The Hollow Dagger crouched at the edge of the jagged ridge, her gaze drifting over the sprawl of Frostbound Kingdom below. Smoke from chimneys mingled with the crystalline mist rising off frozen rivers. The aurora painted the horizon in green and violet strokes, but she did not notice beauty. She noticed details—the curve of a child's mittened hand, the slight shift in a guard's stance, the crack in a wooden bridge that no villager paused to consider. Each observation carved into the hollow vessel she had become, though faint, imperceptible tremors of something unnamed brushed the surface of her mind.
And then it came.
A pulse, subtle and sudden. Not a sound, not a movement, but a thought transmitted, slicing through the disciplined void of her mind. Now.
She had no choice. She never had one, never thought, never wavered. The order was clear: eliminate the leader of this kingdom before the gathered ritual. The Hollow Dagger's hand twitched—not in hesitation, but in preparation, a ritual of obedience drilled into muscle and bone. The ridge below was crowded now with the citizens, with soldiers, with the royalty assembled. Fires flared along the perimeter of the ceremonial hall, the icy wind carrying the scent of pine, smoke, and the tang of anticipation.
Kaelus, far removed yet intimately connected, felt it. The chains that bound him groaned as his body convulsed, each scarred tendon and muscle screaming with pain. His breath came in ragged bursts, lungs clawing for air that seemed to freeze in his chest. And in those moments, he saw. He saw the Hollow Dagger, moving across the precipice, unseen, untouchable by mortal eyes, poised to strike at the heart of a kingdom. The knowledge tore him—how could his daughter, a weapon created to maintain balance, be the instrument of such terror? And yet, it was his bloodline, his failure, that had made her this. Every chain he had broken, every sinew ripped and torn, reminded him of the cost. He was too late to protect, too late to warn, and powerless to intervene.
Below, the people of Frostbound gathered for their annual ritual. Flames from braziers reflected against their faces, the anticipation of magic and tradition palpable. They sang chants older than memory, weaving their lineage and protection into the air. The Hollow Dagger watched, cataloged, and obeyed. The world, vibrant and full of life and hope, did not touch her—but it passed through her field of perception, micro-filaments of warmth threading through her hollowness.
The order pulsed again in her mind: Strike. Now. Before they suspect.
Her stride was silent across the ridge. Each step calculated. The ritual hall's doors rose before her like a frozen maw, golden light spilling over the icy stones. She paused for a fraction of a heartbeat, taking in the panorama—the king in his ceremonial robes, banners of frost-blue embroidered with silver, the swordsmen standing rigidly around him. Every detail cataloged, yet cataloged without emotion, yet within that void, fissures ran. The warmth of familial pride, the devotion of guards, the vibrancy of life—subtle tremors she could not name—brushed against the armor of her mind.
Kaelus felt them. Each tremor, a slash through his own soul. His hands clawed at the chains, breaking fiber by fiber, bleeding, burning, muscles tearing. Every micro-awakening in her mind was agony for him, a reflection of the suffering she must never fully feel but somehow absorbed. And yet, a sharp edge of hope, twisted, bitter, surfaced—she was alive, aware, moving.
The Hollow Dagger entered the ceremonial hall. The heat of torchlight and magic brushing against the frostbitten edges of her body, but she felt nothing. Yet, her perception stretched to the minutiae: the quiver of a servant's hand, the sharp intake of breath from a child hiding behind a parent, the subtle tilt of the king's head as he sensed an intruder—none of them aware that death had already passed through the threshold.
The chains binding Kaelus shuddered as the final knot tore free. His body, marked by scars and the agony of centuries, convulsed violently, blood mingling with tears. In his mind, he screamed, watching the Hollow Dagger poised to strike, knowing he could do nothing. He, too, was a weapon, forged for balance, yet he failed the one he loved most. Every fiber of his existence rebelled against the inevitability of what was about to unfold.
The Hollow Dagger moved closer. Her hand, trained for precision, hovered for the briefest fraction above her target. And in that infinitesimal pause, something flickered: the faint memory of warmth, of kindness, of the unclaimed fragments of her own soul. She did not understand it. She did not claim it. But it was there. A single, silent note of hesitation, unseen, unfelt by the world, yet resonating through her very being.
Kaelus' eyes, even from his distant chains, felt the micro-motion. He flexed against the bonds, wincing, tasting his own blood, every beat of his heart a dagger of helplessness. His mind raced through the paradox of their fates: she, his daughter, a weapon he could not stop; he, a dragon, a guardian, chained by his own powerlessness. He whispered into the void, half prayer, half curse: Forgive me. If not for me, you would not have to bear this. Dear, you shouldn't have fallen for me. I am a curse. Look, I couldn't protect neither you nor our daughter. Why in the world heaven is cruel to us? Maybe we should have believed fate can't be changed.
And then, time seemed to stretch. Microseconds folded into infinity as the Hollow Dagger's blade descended. In that frozen corridor of perception, a subtle voice brushed the edges of her mind, seductive, cold, whispering: Oh, dear. Why are you trembling? You were created to obey, to strike, to kill. Were you not the instrument of her fate? Yet even now, you hesitate. These five years… they have changed you. Remember who caused this. Remember the suffering. Remember why you exist.
She did not respond. She could not. She simply cataloged, observed, and obeyed. The blade's trajectory did not falter, but somewhere, in the silent corners of her mind, the tiniest fracture had formed. Not enough to claim her, not yet, but enough for the first ghost of self-awareness to awaken.
Kaelus, in his bound prison, felt the echo. Pain surged through his body—not for himself, not for his chains—but for the tiny emergence of what he had always hoped could exist in her: recognition, awareness, the faintest trace of the daughter who had once been. He roared in frustration, the sound echoing through his scarred lungs, through the void that separated them, yet meaningless. He could only watch. He could only endure.
The Hollow Dagger completed her motion, retreating into shadow before anyone could perceive her. The ritual below continued, uninterrupted, untouched by mortal sight. She vanished into the corridors of the citadel, unseen and unclaimed, yet forever altered by the subtle tremor of emotion she could neither name nor wield.
And Kaelus, finally free from the last tether, slumped against the jagged stones of his prison. Every scar burned. Every muscle screamed. Blood mingled with tears on his face. And yet, within the pain, there was the faintest glimmer: the knowledge that she moved, she observed, she existed. That, perhaps, the chains of obedience were not absolute. That perhaps, one day, the Hollow Dagger could remember not only the mission, but herself.