Chapter 135: All Those Years

I trailed behind Iskanda’s attendant through the marble-lined corridor, feeling absurdly like a child being marched toward a formal execution.

Each lantern we passed cast long, shifting beams against the walls, making the hallway feel impossibly narrow, almost claustrophobic, as though the place itself expected me to start confessing crimes I didn’t remember committing.

My attention flickered from shadow to shadow, trying to distract myself with the elegant architecture, the intricate carvings, the bits of gold inlaid into the arches, but my mind refused to stay tethered to the present.

Instead it spiraled backward, clawing through memory whether I liked it or not, scraping at wounds I’d tried very hard to pretend had scabbed over.

In the distance, a pair of footsteps echoed sharply, snapping me back a split second before someone stumbled directly into my path.

Quentin.

Saints above, of course it was Quentin, his hair even more rumpled than usual, eyes lit with a furious glow that promised murder, heartbreak, or possibly both.

He stared at me like I’d personally drop-kicked his last scrap of pride into a nearby storm drain, and before he could even inhale for a dramatic verbal assault, I leaned in and blew him a kiss so exaggerated it practically left a vapor trail.

Watching the rage explode behind his eyes like a lit match dropped into a powder keg was the kind of emotional nourishment I desperately needed, especially considering the disaster of a morning I’d had.

Quentin sputtered something—my name paired with some colorful insults, if his lip movements were any indication—but I simply breezed past him without letting even a flicker of interest graze my features.

My body walked forward on autopilot, but my mind slipped back down into the echoing well of memory I rarely allowed myself to peek into willingly.

Saints above, my past. My wretched, tangled, migraine-inducing disaster of a past. It wasn’t just complicated; it was a labyrinth designed by a drunken architect with abandonment issues and a flair for melodrama.

All those years spent in those dark, echoing halls of my childhood home rose in my mind’s eye: every corridor too long, every window too large, every corner holding an argument that had spilled over into the next until the walls themselves felt like they were listening, waiting to remind me of how thoroughly broken everyone inside them had been.

My sister’s distant voice flickered there, threads of laughter woven with fear, while the memory of my mother—gods, my mother—wavered between warmth and the sharp snap of panic.

Then, like a candle flame catching on a dry curtain, another face slipped into that recollection. Tora. That quiet, unimposing boy who’d been assigned as our family’s servant for a short time, always moving silently like he was afraid his footsteps would offend the floor.

I remembered how he used to flinch whenever my father entered a room, how his hands shook when he handed me tea, documents, or whatever errand they’d dumped onto him next.

Little pieces of him returned now—his downcast eyes, the way he spoke in frantic jitters, and the way he seemed to know more about the family business than any servant should.

He had been there shortly before the incident—before that night. Before my mother’s screams ripped through the house, before the sickening wet sound, before the world fractured like cheap glass in a tavern brawl.

Before my father had turned his gaze on me. Before I had been branded, shackled, and sold into the lower layers of the prison-city like a problem to be swept into the sewer system.

My breath grew tight as the image of my father rose unbidden, his eyes cold as winter steel, his voice dripping with that false veneer of nobility he used to hide the beast beneath.

I felt my fists clench on instinct, nails digging into my palms, a molten thread of rage coiling through my veins with such intensity I swore it would scorch through my skin.

I hated him.

I hated him with a pure, refined, distilled venom that made other angers feel childish in comparison. Saints above, I wanted to kill him—rip out his throat, tear his legacy limb from limb, and force-feed him every lie he’d spewed to keep us obedient.

My mother’s blood was on his hands, my sister’s fate lost somewhere in the chaos he orchestrated, and here I was, still dancing around the ashes of his shadow like some pathetic puppet too scared to cut the strings.

And that wasn’t even half the story. There were too many holes in my memory, too many secrets scarred into me in places I couldn’t reach, too many whispers from too many people who seemed to know more about my past than I did.

The weight of it pressed against my ribs, demanding attention I couldn’t afford to give right now. Saints, I hated how I’d been avoiding this truth—how I’d lied to my crew, hid the pieces of my lineage under layers of sarcasm and distraction like it would somehow keep the past from clawing its way out.

If anyone were to find out what I truly was, where I’d come from, who my father was… gods, it would be catastrophic.

But I also knew something unavoidable: I couldn’t keep the truth buried forever. Eventually, sooner or later, I would have to tell them the truth about my past. They deserved that much.

They had risked their lives for me, followed me into battles I barely escaped, and trusted me despite all my evasive nonsense. And when the truth came out—and it would—there would be consequences I wasn’t yet strong enough to face.

My gaze dropped briefly to the floor as the thought tightened like a noose. The High Warden and his escorts knew. Tora knew. And if they had known, who knew how many others could as well? My father had never been the type to leave loose threads lying around. Which meant he was out there, waiting, watching—preparing.

But thinking about it wouldn’t change anything right now. The only thing I could control in this moment was what lay directly ahead: Iskanda’s training.

An hour crawled by—slow, quiet, the kind of hour where your heartbeat seems too loud in your chest and every turn of the hallway feels like it leads deeper into something inevitable. The attendant escorted me through the second floor, down several branching corridors, and finally into the training hall.

Sand stretched across the floor as usual. The air was warm, dry, thick with the faint scent of iron and desert wind, and every grain of sand shifted under my step like it recognized me and was disappointed I’d shown up.

And there she was.

Iskanda stood barefoot in the center again, looking perfectly at home in the sand like some goddess of martial violence sculpted out of discipline and pure intimidation.

Her arms were folded loosely behind her back, her dark hair tied up in a high knot that made the angles of her jaw look even sharper than usual.

Her bare feet were planted firmly, toes pressing into the sand as though she could feel every movement in the room through the ground alone. The faint ripple of muscle beneath her skin glimmered in the light, and her expression was unreadable in that way only people with far too much training and far too much trauma could achieve.

She lifted her head the moment I stepped onto the sand, her eyes glinting with something between amusement, expectation, and the faintest hint of “I’m about to ruin your week.”

“Finally,” she said, her voice carrying effortlessly across the hall. “I was starting to think you’d gotten distracted by something shiny.”

I plastered on my brightest smile as I stepped forward, pretending I hadn’t just spent the entire walk battling the ghosts of my childhood. “Please. If something shiny distracted me, I’d at least bring it with me to show off.”

Her lips twitched—barely—but it was enough to tell me I’d scored a point.

I stepped further into the hall, feeling the sand swallow my feet with each step. The warmth seeped upward through my skin, grounding me despite the chaos still swirling through my chest.

“So,” I said, stretching my arms behind my head with deliberate dramatic flair, “what’s today’s lesson? More punching? More being thrown across the room? More of you pretending it’s all ’training’ when we both know you just enjoy watching me fall on my ass?”

Iskanda gave a low hum as she tilted her head. “No, it’s something else this time.”

I groaned loudly enough to echo off the walls. “Fantastic. Lovely. Because if there’s one thing I absolutely crave in this bleak, misery-ridden existence, it’s surprises. Really. I live for them. They nourish me. They keep my skin youthful. Please—pile them on. My life clearly doesn’t have enough chaos seasoning already.”

She stepped forward then, slow and deliberate, eyes locked onto mine with that predatory focus she wielded like a second weapon.

“Before we begin,” she said, “you seemed… troubled on your way here.”

Damn her. She noticed everything.

I shrugged, letting my expression settle into something casual, maybe even careless. “Just thinking about things that aren’t relevant right now.”

“Mm,” she replied, unmistakably unconvinced.

She stopped just a few steps away from me, so close I could feel the heat radiating off her body, the faint scent of sand and steel lingering in the air between us.

“Whatever it is,” she said, “deal with it. You can’t train half-present. Not if you expect to win what’s coming.”

I opened my mouth to retort—some witty line, something smug or sarcastic to push away the weight pressing on my ribs—but the words didn’t come. Not this time.

So instead, I nodded slowly.

“I know.”

Her gaze softened—fractionally. A tiny shift, almost unnoticeable, unless you’d spent enough time around her to recognize when her walls cracked just a hairline’s worth.

“Good,” she said. “Then let’s begin.”

I inhaled slowly, feeling the sand shift beneath my stance, the warmth of the lanterns prickling across my skin, the ghosts of my past tightening their grip even as I forced them back into the shadows of my mind.

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