I woke up, feeling my nose complain, my ribs ache from where that buffoon had struck me the other day. I saved his life, and now he hates me? I do not understand civvies. Their logic is inconsistent, their gratitude fleeting, their emotions overriding all reason. I must ensure he does not ruin my image among the lower ranks. A single false rumor could spread like rot. And authority, once questioned, can slip further than expected.

I snorted. No, he was unlikely to be a danger now. He was confined to his quarters in B sector until further notice. The colonel had made that clear.

I do not understand why he wasn’t thrown in prison alongside Lieutenant Daniel, but perhaps the colonel saw value in an empty display of mercy, some grand performance of restraint after the execu—after that disgusting display the other day. Either way, he was contained. That was enough.

For now, it was time to tackle the day. I rose, ensuring my bra would not hinder today’s exercises while correcting my hair, which unfortunately always grew rebellious while I slept.

The room was silent except for my breath. I moved with precision, folding my sheets before dressing. Left boot first, then right, always.

My hand hesitated over the drawer.

I shouldn’t. I should just finish getting dressed.

But—what if I could figure it out today?

I opened it carefully, as if touching the photograph too suddenly might shatter whatever meaning it held.

There he was. Father.

The ink had faded over the years, but his expression had not. Unyielding. Powerful. Absolute.

I swallowed against the lump in my throat.

A gift. Proof of her favor. This was the only thing Mother ever gave me.

I always think back to that day. What had I said? What had I done? Why had she given it to me?

I needed to know. Maybe she would reward me again.

My fingers trembled as I traced the corner, careful not to smudge the edges. I had to keep it perfect.

If I won the tournament. If I was publicly praised for discovering the lost mine I knew existed. If I won the mid-year battles. If I won the final battle against the older sleeveless at the end of the year. If I was undeniable, unstoppable—then mother could show me off proudly as her daughter.

Then, and only then, I would earn her favour again.

I slammed the drawer shut and pulled on my shirt, forcing myself to move with the same precision as before.

I crossed the room to the whiteboard, where every B-ranked soldier’s name was listed—notes, strengths, weaknesses, strategies. My private record of their capabilities. I crossed out “definite traitor” under Boris’s name.

Instead, I added “aggressive” under strengths.

I almost crossed out “coward” under weaknesses, but then I remembered the way he had stammered when caught using his nighttime abilities. I decided to leave it as is.

I should prioritize the A ranks, but as Mother would say, a good general plans for every outcome.

So, I would learn the A ranks, master their strengths, memorize their weaknesses. But I would not neglect the B ranks either. They were less defined in my notes than I liked, my limited proximity to them making their observations frustratingly vague. That needed to change.

However, I realized I could kill two birds with one stone. By tracking the strengths and weaknesses of both the B ranks and the A ranks, I would not only refine my understanding of their abilities, but also determine the most effective way to utilize them in service of the brigade.

It was a good plan. A necessary plan.

I had smiled when I first thought of it, and even now, it almost made me smile again.

But I kept the mask on. Like Mother would.

I returned to my study of the A ranks, committing their abilities to memory, tracing their strengths to their inevitable weaknesses. Every power had a flaw—no matter how devastating, no matter how overwhelming. If I could identify those flaws before they did, I would have already won.

I took one last look in the mirror, fixing a loose strand of hair that had fallen into my face. My reflection stared back, clad in a sleeveless black shirt and pants, the same uniform as the rest of the sleeveless. Lieutenant Michael had been thoughtful enough to procure a pair of military boots, ensuring I matched the others. But it still wasn’t right.

I should have been wearing the cloak.

The thought lodged itself in my mind, sharp, unshakable. Every time I looked at my reflection, I felt the same dull disappointment, the same quiet irritation. It wasn’t just about the fabric—it was about what it meant. It was about who I was supposed to be.

But for now, this imitation would have to suffice.

I studied my face carefully, checking my handiwork. I had applied enough makeup to conceal the swelling under my eyes, the bruises that brute had left behind. It would hold—so long as no one looked too closely.

You might be wondering, why had I not gone to the healers?

It was not because I feared them. Not because I sought to prove my endurance. That kind of pain was meaningless. No, there was a reason. A purpose.

Because later—when the moment was right—Selena would see. And she would heal me.

That was the logical choice, of course. I needed her trust, her favor, her loyalty. It had nothing to do with her gorgeous green eyes.

I dismissed the thought as I stepped into the hallway, my footsteps measured, my posture flawless.

Ahead, a group of low-rankers moved toward their mess hall, their idle conversation dying the moment they saw me. As if on instinct, they snapped into formation, pressing themselves against the walls in a long, disciplined line. Their salutes were sharp, their backs straight.

Good.

I held my head high as I passed through their silent reverence, imagining—for a moment—this must be what Mother feels like.

I continued forward, finally reaching the turn toward the high-rankers mess hall. Two low-rankers flanked the entrance, standing at attention as I approached. I nodded to them—a calculated gesture, just enough to acknowledge their discipline without lowering myself.

As I walked down the passage, I slowed my steps. Not consciously. Not on purpose.

And then, as expected, one of them finally spoke.

“Geez, every time I see her, I fall in love.”

Not the reaction I wanted. My face twisted into a scowl, but no one was watching. I let it stay.

“Love? I shit my pants every time I see her,” another muttered. “Why did we have to be in the same year as Alexander’s daughter?”

I lifted my chin slightly, my stride unwavering. Respect. That was what mattered.

“You’re both insane. Do you know how lucky we are? My life is going to be amazing under her, probably even going to get paid more.”

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

Their words grated against me. Not because they were incorrect—I would reward loyalty, I would ensure the lower ranks remained well-fed, well-paid, well-looked after.

But they must never forget their place. A hand that feeds can also take away.

I moved on from eavesdrop—from gathering information. Understanding how my subordinates viewed me was a necessity.

At last, I stepped into the high-rankers’ mess hall. As expected, I was the first to arrive.

The room was spacious, well-lit by the morning sun streaming through tall windows, casting soft golden hues across the polished wooden floors. A single long, empty table sat in the middle of the room, lined with high-backed chairs—comfortable, proper, befitting those of our rank. The air carried the faint aroma of fresh bread and sizzling bacon, and I allowed myself a moment to smell the air, taking it in.

I briefly considered chastising the others. Waking up so late was inexcusable. But I decided against it. I would correct this behavior when it mattered—when we reached the mines, when training truly began.

For now, let them enjoy this brief period of comfort.

Feeling magnanimous, I walked up to the chef behind the counter. Gerald. A B ranker, competent enough, though not without his flaws. He was already sweating, eyes darting to the food in front of him as he slid the tray toward me.

“Here you go, ma’am.” His voice was tight, his posture rigid. He remembered. As he should.

I took the tray and turned away, but the moment I saw the eggs, I stopped.

Too firm.

I spun on my heel, leveling him with a stare. The color drained from his face.

“Gerald.”

His fingers twitched.

“I have told you before. My eggs will be soft. I do not wish to have to tell you a third time. Am I clear?”

I saw the exact moment the words hit. He paled. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “I’m sorry, ma’am! Of course! Right away!” he blurted, scrambling to take the tray from my hands before vanishing into the kitchen.

I waited, arms crossed.

He knew how to make them correctly. He had made them correctly, previously. I had already demonstrated what was expected. So why the mistake?

When he returned, I watched closely as he activated his ability—his hands trembling slightly as the eggs, bacon and toast appeared out of thin air.

I took the tray again, holding eye contact. Then, deliberately, I glanced down, giving the plate a small shake.

The eggs wobbled perfectly.

I nodded once and turned away, already dismissing him from my thoughts. He should have done it correctly the first time, the incompetent.

I carried my tray to the table, seating myself with perfect posture, every movement deliberate.

Through the door, I could hear the others approaching—laughter, chatter, the ease of those who had yet to arrive in my presence.

The moment they stepped inside, the noise died.

One by one, they moved to the counter, collecting their food. No words were exchanged. No lingering conversations continued.

They sat down, filling the seats around me. Selena to my left. Calder, Viktor, and Bongi across from me.

I took a slow, measured bite of food.

This pleased me greatly.

I hid my smile behind the motion, allowing my satisfaction to settle in the space between us.

Respect. That was what mattered.

If they respected me, if they feared me, then my plans would unfold without resistance.

Calder was the first to break the silence.

"Uh, good morning, Sofia," he said, his voice caught between confidence and hesitation. He puffed out his chest, but I noticed the tension in his shoulders.

Like he wanted to take up space and disappear at the same time.

Calder Ashford.

The ability to engulf himself in fire. A powerful A-ranker.

I had observed him closely—closer than he realized. He was faster, stronger when in his flames, nearly unstoppable in close combat. His fire was a double-edged sword, though. He couldn’t wield weapons. Couldn’t hold anything in his hands without turning it to slag.

A flaw. A weakness to exploit.

He was, by far, my biggest threat in the tournament.

"Good morning." I met his gaze, watching. Testing.

He didn’t flinch. Good. Possible second-in-command material.

Bongi spoke next.

"What are you training today?" His eyes flicked around the room, as if scanning for exits.

Bongi Cole. His ability to slip into shadows was deadly powerful, but it came with a very exploitable weakness I could take full effect of in the tournament.

I had yet to confirm whether he could transport weapons when he shifted, but I had to assume he could for his clothes shifted with him.

A natural scout. A perfect ambush specialist. And, if need be, a perfect thief.

"Ability training," I answered, keeping my tone flat.

He shrank away. I felt bewildered, why would he shrink away? I had just answered his question.

"Right..."

Viktor’s voice cut in, heavier than before.

"Are you excited to leave next week? See your mother?"

I turned my attention to him.

Viktor Maddox. The son of Vasili Maddox. I had known him the longest.

His ability seemed unbeatable. Teleportation—like his father.

However, while his father, an S-rank, had no restrictions, Viktor’s A-rank ability came with a limitation: he could only teleport to coins he was holding when he activated his power.

At first, I thought this to be a crippling weakness.

But I had seen him in action. His ability was anything but weak.

He was unpredictable. Fast. Impossible to pin down. The second biggest threat in the tournament after Calder.

"Of course."

Viktor nodded, sighed, then returned to his food. Why did he sigh? Why hadn’t he continued the conversation?

"What happened to your face?" Selena’s voice broke the silence.

I turned to her.

Selena.

The ability to make her body glow, proliferate the room with light seemed undeserving of her A rank status. That was until you realized that the light healed whichever wound it touched, on whomever it touched.

The least dangerous opponent in the tournament. And yet, perhaps the most important subordinate in my brigade.

Her green eyes were sharp, creased with concern. I should answer.

But instead, my gaze lingered—on the soft gold of her hair, the striking emerald of her eyes, the quiet kindness etched into the lines of her smile.

No. Stop.

I forced the thought down. Calder was the better match. His father had served my mother faithfully. A marriage between us would be politically beneficial.

The whole of Kaleidos would benefit from our union.

I realized she was still staring at me, and I almost blushed. Thankfully, the mask stayed on.

"I believed there to be a traitor among the lower ranks. I attempted to apprehend him. He fought to free himself. Thankfully, I was able to make sure that didn’t happen."

They didn't need to know my suspicion was incorrect. Or, well, they could figure it out for themselves.

Everyone at the table stared at me, wide-eyed.

Then, all at once, the flood of questions began. I almost shrank back into the chair—almost. But my spine held rigid.

"Who was it?"

Viktors voice, cutting through the noise.

"Boris." I spat the name. The moment I said it, the questions multiplied.

But unlike the boys, Selena didn’t ask any. She simply looked at me, sheepish. Then, she glanced angrily at the boys, "Shut it."

The boys immediately fell silent. I should have done that. Who is she to upstage me?

Then, after a pause, softer now—

"May I heal you?"

I feigned reluctance, “No.”

By appearing to give in, I would seem magnanimous. Understanding.

That was what the lower ranks wanted—a leader who wasn’t just ruthless, but fair. Now, all I had to do was wait. She would argue. I would reluctantly accept. The others would approve.

And, finally, she would heal me. God, I wished she would hurry. My nose still ached, even half an hour after getting out of bed.

But Selena didn’t argue. She held my gaze for a moment longer, then—slowly—she nodded. Then, without another word, she turned back to her food.

I blinked.

Wait.

No.

That wasn’t how this was supposed to go. Why wasn’t she healing me?

I looked around. No one spoke. They were focused on their food, eating while glancing up, clearly still curious about the buffoon.

I pressed my lips together, forcing myself to focus on my own meal, but suddenly, it tasted like nothing. What had I done wrong? Why wasn't she healing me?

We rose from the table, heading toward the high-rankers’ training area. I kept my steps measured, my posture flawless. But inside, I was furious.

Why hadn’t the interaction gone as planned?

Then, slowly, it clicked. This wasn’t a failure. It was undeniable proof. They respected me so much that they wouldn’t dare argue. She wouldn't dare argue. I held my head high. Let them see me bear the bruises. Let them know I do not break. Yes. This works perfectly.

For I am Alexander’s daughter—and no bruise will perturb me.