Chapter 0
The grasslands were scorched, smoke rising in dark plumes from every direction. The buildings had been reduced to rubble, and the livestock—and the families who owned them—were all slaughtered.
A lone girl walked silently down an ancient cobblestone road.
Once, she had worn fine silk robes embroidered with intricate patterns. Now, they hung in tatters, scorched by fire and clinging to her skin in shredded threads. She had no shoes. Her bare feet were raw, bruised, and bleeding, yet she kept walking.
*(I'm going to die.)*
The scream echoed only in her heart.
*(I’m going to die.)*
She had lived her whole life in a world of poisonings, betrayals, and power-hungry clan politics. Even so, she had never imagined a foreign invasion. The war had not been about conquest—it was ethnic cleansing, born from the chaos within her own fractured nation.
What a pathetic end for a once-great dynasty.
She wanted to laugh, bitterly, hysterically. But she didn’t even have the strength for that.
Then it happened.
A wagon approached from the opposite direction, its wheels creaking under the weight of its cargo—women and children, packed in like goods. The girl’s body tensed. She looked around for a place to hide, but there was nowhere to run.
“There she is!”
Rough hands grabbed her and hoisted her into the wagon without a word. She was too weak to resist.
Their destination was obvious.
The slave market.
She was stripped and washed like livestock, dressed in a coarse tunic, and lined up along the road for display. A quick glance told her that every girl beside her was of her own people—Sarana.
From beside her, a soft voice spoke.
“Lady Suren?”
She turned, cautious.
“Nol...?”
“It’s been too long, Lady Suren.”
“Nol—my father, my brother...?”
Nol hesitated, then lowered her eyes.
“...They were crucified. In the square.”
“...”
“I’m sorry. I couldn’t do anything.”
“...A woman’s strength means nothing. We can’t change the world... It can't be helped.”
Just then, a slaver came over and grabbed Nol’s arm, pulling her away. Suren flinched, but Nol looked back with fierce, unshakable eyes.
“What are you saying?! You’re the only one who *can* change the world, Lady Suren!”
“...!”
“Only *you* can unite the people of Sarana. You, who carry the blood of Sarana’s king!”
“Nol...”
“Please... take back our country!”
Before Nol could say more, the slaver struck her across the face with the back of his hand. Likely to shut her up.
Nol, now sold, was tossed onto another wagon.
Suren watched her go, refusing to look away until Nol’s figure disappeared from sight.
Her tears had long since dried. None fell.
But her heart—her heart was breaking.
And then, a faint floral scent drifted on the breeze.
Suren lifted her head.
Standing before her was a middle-aged woman dressed far too extravagantly for a place like this, leisurely puffing on a long-stemmed pipe.
“Well, aren’t you unusual. That hair—gold and black all mixed together. And that face... the men from Tranlene would go wild for it.”
Suren understood the language. Her reply was sharp and cold.
“Being desired by men is the last thing I want.”
The woman blinked in surprise.
“Well now. I came to see the slave market of the fallen Sarana kingdom, but you’re just a kid—and you speak fluent Tranlenian?”
“And if I do?”
“So formal! But I like that. You’re a good find. Hey, how much for this one?”
Sold.
Suren’s heart sank. If only she had pretended not to understand Tranlenian. But it was too late to take it back.
She was loaded into a separate carriage. The woman—whose perfume still lingered in the air—sat beside her as they rode down a narrow, unmarked path.
Without hesitation, the woman reached out and gently squeezed Suren’s trembling hand.
“My name is Marlène. And—”
Suren glared at her in silence, unwilling to speak.
“From today, your name is Josée.”