The cellar door creaked open.
I watched him fall—watched the dagger clatter from his grip, watched his eyes go wide with the sudden, total understanding of every warlord before him. The Axis did not kill. It accepted. Every act of dominance over a willing vessel created a thread, invisible, unbreakable, tied from the conqueror's soul to the conquered's. And when enough threads gathered, they strangled. reincarnated in submission
A silhouette filled the frame—broad, armored, crowned with horns of twisted iron. The Warlord of the Broken Steppes. He had raided this village an hour ago. My new family lay dead upstairs. He had kept me alive because I had not screamed. The cellar door creaked open
The Sorcerer blinked, confused by the anomaly. "What are you doing, slave? Kneel." It accepted
I began to master the art of Submission .
"I am," I said softly. "But not to you."
I tried to resist it. On the eve of my twentieth rebirth-year, I attempted to refuse an order. The taskmaster told me to clean the mud from his boots with my tongue. The old Valerius roared in defiance. I clenched my jaw and stood straight.