Nolan
I dismiss the last of the guards from my private chambers. The heavy oak door clicks shut, the sound a final, damning seal on my solitude. I lean my forehead against the cool wood, the silence of the room a roaring in my ears.
Anya.
Her name is a brand on my soul. My mate. The Fates have a truly venomous sense of humor.
I push away from the door and stalk across the opulent rug, the fine silks of my station feeling like a shroud. A decanter of wine sits on a polished table, its ruby contents catching the light from the hearth. I pour a goblet, my hand steady despite the tremor in my spirit. The wine tastes like ash.
Pine needles after a winter storm. Cold stone. That is what she smells like. It is the scent of the mountains near Silent Creek. The home I burned to the ground.
The victory, my father called it. A pacification. I stand in the center of my gilded cage and remember the smoke. I remember the orders I gave, my voice sounding like a stranger’s. I remember the look in my legionaries’ eyes, some eager, some sickened. I remember the silence that came after the screams.
For five years, that silence has been my constant companion. A ghost at my table. A shadow in my bed. I told myself I was doing what was necessary. Playing the long game. Earning my father's trust so that one day I could dismantle his cruel empire from the inside. A necessary evil to achieve a greater good.
Then I looked into her eyes. Eyes the color of a stormy sky. And I felt the bond snap into place, a chain forged in the very fires I had set.
There is a knock at the door. Not the heavy rap of a guard, but a lighter, more precise tap.
“Enter, Marcus,” I say, not turning.
The door opens and my captain of the guard steps inside. He is a decade older than me, his face a roadmap of old battles, his loyalty absolute. He is the only man I trust, and even he does not know the whole truth.
“My Prince,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “You wished for the report.”
“I did.” I turn to face him, my expression a mask of command I have worn since I was a boy. “The Omega Scrapper. Tell me everything you have on her.”
Marcus holds my gaze, a flicker of curiosity in his professional calm. “Her given name is Anya. Sole survivor of the Silent Creek pack. She was brought in with the other war orphans five years ago. Sent to the tribute training pits when she came of age.”
Each word is a hammer blow. Sole survivor. My actions orphaned her, then my father’s system enslaved her. The guilt is a physical weight, pressing down, threatening to crush me.
“She has twenty-seven sanctioned victories,” Marcus continues, oblivious to my internal war. “Her kill count is higher than any other fighter in the lower tiers. She specializes in targeting larger opponents, using speed and anatomical precision. The bookmakers love her. The odds on her are always long, and she always upsets them.”
“The other fighters?”
“They despise her. Valerius in particular. He sees her as an affront to the natural order. An omega who refuses to be subservient. He has tried to have her… disciplined in the barracks. Unsuccessfully.”
A low growl rumbles in my chest. A possessive, protective rage that is entirely new. The bond. It demands her safety. It roars at the thought of Valerius laying a hand on her.
“Unsuccessfully?” I ask, keeping my voice level.
“The three fighters he sent to her cell ended up in the infirmary. One with a broken wrist, another with a shattered kneecap, and the last with a blade through his shoulder. She claimed they tripped.”
A ghost of a smile touches my lips. Of course she did. She is a survivor. A warrior forged in the ashes of the life I took from her.
“She has no allies?” I press.
“None. She trains alone. Eats alone. She speaks to no one unless required. A ghost, the others call her. Until she is in the sand. Then she is a demon.”
My ghost. My demon. My mate.
“Thank you, Marcus. That will be all. Have the Warden send me the upcoming fight rosters for the week. I wish to review them personally.”
“My Prince?” Marcus raises an eyebrow. I never concern myself with the lower-tier rosters. It is beneath the Champion.
“The quality of the fights has been poor,” I lie smoothly. “My father has commented on it. I want to ensure the crowd is getting a proper spectacle.”
“Of course, Your Highness.” He bows and retreats, closing the door behind him.
I walk to the large armored window that overlooks the training grounds. From here, I am invisible, a shadow looking down from the Champion’s tower. The sun is setting, painting the sky in hues of orange and blood. The main grounds are empty, but in one of the smaller, private sandpits, a lone figure moves.
Anya.
She is practicing. Even after a victory, even as night falls. She moves through a sequence of attacks and parries against an invisible foe. Her twin blades are a blur, an extension of her body. She is all grace and lethality, a dancer in a discipline of death. She is beautiful.
She stumbles. Her foot slips in the deep sand during a complex spinning maneuver. She falls to one knee, her chest heaving. She stays there for a moment, her head bowed. Frustration radiates from her, a palpable wave of energy.
I watch her, my hand pressed against the cold, unyielding glass. The protective urge is a fire in my blood. It whispers to me. Go to her. Help her. Claim her. Protect her.
But I cannot. My touch would be a brand, my presence a death sentence. If my father ever discovered the bond between us, he would have her killed without a second thought. Not out of jealousy, but out of cold, political calculation. An Omega from a traitor pack as a mate to the Prince? He would see it as a weakness. A stain to be scoured clean.
She pushes herself back to her feet. She does not look up. She does not rest. She takes a deep breath, resets her stance, and begins the sequence again. Flawlessly this time.
I watch her for a long time, until the last of the light fades and she is just a silhouette against the darkening sand. She is more than a victim of my past. She is more than a complication to my plans. She is a force of nature, a quiet storm of defiance in the heart of my father’s corrupt world.
The bond is not a curse. It is not a chain.
It is a sign.
A sign that my rebellion, my quiet war against my father, is no longer just about rectifying my own sins. It is about building a world where a woman like her does not have to fight for scraps in a bloody arena. A world worthy of her strength. A world where she can be safe.
My resolve hardens into something unbreakable. I am the King’s Blade. I am the commander who butchered her people. I am her fated mate. And I will keep her safe, even if I have to burn this whole kingdom down to do it. Especially if she hates me for it.
My path forward is no longer shrouded in shadow. It is illuminated by the fire in a lone Omega’s soul. And I will not fail her. I cannot. The thought of a world without her in it is an emptiness I refuse to entertain.
