He took me with him. Not as a daughter. Not as a slave, exactly. As something stranger: a living good-luck charm. A proof of his mercy. A child who bowed to no one but him, and who whispered, "As you command, my lord," to every order, no matter how cruel.
She hesitated. Then she sighed, hoisted me onto her hip, and carried me into the firelight.
I looked up at her. The Axis hummed. I could feel the shape of her—a leader, not a tyrant. Someone who had fought the Warlord not for power, but because he had burned her village. Someone who did not want to conquer. reincarnated in submission
The captain's name was Elara. She would not fall to the Axis, because she would never ask for my submission. She would ask for my trust. My loyalty. My help.
Not the gentle chill of a winter morning, but the deep, unyielding cold of a forgotten tomb. Stone pressed against my cheek. Dust filled my lungs with every shallow breath. And above me, through a crack in the darkness, a single sliver of silver light. He took me with him
But somewhere deep, where the Axis turned in its sleep, something shifted.
"You are not the servant," he whispered. "You never were." As something stranger: a living good-luck charm
I closed his eyes.