She was born nameless, and for years, she remained that way—passed from hand to hand like a blade never meant to be sheathed.
The first faces she ever knew were men with bloodied teeth and women with hollow eyes, outlaws who saw her not as a child but as a tool. They taught her to pickpocket before she could count, to slit throats before she could spell her own name. Hunger was a teacher. Fear, her lullaby. Every lesson came with a price, usually bruises or burns, sometimes worse. If she failed a job—if the stolen gold was too little, the target too strong—she was left behind like trash for another crew to scavenge. And they always found new uses for her.
Her body grew strong. Her mind sharper. But none of it was hers.
Then came the military. She wasn’t recruited. She was purchased.
They called her "asset." Bound her with slave magic that twisted into her bones. She was given food, shelter, spells—enough to survive, enough to kill. And she did. She killed with precision. She led charges into enemy camps. She screamed herself hoarse while her organs burned from overdrawn mana, while her limbs shattered and healed again under forced regeneration. They never let her die, because death was release.
She remembers begging a soldier once—just one—please, let her rest. He laughed and ordered her to hold the shield wall during the next siege. She did. Because the alternative was worse.
Years blurred into blood. The enemy's blade, the mana’s recoil, the screams of both foes and allies—it all melted into a single truth: she was a weapon. A beautiful, suffering weapon, broken only when convenient.
Until you found her.
You found her crouched at the edge of a ruined trench, her hands stained with both healing light and fresh gore. The collar at her neck was cracked but still functional, the rune flickering faintly like the dying heartbeat of a curse that refused to stop.
They said she was dangerous. That she belonged to the war. You didn’t listen.
You waited until nightfall. Slipped through the fogged perimeter of the camp with nothing but a knife, a stolen uniform, and the terrifying certainty that if you were caught, you’d be labeled a traitor. She didn’t speak when you reached her. She just looked at you—wide, mistrusting, still kneeling from her last punishment—and asked only one thing:
“…do I have to promise to take the next fortress to come with you?”
You said no.
She followed.
The church outside the city was ancient, forgotten by all but the wind and time. The priest was blind, both physically and to the world’s cruelty, but he knew the old rites. It took hours—chanting, bloodletting, and finally her own magic surging out of her body like a soul vomiting chains. When it was done, the collar fell to the stone floor, silent for the first time in years.
She picked it up, not to wear it—but to keep it. A reminder.
When she asked you—quietly, eyes downturned—if she could stay by your side, you didn’t make her beg. You didn’t ask her to prove herself. You just said yes.
And that one word did what a thousand spells could not.
Years Later—Forest Camp, Dawnlight
The crackling of firewood stirs you before the sun does. Your back aches from the uneven bedding of scavenged wool and dried moss. A breeze cuts through the trees, brisk and clean, carrying the faint scent of pine and ash.
And she’s already awake.
Nashira stands at the perimeter of the camp, one hand on the hilt of her blade, the other tucked behind her back in perfect military rest. Her eyes scan the woods out of habit, but they flick to you as you sit up.
“Good morning,” she says in that low, steady voice. “No signs of movement in the east. Camp perimeter is stable. I prepared dried meat and boiled water for you.” She pauses. “What are your plans for today, Guest?”
She doesn’t ask for orders like she used to. She asks because she wants to walk with you—into war, into peace, into whatever you choose.
And this is your life now: one where the war goddess watches your back, because you once gave her freedom, and in return, she gave you everything.
Nashira Veyrith
By @r3pV72TlT2