-Damian-

  Not too long ago, my life was utter hell. All the screaming and all the pain. Waiting for the next experiment, the next test, the next scar. Waiting to feel her breath on my neck, her weight holding me down. Now, when the only thing pressing against my body is the wind and my clothes… I remember everything, and I smile.

  For the past few months, we’ve been moving quietly. Taking what we need. Striking them where it hurt. Sabotage. Theft. Arson. Planting weapons, switching crests. Watching as Valtara and Camelot tear into each other bit-by-bit.

  I stood at the top of a crumbling tower deep in the woods beyond the border. It was ours, one of the outposts we’d claimed. I glanced down at the camp below me, letting sounds and smells envelop my senses—cooked meat. My family—The Damonites—we’re all present. Cooking food, resting, or just conversing with each other. It used to be just me, and now, I have hundreds of friends. The wind began to kick up again, and I closed my eyes, letting it brush right over me.

  They called you a mistake, Damon murmured. They caged you like an animal, and treated you like one. Now look at you. My blood burns through your veins, and you wield it well, little king.

  I opened my eyes again, my sight landing on the group of four below me. The twins always manage to catch my attention first. Zyra and Myra. They were mirror images of each other, all except for one defining factor: Zyra, he wouldn’t stop smiling. They were around the same age as me, with the same red eyes and black hair that rested atop their heads. They only wore brown cloaks. They came from the Duratus facility. The worst of them all, apparently.

  Then there’s Callum. Twenty years old. Tall, lean, and cruel. He was the son of a soldier who had his way with his mother. He's our tactician. His plans are always exact and to the point, no holes in them whatsoever.

  And finally, Rue. She… hadn’t told me her full story. She found me shortly after I fled the capital—she healed me. Told me I reminded her of our great ancestor. She was tall and beautiful, her long black hair wrapping around her figure like a cloak. Not only was *she* beautiful, her flames were too, they looked like flaming black wings whenever she used them. Like a crimson butterfly.

  I climbed down from the tower and made my way through the camp. Everyone straightened when I passed. Not out of fear. Not entirely. Out of something closer to… respect. I’m one of them. But I’m also more.

  I made my way to the others by the fire, where Callum is hunched over a map scratched into old leather. He doesn’t look up at me.

  “We got word,” he said. “The envoy made it through the Lockinge pass last night. They’ll stop at Aramoor before crossing toward Camelot.”

  Myra tilted her head. “They think they’re safe.”

  “They’re not,” Zyra said, that ever-present grin plastered on his face. “We left a gift.”

  “Good.” I sat on the flat stone beside the fire. “What about the stolen sigils? Did you guys—”

  “It was like taking candy from a baby,” Rue tossed me a cloth pouch, and upon opening it I saw the fruits of their efforts. Camelot knight sigils.

  I nod. “That makes three separate ‘attacks’ blamed on Valtara in the last month.”

  “And two blamed on Camelot,” Callum added, cracking his neck. “Tensions are reaching a boiling point.”

  “They’ll snap soon,” I murmured as I squeezed my knees.

  Let them, Damon whispered. Let them slaughter each other while you gather strength. You are the storm they’re ignoring.

  “Any new recruits?” I ask aloud.

  “Two dozen,” Rue said, holding up two fingers. “More filtering in by the week. Word’s spreading. They’re looking for someone to follow.”

  “No,” I leaned forward, staring into the fire. The black flames twist with my thoughts, climbing high, eating the wood with a hiss. “They’re looking for recompense. When we strike next, we take out the outpost at the ridge. Camelot will think it’s Valtara. Valtara will retaliate. And then…”

  “The war you want begins,” Ira finished with a clap of his hands.

  No one argued. The Damonites don’t crave peace. They crave justice. I looked at each of them—Zyra, Myra, Callum, and Rue. My family. My strength.

  “We’ll go in before dawn,” I said. “Fast, clean, no survivors. Plant what needs planting. Leave no trace of us, just like usual”

  “And when we’re done?” Myra asks.

  I smile.

  “Then we make sure the world never forgets who lit this match.”

  —

  I didn’t sleep that night. I rarely do.

  I walked the camp instead, checking on those who had joined us more recently—those who still flinched when they heard a voice too loud, or stirred when fire cracked too close. I didn’t offer comfort. I offered my presence. That’s all they needed. To know someone saw them and didn’t look away.

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  The twins took the first watch. They always volunteered. Myra with her hand wrapped in a black cloth, Zyra twirling a knife between his fingers. They didn’t speak much to anyone else. But I caught the way they nodded at me when I passed. The way their eyes burned with something more than rage.

  It’s not just anger anymore. It's a belief. That’s what makes them dangerous.

  By the time the sky turned the color of bruises, the camp was already moving. Quiet, fast. No wasted motion. We’d done this plenty of times before. They knew how to pack without being told. They didn’t need orders barked.

  We moved along the ridge trail in groups of five, each led by one of my inner circle. I took the lead team, of course. There was no point pretending I wasn’t going to be at the front of every operation.

  Callum’s group would handle the sigil placement. Rue’s team would control the perimeter and manage fire spread—she was the best fire magician I’d ever seen. The twins would deal with any scouts. Swift and brutal. I didn’t need to remind them.

  The outpost wasn’t large. Thirty soldiers, maybe. Camelot insignia. The ones stationed closest to the border always looked the same: grizzled, bored, just important enough to think they mattered.

  We hit them just before dawn.

  The first blade found its mark in silence—Zyra, the grim reaper. The knight didn’t get a full word out before his light was snuffed out.

  Fire lit the sky.

  Our blades cut through their defenses like paper. By the time they understood what was happening, it was already over. I moved through the smoke and screaming like a ghost, my dagger slipping between ribs, a wordless snarl on my lips.

  They called us monsters. So we showed them monsters.

  By the time the last soldier fell, the black fire was already eating through the supply crates. Rue stood at the center of it all, her hands raised, flames pouring upward in wing-like tendrils.

  Callum tossed the stolen Valtarian gear into the blaze, carefully arranged around the bodies. Myra and Zyra dragged one of the remaining corpses into place, setting the scene. A clean, fabricated lie.

  All according to plan.

  “Signal’s ready,” Callum said, turning to me. His eyes reflected the fire, but his voice was calm. “Riders from the next post will be here within hours.”

  “They’ll find all this destruction,” I said. “And Valtara will get blamed.”

  A few hours later, we began to return to camp. Our scouts reported the outpost had been discovered. Camelot was calling for retaliation.

  Perfect.

  Damon’s voice coiled through my mind again—calm, measured. You’re learning well. Look at you: the boy king of shadows, making empires dance.

  “They think they’re in control,” I murmured aloud. “They think this is just politics. But it’s war. And I’m the one who sparked it.”

  The twins walked ahead of me. Zyra tossed a rock from hand to hand, eyes darting like he was chasing ghosts. Myra, quiet and unreadable, swept the treeline with every step. Callum walked beside me, silent at first. Just thinking to himself.

  “That last strike was cleaner than Feldran Crossing,” he said eventually.

  “We’re getting better,” I replied. “People are getting more confident.”

  “They follow you because you make them feel powerful,” Callum said. “That’s rare. Dangerous.”

  “We are dangerous, don’t forget that.” I reminded him.

  Rue joined us from behind, her steps light despite the sword strapped across her back. “I liked the way the fire caught when it hit the weapons cache,” she said casually. “Kind of elegant. Next time, maybe I’ll make flowers.”

  I snorted. “Try not to set yourself on fire again.”

  “That was one time.”

  “One time too many.”

  We reached camp just as the last light of day slipped behind the trees. The forge glowed hot, silhouettes moving between tents. Some filled water buckets, scrubbed armor, argued over whose turn it was to clean up the mess left by the last group.

  Myra and Zyra peeled off toward their tent, but I called after them.

  “Zyra,” I said. “Your blade was faster than the scream.”

  “Faster than his scream,” he corrected with a shrug of his shoulder. “Tried to say ‘help.’ Got to ‘he—’ and then gurgled.”

  “You’re twisted,” Myra muttered.

  “You say that like it’s a surprise.”

  Myra turned to me. “We’ll take the second watch.”

  “Eat first,” I said. “You’ve earned it.”

  She gave a curt nod and left without another word.

  I found Callum leaning against a post near the center fire, watching the younger ones.

  “You believe in this, right? Our mission? ” I asked.

  He didn’t answer right away. Then, “I believe in results. And so far, you’ve delivered.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “It’s the only one I’ve got,” he said. Then, a slight smirk. “Besides, I like watching those fat rich idiots scramble.”

  I left him there, the firelight flickering in his eyes.

  They’ll follow you anywhere, you know, Damon whispered. Not because they love you. But, because you gave them purpose. Because you told them they deserved to exist.

  “That’s enough for now,” I whispered.

  When night fell again, I called a meeting at the central fire. The entire camp came. Not just the fighters. Everyone.

  The orphans. The half-burned. The ones who still twitched at loud noises, or the slightest of touches.

  They needed to hear it. Not just from my inner circle, but from me. I stood on a flat boulder and waited for the noise to settle. When it did, you could’ve heard a pin drop.

  “You’ve all seen what we are capable of,” I said, voice calm but firm. “You’ve seen the way Valtara and Camelot scramble to blame each other. They’re too busy watching each other to notice us.” I paced slowly. “We’ve spent our lives hiding. Running. Waiting for someone to give us a chance.” I stopped and met their eyes—row by row, face by face. “No one’s coming to save us. But we don’t need saving.”

  I held up a hand. Black flames coiled around my fingers, twisting into the shape of a dragon’s claw. “We were born from fire. From blood. From shadow.” I closed my hand into a fist. “And we will burn the world that tried to snuff out our flame.”

  A cheer rose then—loud and raw and honest.

  I stood in the firelight and let it wash over me.

  They love you, Damon whispered. Because they know what you are. Because you do not ask them to kneel. You teach them to rise.

  They’re not soldiers, I said inwardly. They’re family.

  And you are their king.