The western training field of Ohlm was a sea of red and black.
Thousands of soldiers moved in perfect unison: spear shafts rising and falling, shields clashing, boots pounding the frost-hard ground in a single thunderous heartbeat. Banners snapped overhead.
Aeloria walked through the main gate alone, thin and ragged and empty-handed.
She had taken no more than ten steps when a captain in full parade armour blocked her path.
"State your name and your purpose for being here," he ordered, voice sharp enough to cut flesh.
Aeloria looked up at him. Fear flickered in her stomach, but she kept it off her face.
"Isn't it common courtesy to introduce yourself before demanding another's identity?" she replied, quiet but clear.
A ripple of shock passed through the nearest ranks.
"Did she just talk back to the Captain?"
"She's challenging him in front of the entire legion?"
The captain's gauntlet tightened on his sword hilt. "This is the Royal training field, restricted to the Royal army and those with written permission. Intruders will state their name instantly. I will not ask a third time."
Aeloria gave a tired, humourless smile. "I'm already in a foul mood. The meat I had this morning tasted worse than I expected. Who knew a chef's ear could be so gristly?" She met his eyes. "Step aside. You look far too young to die today." She was feared as a cannibal, and she would use it to her advantage.
The whispers exploded.
"She admitted it—she really ate an ear!" A soldier said, licking the ear of his comrade, trying to see what it tasted like.
"Get off me, you idiot." The soldier whose ear was being licked shouted as he pushed his comrade away.
"She's really the cannibal!" Another added.
In moments the ground shook. Boots hammered from every direction. Within seconds Aeloria stood inside a perfect circle of steel—more than a hundred soldiers, swords half-drawn, faces twisted with disgust and fear.
A scarred sergeant stepped forward, blade levelled at her throat.
"When a captain gives an order, you obey, you lowlife," he snarled. "We have you surrounded. One wrong move and you'll be cut down before you blink."
Aeloria slowly turned, taking in the ring of hostile faces.
"You have the numbers advantage, that's true?" she said, almost to herself. "But all I see is a pen full of meat—some fresh, some already starting to turn sour—begging to be tasted."
Every soldier froze. Hands tightened on hilts, but no one advanced.
They had all heard the stories: the woman who devoured her own infant, who fought with teeth instead of fists, who laughed while she bled. No one wanted to be the first to discover which parts of the tales were true.
"What is all the ruckus about?"
A single cold voice rolled across the field like distant thunder.
The reaction was instant. Every knee hit the dirt. Every head bowed. Spears lowered until their tips touched the ground.
Only Aeloria remained standing.
Damn it all—he's early, the captain thought, sweat breaking out beneath his helm.
The man who walked forward wore plain dark steel, no crest, no decoration. Tall, broad as an ox, face carved by years of war. Old scars crossed his knuckles and climbed his throat like pale lightning. His eyes were winter-cold.
General Orin.
Commander of Runevale's armies. Second only to the queen herself.
They called him the Tyrant, and the name fit.
He moved through the kneeling soldiers without looking left or right and stopped a single pace from Aeloria.
Without warning he reached out, seized the back of her dress in one massive fist, and lifted her clear off the ground as easily as lifting a kitten by the scruff.
Her feet dangled. She tried to move—arms, legs, anything—and nothing answered. Raw, animal fear flooded her veins.
For the first time since the ambush in the wilderness, she felt utterly helpless.
Orin brought her face level with his and studied her with the mild interest of a man examining a curious insect.
"So," he said, voice low and flat, "you're the cannibal. I expected someone rougher. Your skin is smoother than most noble daughters I've seen."
The entire field was quiet.
Aeloria swallowed once.
She knew instantly—this was the man the queen had sent her to find. The sight of thousands of hardened soldiers dropping to their knees in perfect silence told her everything: he was the absolute ruler of this field.
Without wasting anytime, she spoke.
"The queen sent me," she said. "She told me to deliver a message to General Orin and no one else."
She met his winter eyes without flinching.
"Her exact words were:
'Worms of the earth should not gaze above; the filth of the soil is where their sight belongs.'"
The change was immediate.
Orin's grip loosened. He set her down gently—almost carefully—as though she had suddenly become fragile.
The bored expression vanished, replaced by something dangerous.
"Follow me."
Orin turned and strode across the field without looking back.
The soldiers scrambled to their feet and opened a wide corridor, pressing themselves as far from Aeloria as possible. Hundreds of eyes tracked her every step: some furious, some terrified, some simply waiting for her to drop dead on the spot.
They walked the entire length of the training ground. Past the spear drills, past the shield walls, past the archery ranges where arrows thudded into straw targets in perfect rhythm.
At the far end stood a long, low stone building with black-iron doors. Orin shoved one open and entered. Aeloria followed.
Inside was a war room built for function, not comfort. A massive oak table dominated the centre, covered edge-to-edge with maps held down by daggers and iron weights. Shelves lined every wall, stuffed with scrolls, troop rosters, supply tallies, and sealed royal orders. Weapon racks stood ready: rows of polished swords, war axes, spears with crimson tassels. A single brazier burned in the corner, throwing heat and long shadows.
Orin walked to the far side of the table and sat in the only high-backed chair.
Aeloria reached for the nearest seat.
"You are not permitted to sit," he said.
"Yes, Commander," she answered immediately and stayed on her feet, hands at her sides.
Orin leaned back, arms folded across his broad chest, and studied her the way a smith studies raw ore.
"Do you have any idea what those words from Lady Nyxelene actually mean?"
"No, Commander. She gave me the sentence and nothing more."
"It is a direct recommendation," he said. "A personal mark of value from the queen herself. In all the years I have served, only one other soul has ever received it. Consider yourself extraordinarily lucky—or cursed. Time will tell which."
Aeloria kept her expression blank.
"Introduce yourself properly," Orin ordered. "Everything I should know and everything I shouldn't."
"My name is Aeloria. Nineteen years old. Born in the lower district of Norl. Unmarried. I have no fixed residence—the villagers burned my house to the ground and salted the earth so nothing would grow there again."
Orin gave a short grunt. "Utterly pathetic. You own less than the stray dogs in the capital."
He said it without cruelty, only fact.
"Birth and wealth mean nothing inside these walls. Being useless is acceptable—for now. Let's find out what value the queen saw behind those teeth of yours, cannibal."
He rose, crossed the room in three long strides, seized her by the back of the neck with one huge hand, and dragged her back outside as if she weighed nothing. Her boots scraped furrows in the dirt; she didn't fight it.
Back on the open field he released her onto the ground and pointed at three random soldiers who had been practising shield formations nearby.
"You, you, and you. Step forward. Now."
"Yes, Commander!" they shouted in perfect unison, hurrying over and snapping to attention.
Orin turned to a fourth soldier, a young woman whose face twisted with open disgust.
"Your sword. Give it to her."
The soldier unbuckled his blade with trembling fingers and held it out hilt-first, clearly wishing she could drive it through her instead. Aeloria accepted it without comment.
Orin faced the three chosen soldiers—two tall men and one lean woman, all in full training gear—and gave his orders.
"You will beat this recruit unconscious. Use training weapons only, but do not hold back. She will defend herself with that sword."
He looked at Aeloria.
"Your task is to beat them before they beat you unconcious. I want to see what you can do besides tearing off flesh."
He stepped back, folded his arms, and waited.
Aeloria looked at the sword in her hand—standard army issue, heavier than it looked—then at the three soldiers already spreading out to surround her. Without ceremony she flung the blade away. It spun once and buried itself point-first in the ground.
"I fight better bare-handed," she said.
The knock across the back of her skull came so fast she never saw it. Pain shot through her skull; she staggered forward, tasting blood where her teeth cut her tongue.
"When I tell you to use a sword, you use a sword," Orin roared. "Direct your teeth at the enemy, not my soldiers!"
"Ouch… that really hurt," Aeloria muttered, one tear slipping free despite her best effort.
But she wasn't angry.
When this man dragged her across the ground or called her cannibal, there was no hatred in it, no disgust—only cold, brutal expectation. For some reason that felt closer to care than anything she had known in years.
"It was meant to hurt, you idiot." Orin said. "Pick. Up. The. Sword."
She did. The hilt felt foreign, the balance wrong, but she gripped it tight and spun it once to test the weight.
"I've never trained with a sword in my life," she admitted.
"It's not difficult," Orin replied. "Swing at them. Don't let them swing at you. If they do, block and swing harder. That is all. Begin."
"What—?"
The word never finished.
The two men charged from opposite sides, training swords levelled at her ribs. The woman came straight down the centre, practice sword raised high for an overhead strike meant to crack skulls.
Aeloria's world shrank to motion and steel and the sudden, roaring need to survive.
She moved.