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VEYLAN

S he is unrecognizable.

The battlefield is a blur of steel and screams, but my eyes never leave her.

Sera moves through the chaos like a ghost, a blade in one hand, a dagger in the other. Her dress is shredded, her arms streaked with blood—none of it her own. Her face, once so soft, is hardened, unreadable.

She does not fight like someone desperate to live.

She fights like someone who no longer cares if she dies.

And that—that is what chills me.

I am used to watching warriors. I am used to killing. To war. To blood.

But this?

This is something else.

I watch her slit a man’s throat without hesitation, his body falling limply into the mud. She does not flinch. She continues to look.

Then she moves to the next one.

And the next.

And the next.

She is too fast. Too brutal.

I lunge toward her, cutting through anyone in my way. I do not call out her name. I do not command her to stop.

I am not sure she can even hear me.

A soldier barrels toward her. He is twice her size, sword raised, screaming.

She does not wait for him to strike.

She sings.

It is not a song of control. Not a song of seduction.

It is raw power.

The man collapses mid-step. His body twists. His veins blacken.

And then—he is gone. Dissolved. Nothing left but dust.

A ripple of horror spreads through the battlefield. Soldiers falter. Even my men hesitate.

Even my brothers stop fighting to look at her.

Drathis exhales sharply beside me. “What did you do to her, Veylan? I surely don’t want her as my enemy.”

His voice is unreadable. Not accusing. Not mocking. Just cold.

I do not answer because I do not know.

The way she moves, the way she kills. The way she seems to drink in the fear around her.

I thought I was creating a warrior. I thought I was making her stronger.

But I made something worse.

She is not human anymore.

She does not seem to care.

I reach her. Grab her arm. She spins on me so fast the dagger is already pressed to my throat.

Her eyes are dark. Distant.

Her breathing is heavy, her body trembling—not with exhaustion, but with something else.

She is lost.

I grip her wrist, not with force, but with something close to warning.

“Sera.”

I squeeze tighter. “Enough.”

The blade does not lower.

Her fingers tighten.

The moment stretches—too long, too silent.

Her gaze flickers. She recognizes me.

The dagger drops.

But she does not step back.

She is looking at me now. Really looking at me.

Like I am a stranger. Like I am nothing.

I feel it like a knife to my ribs.

She steps around me. Does not speak.

She walks back into the battlefield, and I let her go.

I do not recognize her anymore.

And I am starting to wonder, which one of us is the real monster?