Vira’s feet were light against the soft earth as she moved through the garden, but there was no mistaking the weight in her chest. She had dressed quickly, too quickly, throwing on a loose, silk nightgown that she had left hanging on the back of her chair, its pale color reflecting the moonlight in soft whispers. It was hardly the attire she would wear for a midnight walk—barefoot, in her sleep attire, with only a thin shawl draped over her shoulders—but it was all she had in her haste. The fabric clung to her skin slightly from the dew, its softness a contrast to the tight, suffocating grip of her thoughts. Her hair, usually tied up or neatly styled, cascaded loosely down her back, black with streaks of silver that shimmered in the dim light.

  The wind tugged at her, like a hand brushing away the weight of her burdens. She didn’t want to face the life that awaited her in the morning—the impending engagement that loomed over her like a specter. The thought of it kept her awake most of the night, the dread twisting in her stomach until sleep had been an impossible refuge. She wasn’t ready to be wed, to become a figurehead in a court she didn’t care for, to be trapped in a life dictated by royal duties. She wasn’t ready to walk down the aisle with a man she barely knew, to carry the expectations of her kingdom and family on her shoulders.

  The grass beneath her feet was cool, but the wind felt colder, brushing against her exposed skin as though the world itself was urging her to make a choice. The garden, which had once been her sanctuary, now felt more like a cage. The moon hung low in the sky, its pale light filtering through the trees, casting eerie shadows over the path she followed toward the cliffside.

  Her heart thundered as she made her way through the silent night, and though the night seemed peaceful, her mind raced with thoughts of what awaited her at dawn. She had to get away. She had to escape, at least for a moment, to breathe before she was locked into the life others had chosen for her.

  She didn’t want to marry. She didn’t want to be a princess. She didn’t want to be the puppet her family had already started shaping her to be. She wanted to run, to break free, but the chains of her duty held her fast. Every royal gown, every courtly dance, felt like a suffocating prison. The thought of wearing a crown wasn’t one of power or pride—it was a cage, forged with every decision made for her before she could even speak her mind.

  Her feet carried her up the rocky path, the uneven stones crunching beneath her boots. She reached the familiar edge of the cliff, the place she had often come to in moments of unrest. The land dropped away into the vast abyss below, the ocean churning beneath the cliff's edge, as if mirroring the turmoil inside her chest. From here, the world seemed distant. The night stretched out endlessly, the dark sky and the churning sea blending into one shadowed canvas. Here, in this moment, she could almost forget the suffocating future awaiting her back at the palace.

  She lowered herself onto the jagged edge of the cliff, her legs hanging loosely over the side. The wind wrapped around her like a familiar friend, tugging at the loose strands of her hair and easing the tension in her body, but the tightness in her chest remained. With every breath, it gnawed deeper, reminding her of the choices she could not make. She tilted her head back, closing her eyes, allowing the wind to tousle her hair, the salt from the ocean mingling with the crisp night air.

  Her fingers closed around the ring at her neck, the cold metal pressing against her skin. The Ashara insignia—a symbol of her bloodline, her past, her future. She traced the design with her fingertips, the dragon curling around the sigil, its sharp edges a reminder of the weight of history that clung to her. Each line in the symbol seemed to whisper the names of those who had worn it before her, each one bound by a destiny she could not escape. She was supposed to be the next in line, the next queen, the next pawn in a game that had been set long before her birth. But what if she was meant to change it all? What if she could break free?

  The soft sound of the wind was interrupted by a faint rustling. Vira's head snapped up, her eyes scanning the shadows behind her. The sound was subtle—just a whisper of movement—but it didn’t belong.

  "Who's there?" she called, her voice steady despite the sudden tension coiling in her stomach. Her heart raced, each beat louder in her ears as her gaze swept over the night, searching the darkness for any sign of movement. The usual sounds of the night—the rustling leaves, the lapping waves—felt more distant now, as though the world had grown still, holding its breath.

  A twig snapped.

  Her pulse quickened. Vira’s hand instinctively reached for the small dagger tucked into her waist, fingers brushing the hilt, her grip tightening. She froze, listening. There was something—someone—behind her, but the shadows held no answers. The air grew colder, her breath fogging in the night, the pressure mounting with each second.

  She was being watched.

  The sensation was impossible to ignore, as though an invisible weight had settled on her chest. Her senses flared to life, sharp and focused, as the unsettling presence pressed closer. Without thinking, she called on the power that thrummed beneath her skin—her spiritual essence, a quiet yet potent force. Slowly, deliberately, she raised her hands toward the darkened sky, the energy surging with her command.

  The clouds overhead stirred, parting just enough to let the pale moonlight spill down, casting long shadows across the rocky ground. The cliffside was bathed in a soft, silvery glow, illuminating the path ahead.

  A faint smile tugged at her lips, the smallest victory against the uncertainty creeping up her spine. But it was short-lived. The figure, cloaked in shadows, stood just a few feet away. Bathed in the moonlight, its hooded shape remained motionless, the faintest aura of malevolence swirling around it. A cold shiver ran down Vira's spine, as if the very presence of this figure corrupted the air.

  Her heart skipped a beat, her breath catching in her throat. She had never seen this person before, but everything inside her screamed danger. The hairs on her neck stood on end, and her fingers tightened around the dagger’s hilt, the weight of her decision pressing heavily on her chest. There was no room for error.

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  The figure remained silent, still as a shadow, as though it was waiting—for something, for her.

  A smile curved her lips in quiet triumph, but it faltered when she realized she was no longer alone. Standing just a few feet away, bathed in the soft glow of the moonlight, was a figure. A hooded shape, still and silent, with the faintest aura of malevolence clinging to it like a shroud.

  Vira’s heart stopped for a beat, her breath catching in her throat. She had never seen the person before, but somehow, she knew the danger they posed.

  “Who are you?” she demanded, her voice low, a growl simmering beneath the surface. Her body tensed, caught between the instinct to flee or fight. Her mind raced, searching for explanations, but none came.

  The hooded figure stepped closer, their movements slow, deliberate, measured. When they spoke, their voice was as cold and unsettling as the night itself. “I’m here to take what’s mine, Vira.”

  The air seemed to freeze, time stretching as the figure lowered their hood. And there, beneath the shadow of the cowl, was a face that Vira knew all too well.

  “Calista?” Vira’s voice barely broke through the thick silence, her words nothing more than a whisper. Her heart plummeted into her stomach, and the chill that spread through her veins felt like ice. The world around her blurred as the truth of what was happening shattered the fragile calm she’d worked so hard to maintain.

  No. This couldn’t be. Calista—the girl who had once been her friend, her classmate, her confidante. What was she doing here, and why?

  Her thoughts scattered, fragile and broken, like shards of glass. No... It couldn’t be true.

  The figure’s lips twisted into a cruel, mocking smile. It was the same face Vira had known, but there was no warmth in the eyes, no recognition of the bond they once shared. Instead, there was only coldness—an emptiness so deep it swallowed all the light.

  “I’ve waited too long for this, Vira,” Calista’s voice dripped with venom, her tone sharp and bitter. “Too long to be thwarted by anyone, even you.”

  Vira felt a sting of betrayal, sharp and bitter. The chest-tightening realization that the girl she had once trusted—had once called a friend—was now a stranger. And worse, an enemy.

  Before Vira could respond, Calista moved with a swiftness that stole her breath. In the blink of an eye, a purple sword materialized in her hands, its blade gleaming darkly in the moonlight. She swung it in a fluid arc, its deadly edge slicing through the air toward Vira’s heart.

  Vira’s body reacted before her mind could catch up, her instincts pushing her aside just in time. The blade grazed her arm, sending a sharp sting of pain through her body, but it was only the beginning. Calista was faster than she remembered, her strikes more vicious, more deadly.

  “You think you can defeat me with your weak magic?” Calista taunted, her voice dripping with contempt. “You’re nothing.”

  Vira’s mind raced, seeking a way to fight back, as her powers flared in response. She summoned energy from deep within, feeling the rush of magic surging through her veins. With a flick of her wrist, the ground beneath Calista cracked open, sending sharp stones hurtling toward her. But Calista’s movements were graceful, mocking. She spun, and the rocks were deflected as though they were nothing more than pebbles.

  Calista was no longer the friend Vira had known. This... this was something else.

  Vira’s breath quickened, her heart pounding in her chest. She couldn’t stop—she couldn’t let Calista win. Her frustration built, and with a cry of desperation, she poured all her energy into a forceful barrier, sending it crashing toward her opponent. The barrier should have held. It should have stopped Calista dead in her tracks.

  But the purple sword sliced through the barrier like it was made of paper.

  The purple blade sliced through the barrier like it was nothing more than paper. The protective magic shattered, sending sparks flickering into the air before vanishing into the abyss.

  “You think your magic can save you?” Calista’s voice curled with dark amusement, her grip tightening around the hilt. “It’s weak, Vira. Just like you.”

  Vira barely had time to raise her hand in defense before the sword struck again—faster, sharper, merciless. The edge caught her forehead with a brutal swipe, tearing through flesh. A jagged cry escaped her lips as pain detonated through her skull, hot and blinding. Blood spilled in a thick, crimson-violet cascade, trailing down her face in burning rivulets. The iron tang filled her nose, mixing with the haze of her spinning thoughts.

  But there was no time to falter. Calista was relentless.

  Vira’s breath hitched as she staggered, her vision swimming in red. The ground tilted beneath her feet, the pulse in her ears hammering like a war drum. Then—her blood, tainted with the essence of her lineage, pulsed unnaturally as it met the air. A strange glow flickered in the droplets, the deep violet shimmer of the Ashara bloodline reacting to its exposure.

  Calista’s eyes flashed with hunger.

  “Yes,” she whispered, stepping forward, her hand outstretched. The moment her fingers touched the glowing blood, a surge of power crackled through her like lightning. A sharp inhale, greedy and trembling, as though she were drinking in the very essence of the magic itself.

  “This is what I’ve been waiting for,” Calista purred, her voice trembling with something close to ecstasy. The stolen power seeped into her veins, illuminating her in a sickening, violet sheen. “Now, I am the true Ashara.”

  Vira’s legs buckled, her strength slipping like sand through her fingers. Something inside her was breaking—no, being ripped away. Her magic, her birthright, the tether that bound her to the Ashara bloodline—it was unraveling, siphoned into Calista’s grasp.

  The loss was unlike any wound. It was deeper, more profound. It was her. And it was being stolen, piece by piece.

  Calista exhaled slowly, as if savoring the transformation, her once-golden eyes darkening to a deep violet, the very color of Vira’s stolen blood. “Now, Eryx will be mine,” she murmured, satisfaction dripping from every word. “I will be crowned queen. And you—”

  Vira gasped, forcing herself to stand, but her body refused to obey. Her limbs trembled violently, her breath coming in shallow, rasping gulps. The weight of betrayal settled over her like an iron shroud, pressing down until she could barely draw air.

  Calista smiled—a cruel, triumphant thing—as she lifted her sword once more. The blade crackled with dark energy, pulsing with stolen magic.

  “Goodbye, Vira,” she sneered. “May your fall be as graceful as your blood is mine.”

  The sword plunged forward.

  Vira barely had time to register the impact before the agony stole her breath. A sharp, searing heat tore through her chest as the blade found its mark, forcing a strangled cry from her lips. The world blurred—pain, darkness, and the overwhelming emptiness of loss swallowing her whole.

  Then, she was falling.

  The wind howled past her ears as her body tumbled backward over the cliff’s edge, her vision swallowed by the abyss below. The last thing she saw was Calista standing at the precipice, watching her descent with the satisfied smirk of a queen who had already won.