The morning sun kissed the rooftops of Virehold, scattering gold light across marble spires and rose-stone walls. Bells rang from the high towers of the old keep, calling the city to life. Asha Valemere ran barefoot through the dew-covered grass of the palace gardens, her laughter echoing like chimes.
She was six years old, wild-haired and full of mischief, with a crown of daisies tucked behind her ears. A blue ribbon trailed behind her as she darted through the hedges.
"Too slow, Halric!" she called, sticking out her tongue.
"I let you win!" the boy panted behind her, his tunic snagged on a thorn bush.
"You did not!" shouted Lina, a stocky girl with curls and scraped knees, tumbling after them. She tackled Halric from behind, and they both fell in a tangle of limbs and giggles.
The third boy, Tovin, watched from the side with a quiet smile. He was the son of the castle healer, often quiet, but clever with riddles and birds. "You're all making too much noise. The guards will come."
Asha flopped onto the grass beside him, breathless. "Let them come. They won't catch me."
The four of them had grown up within the safety of House Valemere's walls, sons and daughters of noble stewards, tutors, and sworn swords. The keep overlooked the city of Virehold like a guardian angel, its white towers gleaming over the rivers and tiled rooftops.
Below, merchants unfurled bright silks in the marketplace. Priests chanted in the temple of the Thorned Saint. The air smelled of baked honeybread and flowering myrrh trees.
Asha's father, Lord Carian Valemere, was a beloved ruler. He was stern with the court but soft with his daughter, often letting her sit on his lap during council meetings when she should've been in her lessons. Her mother, Lady Ameline, played harp in the evenings and read her old tales of queens who rode griffins and knights who bent steel with their bare hands.
It was a beautiful life. Too beautiful to last.
That evening, Asha sat with her family on the upper balcony. The stars began to bloom in the velvet sky, and her mother sang a lullaby about the Thorned Saint who gave her life for love.
"Will I be a knight one day?" Asha asked.
Her father chuckled. "You can be anything, little star. Even Queen, if you want."
"I don't want to be Queen," she said. "I want to be the best swordfighter in the world. Better than Ser Kael. Better than anyone."
Her father smiled. "Then you'll have to train very hard. But yes, I believe you could be."
She beamed, and leaned against him as the stars danced above.
In the city below, just beyond the glow of lanterns, a black banner rose on the distant hill, it's flame symbol flickering in the wind.
The Varn had come.
The screams came with the smoke.
Asha woke to the crack of thunder but it wasn't thunder. It was the sound of steel striking stone, of men shouting in a foreign tongue, of fire crackling through ancient timber.
She sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes, until the door to her chamber slammed open. A maid burst in, her face pale with terror. "My lady, out of bed! Quickly!"
"What's happening?" Asha asked, her voice small.
Before the woman could answer, an arrow slammed through her throat. She crumpled, gurgling on the floor. Asha froze, her breath caught, her body trembling as blood pooled toward her feet.
Men in black armor poured into the hall, faces hidden behind fire-wrought helms. The Varn.
Asha ran.
She tore through the hallways barefoot, the stone cold underfoot, smoke stinging her eyes. She could hear the clash of swords and the screams of dying men, familiar voices, the guards who had once tossed her in the air and let her ride their shoulders.
Asha reached the throne room just as the doors burst open.
Her father stood before the throne, blood soaking the front of his tunic, sword in hand. Her mother knelt beside him, shielding something with her body, Asha's baby brother, still too small to speak.
The Varn commander stepped forward, tall and cruel-eyed, his armor shaped like coiled flames.
"Yield," he said in a deep voice. "And we will grant your daughter mercy."
Lord Carian spat. "There is no mercy in monsters."
He charged.
A Varn blade took him through the ribs. He fell hard, coughing blood, still trying to reach for his sword.
Lady Ameline screamed. She rose with a dagger in hand but the commander seized her by the hair and slit her throat in a single, graceful motion.
Asha screamed.
She was still screaming when the Varn soldiers dragged her away, kicking and clawing, her voice ragged with terror.
Her baby brother's cries faded behind her.
The palace was burning. Virehold was burning.
Outside, the streets were filled with chaos. Men impaled on pikes. Women chased through the alleys. Fires climbing the sides of temples and merchant houses. A priest of the Thorned Saint was nailed to the temple doors, his blood painting the holy symbol.
Asha was thrown into a slave carriage, its bars iron, the floor sticky with blood. Her dress was torn. Her knees scraped raw. Her hands were tied behind her back.
Through the wooden slats, she saw Halric, his tunic ripped open, his back being torn apart by a Varn whip with barbed ends. His screams didn't even sound like a boy's anymore.
A few paces away, Lina was being held down by two soldiers. Her face was covered in bruises. Her voice was hoarse from screaming. One of the men pulled at his belt while the other laughed.
Asha turned away, sobbing, her stomach twisting into something sick and hateful.
Then she saw Tovin, silent, broken-eyed, being led in chains toward another cart of prisoners. He looked back just once. Their eyes met through the flames. And then he was gone.
The Varn commander passed by the cart. He looked down at Asha with the bored contempt of someone who had crushed hundreds like her.
"Pretty little rat," he muttered. "You'll fetch good coin."
The cart began to move.
Behind them, Virehold was no longer a city. It was a furnace. A grave. A memory.
And Asha Valemere, once daughter of nobility, heir to House Valemere, closed her eyes and bit her tongue until it bled, so that she wouldn't scream again.
The last golden day was over.