"Don't even breathe," the voice hissed. Cold. Sharp. "One twitch and I'll carve that royal crest right out of your throat."
I didn't need to move to feel the steel. The blade was pressed hard against my neck, biting into the skin. My back was slammed against a damp stone wall, wrists bound tight with rope that smelled like old sweat and brine.
I blinked. My head felt like it'd been put through a blender. Vision swimming in jagged shards of gold and gray. This wasn't my office. This wasn't the Manhattan high-rise where I spent my days dismantling the egos of Fortune 500 CEOs.
"Who the hell are you?" I croaked.
My voice sounded wrong. Higher. Thinner. It trembled in a way that made me want to punch myself in the face.
"Who am I?" The man laughed. A dry, rattling sound. He stepped closer, bringing the scent of cheap tobacco and rusted iron with him. "I'm the one making sure the Regent gets his wish. A dead princess is a lot easier to manage than a living one, isn't it, Sloane?"
Sloane. That was my name. But it wasn't *my* name.
I closed my eyes, fighting the vertigo. Memories that didn't belong to me crashed in like a tidal wave—a golden palace, a father who looked at me with pure disgust, and a title that felt more like a death sentence than a privilege. I was a princess. A disgraced, powerless exile in a world where 'Mental Frequency' decided if you were a god or a dog.
Right now, I was the dog.
"Stop shaking," he snapped, pressing the blade deeper. A thin line of heat blossomed on my skin. "You're pathetic. No wonder they threw you in the dirt. You can't even hold a basic frequency. You're a void. A nothing."
I stopped shaking. Not because the fear was gone—my heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird—but because the strategist in me just woke up.
If I was a 'void,' I was a blank canvas. And in my world, the person who controls the narrative wins.
"You're nervous," I said. My voice was suddenly steady. I didn't look at the knife. I looked straight into his eyes. Bloodshot. Pupils dilated. He wasn't just a killer; he was on edge.
"Shut up," he spat. He shifted his weight. Just an inch.
"You're not doing this for the Regent," I continued. I dropped my tone—the one I used to make clients confess their darkest secrets. Low. Calm. Intimate. "You're doing this because you're terrified he'll find out you failed the first time. You're not a pro. You're just a desperate man trying to buy his way back into a grace that doesn't exist."
"I said shut up!"
"Is that why your hand is shaking?" I leaned forward, letting the knife nick me. I didn't flinch. "You can't even keep your grip. You're terrified of me. Why? Because I'm a 'nothing'? Or because you know that if you kill me now, you're just a murderer with zero leverage?"
He snarled and yanked me forward by my hair, slamming my forehead into the wall. White light exploded. Metallic blood filled my mouth, but I didn't stop.
"You think you're smart?" he screamed, face inches from mine. I could see the pores in his skin, the sheer panic in his gaze. "You're a piece of trash in a silk dress!"
"And you're a dog on a leash," I whispered, smiling through the blood. "And the leash is getting tighter, isn't it?"
I didn't have a frequency, but I had a PhD in psychological warfare. I reached into that void—the 'nothing'—and instead of pushing power out, I pulled.
I mirrored his breathing. Matched the frantic rhythm of his heart. Then, I dropped my own frequency to a dead, hollow silence.
A sensory vacuum. For a split second, the world vanished for him. The noise, the light, the pressure—gone.
He gasped. His grip slackened for a heartbeat.
That was all I needed.
I slammed my head back into his nose with everything I had. *Crunch.* He howled, the knife slipping from his hand and clattering onto the stone.
I didn't wait. I threw my weight backward, twisting my bound wrists. The rope was old, frayed by the damp. I grated the fibers against a sharp edge of the stone wall, sawing frantically.
"You bitch!" he roared, clutching his shattered nose. Blood sprayed between his fingers as he lunged for my throat.
I rolled. Clumsy in this smaller body, but the adrenaline was screaming. I snatched the knife from the floor—cold, slick hilt—and sliced the remaining threads on my wrists in one jagged motion.
I swung the blade up, catching him across the forearm.
He screamed, stumbling back. I scrambled to my feet, chest heaving, the knife shaking in my hand. I wasn't just fighting for my life. I was fighting for the only thing I had left: control.
"Get out," I breathed, pointing the blade at the door. "Get out before I find out where you sleep."
He looked at me. Not with hate, but confusion. He didn't understand how a 'void' could fight back. He scrambled up and bolted.
I sank to my knees, the adrenaline crashing. My hands were shaking violently. I looked at my palms—small, pale, bruised. This body was a disaster. No power, no allies, and a hit list with my name at the top.
"Great," I muttered, wiping blood from my lip. "Welcome to the new job, Sloane. The benefits suck."
I started to stand when the heavy iron door at the end of the corridor groaned open.
It wasn't the killer coming back.
Footsteps echoed. Slow. Deliberate. Heavy boots on stone. Each thud felt like a heartbeat in the silence.
I pressed myself against the wall, clutching the knife, forcing my breathing to steady.
A man stepped into the sliver of light.
Tall. Dangerously so. Shoulders that filled the doorway. He wore a black military uniform forged in shadow, a silver cloak shimmering with an oppressive energy. His face was a mask of cold precision: sharp jaw, eyes like frozen steel.
This wasn't a guard. This was the High Guard. Kael.
He didn't look at the blood on the floor. He looked straight at me.
He didn't reach for a weapon. He just tilted his head, his eyes narrowing as if he were reading a book I didn't know I was writing.
"The void is gone," he said. His voice was a low, resonant rumble that vibrated in my bones. "You're not shaking. You're not pleading. And you're holding that knife like someone who's actually used one."
I tightened my grip, masking my face. "I'm a fast learner."
Kael stepped closer. The air thickened. I felt a pressure pushing against my chest, a mental weight so heavy it nearly forced me to my knees. Raw, unfiltered power.
He stopped inches from me. I could smell cedar and cold rain. He reached out, tilting my chin up with one gloved finger. The contact felt like an electric shock.
"Who are you?" he whispered, his gaze piercing through every lie I'd ever told. "Because the princess I was assigned to guard was a coward. And you... you're something else entirely."