Zara's POV
I can't stop staring at the photograph.
My hands shake as I hold it under the dim lamplight in my room. The woman with kind eyes. The smiling child who used to be me. Four words written on the back that change everything: "I know your mother."
The Architect knows. They've always known.
My chest feels tight, like someone's squeezing my ribs. Questions flood my brain so fast I can barely breathe. Is my mother alive? Did the Architect take me from her, or did she give me away? Why tell me now, right before the most important mission of my life?
Then I understand. It's a test. A threat. A reminder that they control everything—even the secrets of who I used to be.
I flip the photograph over, studying that little girl's face again. She looks happy. Safe. Loved. I wonder what her name was before they took it away.
Focus. I shake my head hard, forcing the emotions down. Weapons don't get distracted. I shove both photographs back into the folder and grab Kaelen Thorne's file instead.
That's when the memory hits me like a fist.
I'm seven years old, and I won't stop crying.
"Please," I sob, curled up on the cold stone floor. "I want to go home. I want my—"
Commander Sevrin's boot catches me in the ribs. Not hard enough to break anything. Just hard enough to hurt.
"Get up," he says. His voice is flat, bored. Like he's done this a thousand times before.
I try. My legs shake too much. I fall.
He grabs my hair and yanks me to my feet. I scream. He slaps me across the face so hard my ears ring.
"Weapons don't cry," Sevrin says, leaning close. His breath smells like metal and smoke. "Weapons don't beg. Weapons don't remember their mothers." He shakes me. "What are you?"
"A-a weapon," I whisper.
"I can't hear you."
"A weapon!"
"And what do weapons feel?"
I'm still crying. I can't help it. The tears won't stop.
Sevrin's eyes go cold. "Wrong answer."
He drags me down the hallway. I know where we're going. The reconditioning room. Where they strap you to a table and make the pain so bad you forget everything except obedience.
I scream the whole way there. It doesn't matter. No one comes to help.
That's the day I learn that love is a weakness they can cut out of you.
I slam back to the present, gasping. My hand flies to my ribs where Sevrin kicked me all those years ago. There's no pain now—just old scars and older memories.
But my face is wet.
I touch my cheek in shock. Tears. I'm crying.
No. I wipe them away furiously. Crying gets you hurt. Crying means you're weak. Crying means—
My door crashes open.
I spin, knife in my hand before I even think. But it's just Commander Sevrin, standing in my doorway like he owns it. Like he owns me.
"Packed yet?" he asks.
I slip the knife back into my belt, heart still racing. "Almost."
He steps inside without asking. His eyes scan my tiny room—the weapons laid out on my bed, the files, the bag half-full of supplies. Then he sees the folder. Kaelen's photograph on top.
"Forty-four," Sevrin says quietly. He picks up the picture, studying Kaelen's face. "Your greatest achievement yet."
Something cold slides through my stomach. "It's just another target."
"Is it?" Sevrin looks at me. Really looks at me, like he's searching for cracks. "The Architect chose you specifically for this mission. Do you know why?"
I stay silent. Answering questions is dangerous.
"Because you're perfect," Sevrin continues. "No hesitation. No mercy. No stupid emotions getting in the way." He sets down Kaelen's photograph. "I trained you myself. Broke you down and rebuilt you into exactly what we needed."
He sounds proud. Like creating a weapon out of a seven-year-old child is something to celebrate.
"I won't fail," I say.
"No. You won't." Sevrin moves closer. Too close. "Because if you do, I'll personally handle your reconditioning. And this time, I'll make sure there's nothing left of that crying little girl. Nothing at all."
The threat hangs in the air between us.
Then he smiles. Actually smiles. "But that won't be necessary. Will it, Zara?"
"No, sir."
"Good girl." He turns to leave, then pauses at the door. "Oh, one more thing. The Architect wanted me to give you this."
He tosses something small onto my bed. A silver locket.
My blood turns to ice.
I know that locket. I've seen it before—in dreams I'm not supposed to remember. In flashes of a life they tried to erase.
"Open it," Sevrin says softly. "After you complete the mission."
Then he's gone, door clicking shut behind him.
My hands tremble as I reach for the locket. It's cold. Heavy. Old.
I shouldn't open it. I should focus on the mission. Pack my weapons. Study Kaelen's patterns one more time.
But my fingers are already working the tiny clasp.
The locket springs open.
Inside is a lock of dark hair—the same color as mine—and a scrap of paper with handwriting I don't recognize:
"My darling daughter. If you're reading this, I'm already dead. The Crimson Veil took you to punish me. Whatever they've told you is a lie. Your real name is—"
The rest is torn away. Gone.
My vision blurs. The room spins.
Because suddenly I understand. This isn't just a mission. It's not even about Kaelen Thorne.
The Architect isn't testing me.
They're destroying me.
And I have exactly three weeks to figure out why—before I become the weapon that kills the one person who might know the truth about who I really am.