The capital shimmered in the spring haze—stone spires rising from marble roads, merchant banners flapping in wind that smelled of citrus and politics.
Zareena hadn't seen it in five years.
The family estate stood untouched. Tall iron gates, silver-tipped pillars, and the same ivy creeping along the old walls. But stepping through them felt like walking into a colder season.
No welcome.
Just servants with bowed heads, and silence heavy in the corridors.
She was led to the receiving hall, where her father's other children were already waiting.
Her half-brother, Mikhail, leaned lazily against the fireplace. Expensively dressed, sword at his side—not from training, but show. His smirk didn't reach his eyes.
"Ah, the ice queen returns from the border," he said.
Beside him, her half-sister Alira didn't speak—she only stared, assessing Zareena like a merchant appraising cloth.
Zareena met their gazes and said nothing. Her silence cut deeper than any retort.
She moved to the window and stood with her hands behind her back. Indifferent. Controlled. Unshaken.
"Lady Zareena," came a new voice from behind.
She turned. At the top of the stairs stood a woman draped in wine-red velvet and cold perfume. Her features were familiar—her mother's sister, now her stepmother, the woman her father married within months of her mother's death.
"Aunt Liora," Zareena said simply.
"You may call me Lady Rashanov now," Liora replied, her smile edged like glass. "I hear you've become... popular. Out there."
Her voice dipped like a threat dressed in velvet.
"But this is not the border, girl. This is the capital. And popularity does not last long here."
Zareena met her gaze, calm as still water.
"Neither does fear."
For one breath, the room froze. Then Zareena turned away—unbothered, above their games.
She wasn't the forgotten daughter anymore.
She was the commander of Vireloch.