The frost outside the Monroe estate sliced like glass under the morning sun—deceptive, beautiful, lethal. Ramona knew cold. Cold crept beneath fabric, crystallized marrow, and locked every joint in a slow, suffocating death.
A draft slipped through the window seams, smelling of wet pine.
Ramona stared into the towering mirror. Twenty-four years old. The imperial court saw courtly beauty; Ramona saw scars. Her long black hair framed high cheekbones and pale, luminous skin against dark velvet. But her eyes shattered the fragile illusion—the steady, predatory eyes of a veteran who had measured the exact volume of blood a human body could lose before total collapse.
She twisted behind her back, tearing at the final clasp of her bone-reinforced corset. The garment groaned, releasing her ribs.
She inhaled violently. Air flooded her lungs like dry fire.
"Much better." She dropped the cage onto a velvet chair with a dull thud.
"My lady!" Nanny Wilson gasped, lunging forward. "The imperial assembly just ended! What if someone sees you?"
"It was crushing my ribs."
"It shapes your figure!"
"My figure needs no assistance." Ramona spun toward the wardrobe. "If the court cares more about my waist than my family's survival, it deserves to burn."
She ripped a black riding dress from its hanger. Form-fitting, functional, silver embroidery tracing the cuffs like polished steel. She yanked her hair into a high, severe ponytail.
Her hand dipped beneath her skirt, sliding a narrow dagger into its hidden thigh sheath. The familiar weight grounded her pulse.
Snap.
The scent of lavender vanished. Wet earth choked her lungs as jungle heat slammed down like an anvil. Rain hammered broad leaves while gunfire tore through the canopy.
Da Nang. Twenty-eight years old. The Iron Rose.
"Fall back!" she roared, her throat raw against the smoke.
Then she saw Daniel. Seventeen. Too young. An arrow punched straight through his throat, pitching him into the mud.
"Daniel!" Ramona hit the wet earth, her hands slamming over the wound. Blood flooded between her fingers—hot, thick, furious. His eyes met hers, lips moving wordlessly before going slack.
"Commander! East line!"
No time. There was never time.
The vision violently morphed. A medical tent under falling snow. Sarah's fingers slipping from her grasp. Then the grand collapse—power grids imploding, buildings swallowing the dark, and subterranean horrors screaming beneath shattered asphalt. Her father crushed under tons of rubble, his combat knife still welded in his dead hand. Finally, the Da Nang Defensive Line—metal shrieking, claws tearing armor, pain exploding across her abdomen.
"Go!" she rasped to the evac convoy. "Get them out!"
Engines roared. Darkness swallowed her whole.
Ramona’s eyes snapped open.
Cedar. Firewood. Clean linen.
She gripped the mahogany vanity until her knuckles turned white.
"My lady?" Nanny Wilson stared, wide-eyed.
Ramona ignored her, her gaze locking onto the silver bells resting on the desk. Her father’s bells. Use these if you need me. Sixteen years old, the morning before he marched north and vanished.
Three sharp knocks shattered the room's tension. "Ramona?"
The door swung open, revealing Princess Eleanor Monroe. Golden-brown hair, warm gray eyes, smelling of black tea and lavender soap.
Alive.
Ramona didn't think. She crossed the room in two strides and wrapped both arms tight around her mother's shoulders. Eleanor gasped, startled, before slowly returning the embrace. Ramona buried her face in her neck, inhaling her pulse, her warmth, her life. She held on like death itself was pulling at her heels.
"My darling, what happened?" Eleanor murmured.
Ramona pulled back, her grief instantly forging into white-hot resolve. "Mom."
"Yes?"
"Where is Father?"
"At the northern garrison."
"When did he leave?"
"Three weeks ago."
Ramona’s eyes narrowed. Three weeks. Earlier than her past timeline. Good. That meant more time. "When is the next military convoy heading north?"
Eleanor frowned. "Why? You’ve never cared about the garrison."
"I care now." Iron weighed every word.
"What are you planning?"
Ramona strode to the glass. Down below, Kai bustled with life. Merchants shouting, fountains splashing, children laughing. Peace.
Four years. Four years until the sky tore open, until the dead walked and subterranean horrors reclaimed the surface.
She turned back to her mother. "I have one priority. Father."
"Why?"
"Because the northern garrison is our first fortress. I need him to expand underground storage before the frost sets. Triple grain reserves, dig emergency wells, purchase medical supplies through shadow merchants, and reopen the old military tunnels."
"Ramona—"
"I need his officers' files too. Service records, debts, family ties, disciplinary reports."
"You expect your father to hand those over?"
Ramona’s lips curved into a cold, beautiful smile. "I expect to convince him. But I need to reach the archives today."
She snatched the silver bells, dropping them into her pocket.
"Prepare a car," she ordered Nanny Wilson.
"Where?"
"The military archives. Immediately."
"They require imperial authorization!"
Ramona didn't break stride, her hand brushing the hidden dagger against her thigh. "Then I'll acquire it."
She ripped the heavy door open. Her boots struck the marble hallway like falling hammers. One. Two. Three.
Every step dragged her further from the helpless girl she used to be. The apocalypse was coming, but Ramona was building the first wall. And it started tonight.