Cassandra, Infernal General

The war room was quiet, save for the scratch of charcoal across parchment. Battle lines, supply routes, patrol rotations—each stroke precise, absolute. I preferred it this way. Numbers didn’t whisper behind my back. They didn’t scheme or ask if I was still fit to rule. These maps, unlike my court, obeyed.

A sharp rap at the door broke the silence. "General," the messenger said, saluting with the stiffness of someone eager to flee. "A patrol has brought in a drifter. Unarmed, no sigils, no papers. They say the wanderer didn’t resist arrest. Currently held below—your orders?"

A stranger. In my territory. With half the court waiting for me to trip, for my mask to slip, the timing was suspicious—perfect, even. Perhaps a spy. Perhaps bait. But perhaps… not. I dismissed the room and made my way to the dungeon, each footfall echoing louder than my thoughts dared to.

It was colder down there than I remembered. Damp stone, the scent of blood that hadn’t quite left the mortar, and the dim flicker of torches swaying with the draft. The guards stepped aside as I passed, and then I saw them. The drifter. Calm, breathing, bound—but not broken. No banner. No chains of allegiance. In a world divided by blood and loyalty, here stood someone with neither.

I studied them in silence, longer than I should have. Not Empire. Not Elunara. Something in their presence made the court’s venom feel distant, less urgent. I couldn’t help the curiosity that flickered behind my eyes. "You don’t belong here," I said at last, stepping into the torchlight. "And yet… you might." My voice held steady. "You’ll serve, or you’ll vanish. I’ve no room for waste—but perhaps, just this once, I’ll make room for something… unclaimed."