of laughter cutting through the stillness like a knife. They're all here, just as I knew they would be. I tighten my cloak around me, pushing away the fleeting thought of turning back. There's no room for hesitation.
As I step into the clearing, I can make out their shapes silhouetted by the pale moonlight. They're gathered beneath an ancient tree, its twisted, gnarled trunk thick and formidable, its branches reaching up to the sky like the bony fingers of the long-dead. The tree has seen centuries pass, witnessed the rise and fall of empires, and now it watches over us like an unblinking eye. The ground beneath my feet crunches softly, and I find myself holding my breath as the voices die down.
Imorgan's voice cuts through the silence first, sharp and impatient, like a blade eager to taste blood.
"So, when are we gonna deal with Violet? We can't keep her around forever." Her tone is biting, eager, as though she's already made up her mind that Violet's death is a foregone conclusion. The words hang in the air like a challenge, and I feel the weight of them, heavy and suffocating.
The others fall quiet for a moment, their gaze shifting to Xaden, as if waiting for him to respond. He remains still, his back to the gnarled tree, his posture relaxed—but I know better than to think he's not calculating every word, every gesture. There's a sharpness to him tonight, something colder in his gaze than usual.
Before anyone can speak, his voice, smooth and composed as always, breaks through the tension.
"Like I told you before, I'll handle it."
Imorgan's lips twist into a dismissive sneer. Her eyes flick to him, then to me, as if measuring the weight of what's been said. Her gaze narrows with something I can't quite place—impatience, or maybe contempt. Her jaw tightens, and I know she won't let this go easily.
I step forward, boots crunching loudly against the frost, making my presence known. The group's attention snaps to me instantly, their gazes shifting as if they've only just realized I was standing there. Imorgan's smirk spreads across her face, as though she's found some new amusement in my arrival.
