A knock at her door pulled her from the moment.
It was Torren, holding a scroll.
“Your detail’s been selected,” he said. “And your guide.”
She arched a brow. “Guide?”
Torren hesitated. “You’re not gonna like it.”
“Try me.”
He handed over the scroll. She unrolled it and froze.
The name at the top was unfamiliar, but the bloodline wasn’t. Not entirely.
Cassian Veyne.Mercenary. Dragonblooded. Outcast. Rogue fire.
Unregistered, unsanctioned,impure.
Seraphine’s pulse jumped.
“What the hell is this?”
“The Emperor’s order.”
She glared. “He’s a half blooded mercenary with outlawed flame. He’s a disgrace! My father actually wantshimleading?”
“He wants you paired with someone... adaptable. Someone who won’t flinch in the Wyrdlands. And the only bastard who’s come back from the Hollow’s edge intact.”
Silence stretched.
She folded the scroll and tucked it into her belt. “Fine. I’ll meet him at dawn.”
Torren nodded and turned to leave, but paused at the door.
“You’re stronger than him,” he said. “Just don’t underestimate what he’s willing to burn.”
When the door shut, Seraphine looked back at the mirror.
For the first time in a long time, she didn’t just see the heir. She saw a woman standing at the edge of something vast, dark, and terrifying.
Her fire didn’t flicker.
It surged.
TWO
CASSIAN
The kid wasn’t supposed to be there.
Cassian crouched in the brush just outside a crumbled stone waystation deep in the Borderlands, his hand resting on the hilt of a rust-bitten blade that looked more like scrap than weapon. Around him, dusk sank like a sigh, painting the world in ash and copper. The air hung heavy with rot.
The bounty had said “Ravager-class Hollowborn, northeast sector, traveling alone.” No mention of survivors. No whisper of children.
But the voice had been clear—sharp, panicked, and small.
"Help!"
