"Lady Nessa," Logan and Landen, the L twins had matching solemn expressions, saluted in unison, fists thudding against their chests as Nessa passed by.

She was flanked by two other bodyguards, young boys she had managed to win over to her side. They were nearing their destination. Soon, they would arrive. Glancing over her shoulder, Nessa saw the long trail of two dozen torches snaking through the Peklo Forest, like an ant procession marching toward an enemy nest.

"How much longer until we arrive?" Nessa asked, turning her gaze forward.

Ahead of them, scouts were carefully sweeping the ground with long sticks, keeping their torches high to spot any hidden dangers—particularly the recent release of venomous snakes that had made traversing the forest even deadlier.

"Not far, Lady Nessa," Logan replied, his voice flat.

Landen, speaking in eerie synchronization with his brother, added, "We’ll be at the Gates of Hell soon."

The twins’ eyes, once full of youthful mischief, now looked hollow—dead inside. Logan bore a massive scar on his face, a grim reminder of the forest’s cruelty, and it was now easier to tell the two apart. Peklo had stolen what little innocence remained in the children who wandered its treacherous paths. They had seen too much. Done too much wrong.

A shout from one of the scouts ahead made everyone freeze, tension rippling through the line. But a moment later, his companion waved back, calling out a "false alarm," much to the group’s collective relief. The scouts were on high alert, searching for snakes—new, venomous ones.

Nessa had ordered her villagers to identify the corpse of one of the snakes after it had cost them three lives. None of them had been able to name the creature. They had claimed it was a new species, unlike anything they'd ever encountered. Was it the work of the Order? She had wanted to ask her sponsor, but there was no way to contact them. At times, their sponsors would drop gifts—manuals, weapons, supplies. The intention was always clear: they wanted bloodshed.

And this time, Nessa had a reason to give it to them.

As they continued their march through the dense forest, Nessa called out to a girl in the same standard-issue leather armor worn by the Queen's Hand.

"Priscilla, come here!" Nessa’s voice cut through the crackle of footsteps. A girl broke away from the line, jogging up to the front. Her hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, her bright eyes sharp and attentive. As she caught up, she saluted Nessa and fell into step beside her, trailing in the shadow of the Lady of the West Forest.

"Any news from the Iron Hearts?" Nessa asked without turning her head.

"No, milady," Priscilla replied, her voice steady but with a subtle quiver betraying her nerves. "The last message we received from one of their runners said the Divine Snake Cult hasn’t been seen leaving the Gates of Hell. They should still be inside."

Nessa glanced at her, offering a brief smile. "Are you nervous?" she asked, her tone soft but probing.

Priscilla hesitated, her eyes flickering with uncertainty. "May I be honest, Lady Nessa?" she asked, biting her lip.

"You may."

"Isn’t that creature you mentioned part of this Cult?" Priscilla asked, her voice dropping to almost a whisper as she struggled with the words, as if speaking them might summon her worst fear. "What if... Ghost comes and—"

“Most stories are exaggerated Cilla. Even those of Ghost. He is not alone and this time we have brought more people. Trained in basic martial arts, Ghost is just another one like us. Kidnapped just like the rest of us, he started just as the same us,” Nessa replied, speaking louder, noticing a few in the ranks had the same concerns.

Ghost, thought Nessa. She hadn’t expected things to escalate this far.

The sponsor had left gifts in the forest where they could be found—manuals, weapons, supplies. No one knew exactly how or who delivered them; many said it was likely the supervisors once a sponsor wanted to send something. From her observations, Nessa had come to understand one crucial thing: resources from sponsors were scarce. Clearly, they too were bound by restrictions set by the Order, which made any offering precious.

That’s why she had taken the note seriously.

It had been left beside her bed inside the Queen’s Hand fortress, tucked away where only she would find it.

‘Eyes. Boy. Danger.’

Three words. Three words to describe Aziz. She had nearly forgotten about him, but the note reignited the memory like a spark catching dry kindling. Words, it seemed, were even more precious and costly for the sponsors than weapons or manuals.

The sponsor was warning her. Stay away from Aziz.

To protect her own people, she had woven the story of the Ghost, hoping to ward them off from the southern forest, where he hid behind the Gates of Hell. She hadn’t expected the story to take on a life of its own, nor for Aziz to live up to the terrifying legend she’d created.

“Something concerns me more than Ghost, Priscilla,” said Nessa.

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The ground of the southern forest had softened underfoot, their boots beginning to sink into the spongy soil as they marched. Priscilla waited quietly, her curiosity piqued. The L twins and Nessa’s two bodyguards encircled them protectively, their eyes scanning the shadows around them.

“At the same time Raven’s supply lines were attacked, so were ours,” Nessa continued, her voice thoughtful. “He had as much reason to march as we do. Yet he didn’t.”

Priscilla’s expressive eyes widened slightly, trying to piece together what the Lady was implying. That was why Nessa liked her—the girl always asked the right questions, allowing Nessa to articulate her thoughts more clearly.

“But Master Raven is dealing with the revolt at Star King’s camp, isn’t he?” Priscilla ventured. “Besides, if we win against the Divine Sn—”

Nessa raised an eyebrow, stopping her mid-sentence.

“Once we do win against the Cult,” Priscilla corrected herself quickly, lowering her voice. “Raven said he received word from his sponsor that should be enough deaths to finish the test.”

“Yes, that is what he said,” Nessa muttered, adjusting her martial robes. She dressed like the others, with no distinguishing marks of rank or nobility. It was best not to stand out—better to blend in with her comrades, to look like one of them. They weren’t noble children in the palace anymore. Here, jealousy and envy could fester easily. It was wiser to lead from among them.

“You don’t believe him?” Priscilla asked, twiddling her thumbs nervously behind her back.

“I don’t believe anyone in this forest,” replied Nessa, her voice low and cautious.

***

They had were not far from the edge of the forest. Landen had advised that the group should rest before going straight to the Gates of Hell, to which Nessa conceded.

Looking out over the camp they had quickly resurrected, Nessa couldn’t help but notice the atmosphere. There was tension in the air. It was their first big outright campaign and many were nervous. They didn’t have the madness of Roof or the the great mind of Raven, playing behind the scenes. They had her. Nessa Von Sherman.

The campfire crackled, casting flickering shadows against the trees. The men of the Queen's Hand sat around it, some sharpening their weapons, others passing a flask back and forth, trying to shake off the biting cold of the southern forest. Nessa moved among them like a breeze, a soft, almost imperceptible presence that, somehow, demanded attention without ever raising her voice.

She leaned against a tree, arms crossed, watching as her men spoke in low voices, their gazes flicking to her every now and then—stolen glances, furtive and unsure. It was no secret that some of them wondered why they followed her. A girl. A noble girl. A woman. But Nessa had learned long ago that power, real power, was not in brute strength alone. Power was subtle. Like poison. Like silk.

"Logan," she called out softly, her voice barely rising above the fire's crackle. The man, sitting cross-legged near the edge of the camp, looked up, startled. He had been trying to stay unnoticed, one of the many peasants brought into the chaos of the Peklo Forest. His scarred face was a reminder of the cruelty of this place, yet Nessa saw the doubt behind his eyes.

"Come here," she smiled, beckoning him over with a gentle curl of her fingers. It wasn’t a request—it never was—but Logan would never say it felt like a command either. He rose, moving toward her like a moth drawn to a flame.

"Yes, Lady Nessa?" His voice cracked a little, caught between respect and uncertainty.

She reached out, brushing a stray leaf from his shoulder with a tenderness that made the men around the fire stop what they were doing. The gesture was delicate, but deliberate—fingers just barely grazing his skin as she smiled. The warmth of her touch—of her attention—left him standing straighter, his chest puffing out slightly, despite himself.

"You've been quiet tonight. Is something troubling you?" she asked, her voice light and sweet as honey. Her eyes, though, were sharp—always sharp—piercing right through him.

Logan shifted on his feet, trying to steady his breath. "Just... thinking about the mission, milady. About Ghost. And what might be waiting for us at the Gates of Hell."

Nessa tilted her head slightly, letting her hair cascade over one shoulder in a way that she knew made men pause, their words getting caught in their throats. She reached out, resting a hand on his forearm, feeling the tension in his muscles.

"I trust in your strength, Logan," she whispered, just for him, though loud enough that the others around the fire could hear the softness in her tone. "You’ve faced worse than this, haven’t you? Ghost is just another man... and we have each other. That's all we need." Her words were slow, deliberate, letting the intimacy of the moment settle between them like a comforting blanket.

Logan’s face flushed, not from the cold but from something else. "Yes, milady. You're right."

She let her hand linger on his arm for a moment longer, enough to make him feel seen, important. Then she stepped away, brushing past him, the faintest scent of lavender lingering in the air as she moved to the fire, settling beside another one of her soldiers—a younger boy this time, barely old enough to grow stubble on his chin.

"How about you, Eryk?" she asked, her voice sweet again. "You’ve been awfully quiet."

Eryk blinked, clearly not expecting her attention, shifting uncomfortably under her gaze. His eyes darted between Logan and the others, as if asking why she had singled him out. She could see the fear, the uncertainty, lingering in his expression.

"I—uh—I'm fine, Lady Nessa," he stammered, not quite sure where to look.

Nessa smiled, that soft, disarming smile she always used to melt the tension. She reached over, tucking a stray lock of hair behind his ear—just like she might do to a younger brother. The gesture was gentle, but it made his face flush crimson in an instant.

"Good," she said, her voice a warm purr. "Because I need you strong, Eryk. I need all of you strong. Can I count on you?"

Eryk nodded quickly, his voice caught in his throat as he mumbled a "yes" that came out barely above a whisper.

She rose to her feet, stepping back toward the fire, letting the light dance across her face, the shadows playing at the edge of her expression—part mysterious, part maternal, part untouchable. The men, even those who had tried to ignore her before, were now watching, each of them caught somewhere between admiration, lust, and reverence.

Nessa wasn’t naïve. She knew what she was doing. These boys were driven by more than just survival; they were driven by the need to feel important, needed, and wanted. They would fight harder for her, not because she commanded them with an iron fist, but because she made them believe they were more than just disposable pawns in this twisted game. They mattered to her. And that, in this brutal forest, was more valuable than any sword or shield.

She let her gaze sweep across the camp, catching the eyes of every man around the fire. A smile tugged at the corners of her lips. "We will make it through this, together," she said, her voice wrapping around them like silk. "Because I believe in each and every one of you."

And with that, the men nodded, their faces hardening with newfound resolve. She had done it. They would follow her into the Gates of Hell without hesitation. Not because she was the strongest, but because she had made them believe they were.