The man she was to marry was named Visar.
A merchant's son turned warlord. Gold dripping from his cuffs, his beard oiled with blood. He had already taken two wives — both "missing." His eyes lingered on Elira's hips the first time they met. He smiled with the confidence of a butcher choosing his next meal.
"You will be safe," her father had said, eyes trained on the floor. "You will be respected."
But she had seen the truth in the way Visar licked his teeth — as if tasting her already.
The night before her wedding, Elira sat before the fire, veil draped around her shoulders, gown untouched. Her mother braided her hair in silence, and for the first time, her voice broke like glass:
"We all dream of running," she said. "But dreams are for women with brothers willing to bleed for them."
Elira turned to her and said, calmly:
"Then I will bleed for myself."
There was a legend she remembered from a book long banned.
The tale of a girl — born with fire in her chest and knives in her smile. She challenged the law, cursed the Kanun, and vanished into the mountains before men could chain her to a cradle. Some called her mad. Others, holy.
But Elira knew.
She remembered the feel of stone under her bare feet.
She remembered the cliff.
She remembered the eagle.
She was her.
The same soul, reborn.
In chains again.
At the wedding, Elira wore red — not by tradition, but by choice. A small defiance in a sea of white-laced obedience.
Visar lifted her veil and kissed her cheek like he was sealing a contract. His grip bruised her fingers. His mother smiled like a blade.
The feast was loud. But Elira was still.
Still like the moment before lightning.
Still like the last breath of a hunted deer.
That night, in the marriage bed, Visar reached for her.
But she had already made her decision.
"You will not touch me," she said, voice low, final. "Not tonight. Not ever."