And I began to wonder if submission—true submission, freely given—might finally be my way out, instead of my cage.
And for the first time in four lives, Seris's memory hesitated.
Three months later, the Warlord's favorite warhorse snapped a leg mid-charge. His second-in-command defected with half the army. A fever took his voice for two weeks—just long enough for rival clans to circle.
I looked up at him. My child's voice came out steady, almost serene.
His eyes narrowed. Suspicion. But also hunger. He had conquered a hundred clans, and every chieftain had begged, fought, or fled. None had simply… knelt.
You know what comes next, Seris's memory whispered.