The frost outside the Monroe estate sliced like glass under the morning sun—deceptive, beautiful, lethal. Ramona Monroe knew cold. She knew how it crept beneath fabric, crystallized marrow, and locked every joint in a slow, suffocating death. She knew it because she had died in it, twenty-eight years old, choked by ozone and burning oil on the Da Nang Defensive Line as subterranean horrors tore through reinforced steel.
That was three weeks ago. Or four years from now.
She wasn't waking up today. She had been awake for twenty-one days straight, driven by the phantom ache of shrapnel in her ribs and the memory of blood slicking her hands.
A draft slipped through the window seams, smelling of wet pine.
Ramona stood rigid over the massive mahogany desk in the general’s study, red ink marking supply lines across the map of the northern territories. She was twenty-four again, trapped in a body the imperial court viewed as courtly ornament. But beneath her dark velvet riding tunic, her eyes were those 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 chair with a dull thud.
"My lady!" Nanny Wilson gasped, lunging forward with a tray of untouched tea. "The imperial assembly just ended! You’ve barely slept, and you're dressed like a mercenary! What if someone sees you?"
"It was crushing my ribs," Ramona said, her voice flat, razor-sharp, and absolute. She didn't look up from the maps. Her hands—calloused from hours of weapon drills—traced the old subterranean military tunnels. "If the court cares more about my waist than my family's survival, it deserves to burn."
She yanked her black hair into a high, severe ponytail. Form-fitting leather, functional silver embroidery tracing the cuffs like polished steel.
Her hand dipped beneath her skirt, sliding a narrow tactical blade into its hidden thigh sheath. The familiar weight grounded her pulse.
Snap.
For a microsecond, the scent of lavender vanished. Wet earth choked her lungs as jungle heat slammed down. Rain hammering broad leaves. Gunfire tearing the canopy. Seventeen-year-old Daniel collapsing in the mud, an arrow through his throat. Sarah's cold fingers slipping from hers in the medical tent. Her father crushed under tons of rubble, his combat knife still welded in his dead hand. The titan's scythe-like claw crushing her chest as she held the plasma detonator...
Ramona snapped back to the present, her knuckles turning white against the desk. Not today. Not on my watch.
Trained from childhood in the brutal doctrines of the General’s household, her military mind mapped the current timeline with cold precision. The apocalypse wasn't four years away; the foundation was being laid now.
She reached into the bottom drawer, pulling out four heavy, military-grade plasma charges she had quietly siphoned from the estate armory. She engaged the magnetic locks with a heavy clack and slung the reinforced pack over her shoulder.
"My lady... what are those?" Wilson backed away, pale.
"Insurance."
Three sharp knocks shattered the silence. "Ramona?"
The door swung open. Princess Eleanor Monroe stepped into the room—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 warmth, holding 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. Where is Father?"
"At the northern garrison. He left three weeks ago."
"Three weeks," Ramona’s eyes narrowed. Earlier than her past timeline. Good. More time to fortify. "I need to reach him before the early frost sets."
"Why? You’ve never cared about the garrison."
"I care now," iron weighed every word. "The northern garrison is our first fortress. I need him to expand underground storage before the frost hits. 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."
Eleanor frowned. "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 imperial authorization for the archives today."
She snatched her father’s silver bells from the desk, dropping them into her pocket.
"Prepare a car," she ordered Wilson. "The military archives. Immediately."
"They require clearance!"
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 combat 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.