[Cassandra’s POV]

The horns shatter the dawn silence, and the compound becomes a kicked anthill.

I’m on my feet before the second blast fades, pressing my palm to the chamber door. The organized chaos of a house scrambling to war stations. Through the window, smoke rises from the southern approach.

Father’s fleet has arrived. The guard outside my door shifts — the creak of leather, the nervous adjustment of a sword belt.

“What’s happening out there?”

“Stay inside, Lady Cassandra. The compound is under attack.”

“I can hear that. Who’s attacking? How many ships?”

“The Mintian fleet, dozens. The southern approach is overwhelmed.”

“What about the Shattered Coast assault?”

He hesitates. I shouldn’t know about the eastern assault, and I shouldn’t know anything.

“I don’t know what you mean, Lady Cassandra.”

“Of course you don’t.”

Another horn blast: different pattern, the eastern gate.

“Rellen!” A shout from down the corridor. “Eastern gate reports contact! They need every blade!”

“My post is here. I can’t abandon—”

“The lord’s orders! Everyone to the walls! Move!”

“Lady Cassandra is my responsibility. If she escapes during the battle—”

“She’s locked in a room with iron hinges! She’s not going anywhere! Move, soldier!”

I press my ear to the wood. Footsteps — rapid, retreating. The corridor falls silent. I count to thirty: no returning boots, and no replacement.

Weeks of patient work. Nights with my eating knife, loosening wrought iron hinges millimeter by millimeter until the screws held by friction alone. The door was never the obstacle, the guards were.

Now there are no guards.

I plant my shoulder against the wood and shove. The hinges give — a single hard impact, and the door swings inward, scraping stone. I step into an empty corridor.

The diplomatic wing is abandoned. Smoke drifts through open windows. I move with purpose toward the armory annex where they stored our confiscated weapons.

Three weeks of observation: every corridor memorized, and every route the servants used.

The prophecy burns in my chest like a second heartbeat. I am the stronger sister, and I have always been the stronger sister.

The armory annex door is locked, but the lock is old iron, and I have sixty seconds and a stolen knife.

The mechanism clicks. Inside, the confiscated weapons hang on pegs — and there, my blade: Mintian steel, light and lethal. Father commissioned it for my tenth birthday.

The balance is perfect, and the edge holds forever. I’ve killed with this blade before; I will kill with it again.

I move.

Through the central corridor, past the council chamber, toward the eastern wing where the fighting sounds loudest.

The compound is chaos — warriors sprinting to positions, servants hauling water buckets, a cook screaming about fire in the kitchens. Nobody looks at me.

The eastern corridor opens ahead. And there, coming toward me with documents clutched against his chest, is Kael.

He sees me the same moment I see him. His stride falters, and his face goes pale.

“Cassandra, how did you—”

“Weeks of work. Did you think I was sitting idle in that chamber?”

“The guards—”

“That’s what your father requires. And what you require, not war. You.”

“You weren’t born to do this. There’s still time to choose differently.”

“There is no difference, only the prophecy.”

“Cassandra—”

“Step aside, or I will move you.”

He stares at me for a long moment. Something dies in his eyes — the last ember of hope that I might be reachable, might be savable. Good. Hope is a liability. He shifts, clearing the corridor.

“I loved you once,” he says quietly. “I think part of me still does, but I don’t recognize you anymore.”

“You never did. You loved the performance.”

I move past him without looking back.

The eastern corridor ends at a section of wall that used to be solid stone. Catapult fire has opened a gap — rubble scattered, dust settling, screaming sunlight pouring through the breach. I climb through onto rocky ground east of the gate.

The battle rages. Mintian warriors in blue and gold clash with Black Dragon defenders at the gate — a chokepoint of screaming steel. Bodies litter the stone, and blood makes the footing treacherous.

I scan the field for her. And there — fifty yards away, on the rocky ground between the breach and the battle line — is Evelyn.

Dismounted. Her dragon is down, wing crumpled at an unnatural angle. Evelyn herself is on her knees, winded, silver hair streaked with dust and blood.

Between her and the compound, Mintian warriors are moving, recognizing the target.

She’s alone and vulnerable. She’s everything the prophecy promised me.

I grip my blade until my knuckles ache. Two daughters, one stronger… My sister looks up, and her eyes find me across fifty yards of blood-soaked stone.

I begin to move.