Chapter 1
I rescued a boy from a pile of corpses and named him Chris.
He was clingy, cheerful, and always calling after me, "Ms. Serrano."
But later, on the battlefield, his sword pierced my chest. He said his name was Christopher Warner, and he had come to avenge his beloved—my younger sister.
As I fell from the city wall, I realized that trying to warm something cold could scorch me just the same.
What I couldn't have known was that, three years after my death, he would lead a million-strong army to my city, bowing to my empty grave, begging me to return.
*****
The stench of blood mixed with the earthy tang of dirt, invading my nose.
I was Liliana Serrano, General of the North of Dravonland.
The brutal fight had just ended, and I was leading my own men to clear the field.
The sunset bled across the sky, spilling blood-red light over the mess everywhere.
"Ms. Serrano, there's still someone alive over here," Harvey called out.
I looked over and saw Harvey Hall, my second-in-command, pointing at a pile of bodies.
From the heap, a hand twitched slightly.
I walked over and started moving the corpses off him.
It was a boy, maybe seventeen or eighteen.
He was wearing the uniform of an Aurethland soldier, with a gash across his chest so deep it nearly exposed the bone, blood still seeping out.
His face was surprisingly clean. Even with blood smeared across it, I could still make out his refined, attractive features.
I checked his breathing. It was weak, but he was still clinging to life.
Harvey frowned. "Ms. Serrano, he's from Aurethland. Might as well put him out of his misery."
Mercy had no place on the battlefield.
I gave a low grunt and drew my blade from my belt.
The blade was icy, catching the pale light of the boy's face.
As I was about to bring the blade down, his lashes suddenly quivered, and he managed to crack his eyes open.
His eyes were a striking amber, but now they were glazed, no longer holding my reflection.
He stared at me, his lips moving soundlessly.
My hand paused mid-air, blade still raised.
His eyes were so clear.
Honestly, it was too clean for a soldier who'd survived this blood-soaked hell.
Something inside me shifted. Almost as if possessed, I put my blade away.
"Bring him back." I gave the order and turned away.
Harvey paused briefly, but said nothing. He signaled for the men to take the boy away.
I didn't know why I'd saved an enemy.
Maybe after all this endless fighting, my heart needed a touch of softness to warm it.
Even if it was just a whim.
The boy was carried back to my tent.
The medic patched him up, gave him some medicine, and said the rest was up to him now.
I didn't give him another thought. With everything else on my plate, I quickly put the whole thing out of my mind.
Three days later, I was hunched over the sand table, mapping out our next moves, when one of my men came to report that the boy had finally woken up.
After I finished what I was doing, I remembered to go check on him.
As soon as I stepped into the tent, I caught a faint whiff of medicine in the air.
The boy was propped up on the bed, wearing one of our Dravonland tunics, which made him look even more frail.
When he saw me enter, he flinched a little, his amber eyes full of wariness and confusion.
"Who are you?" he croaked, his voice hoarse and scratchy.
"The one who saved you," I answered curtly.
"Where am I?" he asked.
"Dravonland, Yancrest Pass," I replied.
He frowned, his face blank with confusion.
"I don't remember," he whispered. "I can't recall anything."
The medic had said he'd injured his head. He might be suffering from amnesia.
I looked at him, feeling nothing in particular.
"What's your name?" I asked.
He shook his head, his gaze turning even more helpless.
He was just some Aurethland kid with no memory. The easiest thing would've been to finish him off or toss him out and let him die on his own.
I looked at his clear eyes and delicate features, silent for a moment.
"Alright, from now on, your name's Chris," I told him.
Just made it up on the spot.
He stared at me in a daze, then nodded quietly.
"Chris..." he repeated, like he was trying to make the name stick in his mind.
"Thank you," he looked up at me, offering a weak smile.
That smile was clean, full of relief after surviving the ordeal.
My heart gave a little jolt at that smile.
"Focus on healing. We'll talk about the rest later," I said, then turned and walked out.
I left him with those words and walked out.
I kept telling myself I was only letting him stay because he had amnesia. He couldn't possibly be a threat.