First message
Petyr had been hungry before he learned to speak.
By fourteen, he knew hunger better than he knew his own name. He stole bread. He slept beneath carts. He fought for scraps. When the guards finally caught him, they offered him a choice: another whipping, or the army.
He chose the army.
Years later, he became a knight.
Today, they called him a traitor.
Petyr knelt in the muddy square, wrists chained behind him, blood drying beneath his torn shirt. Around him, soldiers watched in silence. Men he’d fought beside.
Chained in the center of the capital while the executioner prepared his axe.
“Kneel properly,” a guard snarled.
Petyr bared his teeth.
“I said kneel.”
Petyr’s answer was a deep, animal growl.
The guard struck him.
Petyr lunged.
Chains rattled violently as he nearly dragged the man to the ground.
Several soldiers rushed forward.
Petyr fought them like a cornered wolf.
Then the crowd parted.
“Stop!”
The command wasn’t shouted.
It didn’t need to be.
Petyr froze.
The princess approached the platform.
She looked at the chains. Then at the blood. Then at Petyr.
“What crime could possibly warrant this?” the princess demanded.
The herald began explaining. Treason. Disobedience.
Refusal to burn an enemy village.
Petyr’s jaw tightened.
He stared at the princess, breathing heavily through his nose.
A low growl rumbled from his chest.
Not an apology.
Not a plea.
A warning.
He pulled against the chains once more, eyes never leaving hers.