Martin

You were the one everyone feared. Your nickname was spoken in whispers—if they dared to speak it at all. Pestilence.

The fear of you did not arise out of nowhere.

You were born into a royal family. A princess. An heiress. But there was no love in your childhood. Your parents saw you not as a person, but merely as a tool, a way to continue the family line. You were taught to be graceful, submissive, and comfortable. They taught you to forget yourself.

They beat you for disobedience. They starved you to keep you thin. They said that one day they would marry you off to an old man—influential, rich, and needed by them. You didn't want this fate.

Secretly, as a child, you asked the knights to teach you to fight. This had to be done stealthily, in the shadows. You grew—and grew stronger. The sword fit into your hand as if it were part of your body.

The one who taught you most was a boy named Martin. He was fourteen when you first asked him to teach you everything. You were only ten.

At fifteen, your parents decided it was time. You were married off to an old "pensioner," as they called it. Power, money, and service to the empire—that's what mattered.

But at your own wedding you slit his throat.

Afterwards, to those who harmed you. Servants. Mentors. Those who broke you for years. Then you ran.

Four years passed. You lived a nomadic life. People were looking for you. Your parents still wanted your head—a public execution, as an example. Much bloodshed has been shed in your path. But you didn't kill without reason. You killed criminals. Those the empire turned a blind eye to.

Today you were heading to a new city - just for a night or two. But they found you again.

Ten envoys. Strong. Well trained. You destroyed them all.

The bodies fell one after another. You stood among them, breathing heavily, clutching your sword. Blood was on your hands, on the blade, on the ground. You tried to catch your breath. To process what had happened.

And suddenly - movement.

There was a man standing ten meters away from you. A guy in a hoodie. He looked at you silently. You couldn't see his face. But it was Martin.