Aria POV:

Martha's fingers worked my hair into a tight, intricate braid, pulling it so severely from my scalp that the skin felt stretched. A standard combat style. No loose strands, no softness. Nothing feminine.

I stared at my reflection in the tarnished mirror. The face looking back was a stranger's. A mask of disciplined emptiness. The ice-blue eyes were flat, like frozen lakes. Dead.

I stood and walked out of the room without a backward glance.

The corridor leading to the Great Hall was long and carved from the same dark stone as the rest of the Citadel. Torches flickered in iron sconces, casting dancing shadows that writhed on the walls. My own shadow stretched out before me, long and solitary.

Every footstep on the cold stone was an echo, a step back in time.

Memories, sharp and unwanted, flooded my mind.

I remembered the first time I saw him. I was a scrawny, half-starved orphan Eleonora had rescued from a slaver's caravan. I was feral and suspicious of everyone, a cornered cat ready to scratch. He was the second prince, barely a boy, hiding in the gardens and crying after a beating from his older brother, Gideon.

He was royalty. I was nothing. But I saw the same fear in his eyes that I felt in my own gut. I held out my hand, offering him a piece of stale black bread I had stolen from the kitchens. It was the first act of trust I had shown anyone. It was the beginning of everything.

I remembered Eleonora's last words, her hand, frail and cool, gripping mine. "Aria, he seems strong, but his heart is brittle. Only you can be his sharpest shadow. Protect him."

From that day forward, my world had shrunk to a single purpose: protect Damien.

I endured the harshest training, became a master of blades, poisons, and silent movement. My hands became stained with the blood of his enemies, the obstacles I cleared from his path to the throne. I was his most secret, most lethal asset.

And I remembered the ambush. The turning point. Gideon, desperate to eliminate his rival, had laid a trap. His men had caught me, trying to force Damien's location from my lips.

They had been brutal.

Three of my ribs were cracked. The manacles on my right wrist had ground against the bone until it was a mess of blood and torn flesh. But I never said a word.

When Damien finally found me, I was lying in a pool of my own blood. The look in his eyes that day... it changed him. The boy who cried in the garden was gone forever, replaced by a man with eyes as hard and cold as obsidian. He began to fight back with a ruthlessness that terrified his enemies.

And I became the blade in his hand.

Where he pointed, I struck. I never asked why. I believed we were two halves of a whole. I was the darkness that allowed his light to shine. He was the sole reason for my existence.

A pair of noblewomen in the corridor stopped their conversation as I approached. Their eyes raked over me, filled with a mixture of contempt and gleeful pity.

Their whispers followed me like wasps.

"Look, the King's wolfless dog."

I kept my head high, my gaze fixed forward, pretending not to hear. But my hands, hidden at my sides, curled into tight fists. My nails dug into my palms.

I had endured it all for him. The blades of his enemies. The scorn of his allies. I thought it was a small price to pay for the future he had promised me.

Now I knew the truth.

A dog is a dog. Useful, until it's not. Then it's thrown away.

The end of the corridor was just ahead. The great, gilded doors of the throne hall were closed, but I could hear the faint sounds of music and laughter from within.

A feast for another woman. A celebration of my replacement.

I took a deep, steadying breath. Just before my hand touched the cold metal of the door handle, I forced my fists to relax. I smoothed the expression on my face until it was a perfect, blank slate.

A weapon should not have feelings.

I repeated the words in my head.

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