Hatsune lay on the couch in Klarion’s room, listening as the soft sounds of the scion’s breathing filled the space. The faint light of the moon spilled through the window, casting long shadows across the sparsely furnished room. Despite the quiet, her mind was far from peaceful. The whirlwind of the day, her unexpected change in circumstances, and the lingering sting of recent events weighed heavily on her thoughts.


    She adjusted her position on the couch, fingers reaching down to trace the worn hilt of the long sword that rested beside the couch. It was a serviceable weapon — functional, and sharp enough for most purposes — but it wasn’t hers. It wasn’t the sword that had been at her side for years, a gift from her mother, forged by the finest smiths of her homeworld. The memory of how it felt in her hand, how it practically sang as she moved it through her forms, was as sharp in her mind as the blade itself had been. She grasped the hilt beside her. It was in a completely different style, but she would have to get used to it. Her old weapon was lost to her now.


    Only weeks ago, her life had been entirely different. She had been far from the oppressive grandeur of the Imperial Academy, back on her homeworld, Hanashobu. She had been visiting a village on the frontier of her family’s lands, a small settlement nestled against the base of a mountain. It was a place of quiet resilience, one she enjoyed visiting, where the people fought daily against the encroaching wilderness and the ever-present threat of marauders. But it had been free of the court politics she so despised. So she seized every chance she could to go there.


    Hatsune’s escort, a small but competent group of guards assigned to her by her family, had been delayed by other duties. Against their judgment, she had insisted on going ahead, eager to get to the village and catch up with the people who lived there. She had arrived without incident, and the headman, a wiry old Leporine with a spark of mischief lingering from younger days, had led her around the village showing off recent improvements that had been constructed as a result of a prosperous year.


    Hatsune had enjoyed the visit even more than she had expected. The simplicity of their lives, and their determination to thrive in the harsh environment near the base of the mountain, had been refreshing after so long being paraded around court for potential suitors. Men who cared far more about the ties to her family than her as a woman.


    The hilt of the sword began to creak under her grip, so she released it, not wanting to wake Klarion.


    She remembered the children darting around her, their laughter echoing through the air as they played games in the muddy streets. Mothers, thankful for all that her family did for them, here out on the frontier, offered her small gifts — freshly baked bread, a woven bracelet, a basket of herbs. She had taken it all, as was expected, but the thanks she had voiced in response to each thing she was handed had been genuine.


    She remembered the headman showing her the village’s improved defenses, modest but well-crafted. New wooden palisades had been constructed around the settlement, and watchtowers had been set to overlook the surrounding approaches to the village gates, all in response to the recent troubles in the region. She had been standing at the base of one of those watchtowers when the attack came.


    She rolled on her side, pulling the blanket in tighter.


    The first warning had been a sharp whistle, the sound of an arrow slicing through the air. It struck the ground at her feet. Chaos erupted in an instant. Villagers screamed, scrambling for cover as more arrows began to fall. The headman had grabbed her, seeking to rush her to safety, but she had shrugged off his grip. She had drawn her sword without hesitation, the familiar weight of it steadying her amidst the panic.


    She had cut down the first attacker to make it through the gate. He had been a Caprine dressed in the colors of one of the mountain bandit clans, his cloven hooves kicking up the mud behind him as he tossed his horned head back to bay a warcry. Despite his large size, it had taken only a single slash to remove his head from his shoulders. The second Caprine had fallen just as quickly. She could still remember the brief resistance as her thrust took him through the chest.


    But there had been too many.


    The Caprine had moved with brutal efficiency, overwhelming the village’s defenses in minutes. Hatsune had fought desperately, her blade flashing in ever-tightening blows to protect those few villagers who had gathered in the headman’s house behind her. After the seventh Carpine’s lifeless body collapsed at her feet, a group of five had disarmed her. A swift strike to her wrist had sent her sword into the muck at her feet, and before she could even attempt to retrieve it, strong hands had wrenched her arms behind her back. She could still feel the ropes they had bound her with. She could still hear how they had called her a pretty prize.


    Hatsune clenched her jaw at the memory, her fingers gripping the fabric of the blanket that covered her.


    They had taken her, along with dozens of villagers, loading them into crude wagons. They had bragged about the slavers’ markets and how much money they would make. The humiliation of being paraded as chattel still made her stomach turn. Most of the villagers captured alongside her had been sold off at a Caprine auction within days. She remembered watching, helpless, as families had been split apart, their cries of protest silenced with cruel efficiency. The majority had been simple folk: farmers, laborers, and a few untrained members of the militia who had survived the attack. To the slavers, they were commodities to be sold quickly to anyone who could afford them — merchants, plantation owners, or nobles looking for expendable servants.Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.


    But her fate had been different.


    The slaver in charge, a broad-shouldered Caprine with two massive, black curved horns, had used some orb that she suspected held some sort of inspection enchantment. She hadn’t known what to make of it at the time, but the result soon became clear. Unlike the others, who were shoved onto platforms and sold in groups, she had been set aside as some exotic prize. Eventually, she was sold to an Imperial — a stout man in finely tailored robes who had an air of disinterest the entire time she had been in his presence. The transaction had been quick, the Caprine practically throwing her at the man once he handed over a large pouch of coins. The Imperial had barely acknowledged her before leading her to another set of wagons.


    He had sold her again within days.


    After that, time lost all meaning. Days blurred into nights as she was shuffled from one place to another, her surroundings changing too often and too abruptly for her to anchor herself. Sometimes she was kept in cramped, dimly lit rooms, her meals sparse and her sleep restless. Later, she was transported in a wooden carriage with barred windows, the outside world visible only in fleeting glimpses of forests and unfamiliar towns.


    The faces of her captors changed as often as the scenery. Some spoke in harsh, clipped tones, while others avoided addressing her altogether, treating her as nothing more than a commodity to be delivered. She stopped counting the transactions, each one reducing her further in her own eyes. How many times had she had changed hands? It became a question without an answer.


    When she finally arrived at what she later learned was the Imperial Academy, she was too drained to make sense of her new surroundings. The grandeur of the place was starkly at odds with the journey that had brought her there, but she had been too tired, too scared to care.


    Soon after her arrival, she had been ushered into the Hall of Bonds. It was there that the reality of her situation had been laid out, and surprisingly enough, it had involved her making a choice. The first option was the Mark of Bonds, binding her as a bodyguard to one of the Academy’s scions. It had been presented as a position of honor, her skills making her a potentially valuable asset. The alternative was the Arena — a brutal proving ground where fighters battled for survival. The Arena carried the promise of glory for the victors and death for those unprepared.


    It was a false choice. Without a class, she knew she would have been little more than fodder in the Arena. So she chose the bond over the sands, survival over spectacle. Yet, as the days passed, the decision felt more like a reprieve. The first scions that had come in search of potential bodyguards had been ambitious and cruel.


    She could still picture Chadwick’s sneering face, his eyes glinting with cruel amusement as he had evaluated her. He and his fellow scion had stood so close to her cell in the Hall of Bonds, arms crossed, postures exuding lazy confidence that filled her with unease. Chadwick’s gaze had lingered on her like a predator stalking prey. He had regarded her not as a person but as an object. The sadistic delight she sensed as he looked at her had made her stomach lurch. It was a look she recognized — primal, predatory, like the wild monsters her father had hunted on their land so long ago. Only this time, she was the one hunted, and there was not one who would come to save her. Confronted with a human that embodied the same twisted cruelty, she had felt powerless.


    But then Klarion appeared.


    While the two scions had stood near her cell, their laughter sharp and cruel, she had seen him approach. Chadwick had spoken of her as though she was a commodity, making vile jokes about “breaking” her or keeping her as a plaything. Yet, it wasn’t their words that lingered most but Klarion’s response. She remembered how he strode toward them, his fists clenched and his stance heavy with restrained fury. Unlike the other scions, Klarion hadn’t joined in their mockery. Instead, he had confronted them, his commanding presence forcing them to retreat without ever drawing his blade. Then, he turned to her. How those red-gold eyes of his had caused the rest of the world to fall away. Though his questions had been direct, he hadn’t treated her as a tool or object.


    He didn’t fit the mold of what she expected scions to be — there was an earnestness to him, a sincerity that caught her off guard. He had treated her with unexpected kindness, offering her food and shelter without the sneering condescension she had come to expect from Imperial scions. The scars on his arms, the quiet way he carried himself — it all hinted at a past far removed from the privileged life of a noble. But that only made him more of an enigma, and Hatsune did not like mysteries.


    Her thoughts were interrupted by the soft rustling of the blanket he had draped over himself as he shifted in his sleep. Her eyes darted to his sleeping form. She couldn’t help but notice how his face softened in sleep, the tension that was usually in his posture and expression gone for the moment. It was hard to reconcile the Klairon she had met — the one who intervened on her behalf at the Hall of Bonds — with the one who was now so… vulnerable in sleep.


    Her father’s voice echoed in her head. “Not all who offer help are friends. Beware the shadow wyrms disguised as silver griffins.”


    She stared at the sleeping scion. The steady rise and fall of his chest in the dim light gave him an almost serene appearance, the way his dark hair fell over his forehead making him look younger than he did when he was awake. No, Klarion didn’t feel like a shadow wyrm. If anything, he felt like a man trying to find his place in a world that didn’t quite fit him.


    Hatsune still wasn’t sure what to make of him, especially after the strangeness of his behavior after he had brought her to the Blacksword manor. Cooking for her? Speaking to her as though she were an equal? Offering her a place to rest without the thinly veiled threats or leers she had come to expect from those in his position? It was confusing, disarming even.


    Her ears twitched as she tore her eyes from Klarion to look around the room. The dusty furnishings, the lack of servants, the sparse decorations — it didn’t fit the image of a privileged scion. Klarion didn’t fit the image of a privileged scion. There was more to him than met the eye, and while that made him intriguing, it also made him unpredictable.


    Hatsune’s thoughts slowly drifted away, but still, despite the soft pull of slumber, one ear stayed fixed on Klarion’s form.