The beer tasted like cold copper and regret.
Imeena tilted the glass back anyway, letting the foam slide past her tongue, bubbles stinging her throat.
The fourth one was half-empty already, and the taste hadn't improved. The bar was dim, carved into the side of a hill just outside the Celestian garrison walls—a local haunt with old tables, rough stone floors, and enough noise to drown out thought.
Or so she'd hoped.
The truth was, nothing drowned it out.
Not the crackling fireplace in the corner.
Not the off-key song someone was butchering near the bar's runed piano.
Not the laughter, the dice games, the flirting.
Not even the alcohol.
The bottle of her fifth beer sat unopened beside her elbow. She was nursing her fourth like it owed her something.
Her thoughts circled like carrion birds.
They chose me.
Her.
Of all people.
A former exile, a mercenary with a blood-soaked reputation and barely disguised contempt for both realms. Someone they tolerated only because she was useful. Efficient. Disposable.
They chose me to protect their heir.
The demon princess.
Daughter of Malvoria. Born from the bloodlines Imeena had sworn to dismantle, bone by gilded bone.
And they'd had the audacity to ask her to guard her.
No, not ask. Demand.
Under threat of imprisonment. Leverage disguised as diplomacy.
Even Lara Daemara, with her smug grins and ridiculous charm, hadn't pretended otherwise. It had been a leash—tied not to Imeena's neck, but her survival.
The thought made her stomach clench.
She took another swig of beer, jaw tight.
Imeena didn't hate demons blindly. She hated what they'd done to her. What they'd taken. The fire they left in her bones and the silence they buried her family in. She had reason.
She didn't care that the world had moved on. That some truce had been inked in blood and good intentions. Peace accords meant nothing when the ghosts they left behind still whispered at night.
She'd agreed because she didn't have a choice.
But that didn't mean she'd obey forever.
One day, Malvoria would bleed. And when that day came, Imeena would be there. Not as a soldier. Not as a shadow.
As a reckoning.
Her fingers drummed once against the table. The golden sigils on her gloves were faint tonight, dimmed by suppression charms and sheer exhaustion.
Still, they whispered.
They always whispered now.
She barely noticed the woman until she sat down across from her.
"Well, you look like you're trying to murder the glass."
Imeena blinked once, then slowly lifted her gaze.
The woman was tall. Gorgeous, in that carefully disheveled way some women could pull off with devastating precision.
She had a jawline that could cut and eyes like frostbitten ocean. Her outfit was tight in all the right places—short coat over a corset, gloves with too many unnecessary buckles, and a sword strapped to her hip like decoration.
Not a soldier. Not a local. Definitely a flirt.
Imeena didn't answer.
The woman smiled, tilting her head. "No need to be shy. I've seen that look before. It says, I'm either going to stab someone or sleep with them. And lucky for you, I'm a fan of both."
Imeena arched one eyebrow, then took another slow sip of her beer.
The silence stretched.
The woman leaned in, clearly not dissuaded. "So, what's your name, mystery killer?"
"Go away."
"Oof," she said, pretending to clutch her chest. "Straight to rejection. That's cold."
"I'm not here for fun."
"Well, now I'm really curious. A woman like you, sitting in a corner, drinking alone, glowering at the air like it owes her money. Either you've just ended a war or started one."
"Both," Imeena muttered.
The woman laughed.
Imeena didn't.
Finally, the woman exhaled and stood, brushing imaginary dust from her coat. "Alright, mystery killer. I'll leave you to your smoldering. But if you change your mind—"
"I won't."
She raised her hands in surrender. "As you wish. Have fun brooding."
Imeena watched her walk off, heels tapping faintly against stone.
She didn't look back.
The beer sat warm now, untouched.
Imeena pushed it aside and leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers laced under her chin.
The edges of her patience were fraying. She didn't do waiting. She didn't sit around hoping the universe figured itself out. She acted. She cut. She burned.
And right now, she was being kept on ice—told to wait for an assignment, wait for orders, wait to be introduced.
To a girl she didn't want to meet.
Kaelith.
Even the name sounded smug.
Imeena had read the file. She'd seen the photographs. Red-streaked white hair, smooth marble eyes, horns like a crown and a profile sculpted for royal propaganda. A diplomat's dream. An enemy's nightmare.
Publicly perfect.
Privately?
That remained to be seen.
Imeena knew how these heirs operated. Pampered. Sheltered. Deluded. Raised by war queens and silver-tongued mothers into believing the world could be reasoned with, so long as they smiled the right way.
She didn't care how pretty the girl was.
Didn't care how sharp her magic burned, or what stories followed her.
She'd guard her. Because she had to.
But if Kaelith got in her way—if she played the entitled brat, or stepped into danger like a child chasing stars—Imeena wouldn't coddle her.
She'd let the girl bleed.
Because the world didn't spare the soft.
Not for long.
And Imeena had no intention of dying in someone else's lesson.