Chapter 5

Miu’s POV

This is it. It will be my last day at the restaurant. Finally, I had earned enough to leave the city, enough to float until I found the next job.

I swung the restaurant’s back door open, but a voice stopped me.

“Hey! Miu. Wait!”

I froze. One of the other waiters jogged up, slightly out of breath.

“I know you’ve been taking all those extra hours… you said you needed the extra cash.”

“Yeah? Why?” I asked, adjusting the envelope of my salary onto my bag.

He scratched the back of his head, looking nervous but excited. “I’ve got this side gig… a catering service. There’s a charity event tomorrow on the outskirts. They need more people. Good pay too. Thought you might be interested.”

“How much?” I asked, already calculating if it was worth the effort.

“Twenty per hour. And I heard there’ll be… big people there. Might get some huge tips on the side,” he added with a grin.

I smirked. Not bad. “Send me the info. I’ll meet you there.”

“Done,” he said, already turning away.

I stepped out of the restaurant, the night air cool against my skin. I didn’t have anything else planned—just a few things to pick up for the ride. Supplies. Fuel. Enough to disappear again.

I reached into my bag for my keys.

Then I stopped.

I wasn’t alone.

You don’t survive as long as I have without learning the difference between silence and watched silence. The hair at the back of my neck prickled. My steps slowed, casual on the surface, alert underneath.

I didn’t head straight for my car.

If the Ducaines had found me, they already knew it doubled as my shelter. Which meant there was a good chance someone was waiting inside—quiet, patient, ready.

So I walked past it.

Kept my pace even. Normal. As if I hadn’t noticed a thing.

And prayed I was wrong.

Because if I wasn’t… tonight wouldn’t end with me driving away.

I ducked behind a stack of crates, heart hammering. The streetlights flickered, casting half-shadows over the alley. My mind raced. Think, Miu. Think.

I scanned the area. A movement in the shadows caught my eye. Two of them. Then three more. They fanned out, cutting off the exits. I swallowed, forcing my fear down. Okay… use your head. Don’t panic.

I darted between shadows, keeping low. But there were too many. Too fast. They closed in. Before I could react, a strong arm grabbed my wrist, yanking me into the alley wall.

“Finally,” a deep voice hissed. “Didn’t think you’d make it out easy, did you?”

I twisted, elbowing him hard, but he held me tight. My legs kicked, my mind spinning. Stay calm. Find a gap.

“I’m never coming back to that shithole,” I spat, hissing in defiance.

The man chuckled darkly. “But Marcus says otherwise.”

I froze. That name. Marcus. One of the Ducaines’ higher-ups. Shit.

He leaned closer, smirking. “Funny girl, aren’t you? Always thinking you’re smarter than you are.”

“I am smarter,” I hissed back. “And you’re about to find out just how wrong you are if you underestimate me.”

He laughed again, tightening his grip. I could feel the strength in his hold—but I’d been training my reflexes for moments like this. My eyes darted around, catching a loose chain hanging from a nearby gate and a tipped-over crate just behind him.

“As a woman… strength alone will never be enough. You must find ways to compensate for that…” Mother’s voice echoed in my mind.

With a sharp twist, I rammed my elbow into his ribs, spinning to the side. The chain I had grabbed swung with me, wrapping around his arm and yanking him off balance. He stumbled, grunting.

The others lunged, but I was already sliding under the nearest one’s swing, grabbing a loose brick and hurling it at another. It hit him square in the shoulder, making him stagger. I rolled across the alley, using the fallen crates as cover, springing back up with my fists ready.

One guy tried to tackle me from the side. I ducked, caught his wrist, twisted it sharply, and shoved him into a pile of empty barrels. The barrels clattered, knocking him out cold.

Another charged. I ducked, kicked a rusted pipe under his feet, sending him sprawling, then vaulted over him, landing behind a dumpster to catch my breath for a heartbeat.

The first guy recovered, swinging wildly. I grabbed a chain dangling from the gate again, yanking it as he came close—his momentum threw him into the wall, dazed.

Breathing hard, I scanned. They were scattered, groaning, trying to regroup. Perfect. I struck next—quick, precise, each move aimed at crippling their balance, not just landing hits. A kick to the knee, a twist of a wrist, a sharp jab to the temple—one by one, they fell.

When it was over, the alley was quiet except for their groans. I leaned against the wall, sweat mixing with the cuts along my arms. My heart pounded like a drum. I had survived—again—but tonight had been a reminder: I couldn’t let my guard down, not for a second.

And in that moment, it hit me again—Mother’s words, carved deep into the corners of my mind… that night, the one thing she asked of me.

Survive.

—-

Months before my sixteenth birthday…

Even as preparations were underway for my declaration as Crowned Prince, the kingdom itself was quietly unraveling beneath my father’s rule. The crown being forged for my head could not mend a realm already cracking at its foundation.

I was making my way to my chambers when the murmurs of a conversation drifted from the throne room, stopping me in my tracks.

The throne room rang with forced merriment—music, clinking goblets, laughter that did not belong in a place meant for governance. My father lounged upon his throne, gold and silk draped over him like mockeries of royalty, wine staining his lips as though he drank to drown out the world beyond these walls.

“Your Majesty…”

The King’s right hand knelt at the foot of the dais, head bowed so deeply his forehead nearly brushed the cold stone. His voice trembled—not from weakness, but from fear born of honesty.

“This is not a laughing matter. Duke Christian’s mark of rebellion had already swayed too many people on his side..”

A hush fell over the courtiers. Some avoided my father’s gaze. Others stiffened, as if the truth itself might strike them down.

“Please,” the man continued, gathering what little courage he had left, “you must find a way to—”

His plea was cut short by a peal of maniacal laughter.

My father threw his head back, the sound echoing obscenely against marble pillars and vaulted ceilings. He lifted his golden goblet, swirling its contents lazily before taking another indulgent sip.

“What is it you fear so much?” he scoffed, wiping wine from his mouth with the back of his hand. “This city—and this castle—are guarded by hundreds of knights who have pledged their loyalty to me.”

He set the goblet down with a careless clink, the drink sloshing dangerously close to the rim.

“Even if a rebellion were to rise…” His lips curled into something grotesque. “Just kill them all.”

More laughter followed—louder, crueler—while his hand seized the face of one of the women draped against him, fingers digging into her cheek as if she were nothing more than another ornament in his court.

The knight did not speak again.

Little did my father know that this warning—this desperate plea—was the only one fate would grant him.

The next time his right hand would enter the throne room, it would not be to beg.

It would be to deliver the news that the rebellion was no longer a distant whisper.

It was already on its way.

And in the winter of my sixteenth year… that was when the war finally came.