Traded to the tyrant
They were pale, the skin around my fingernails faintly stained with dried blood that someone had tried to scrub away.
"She is only ten months old," I whispered, the weight of it settling like lead in my chest. "A baby should be playing with wooden blocks and learning to walk. She should not be mending shattered minds on a battlefield."
"She is a Nightshade," Draven said gently, his fingers tracing the tense line of my jaw. "And more than that, she is your daughter. She felt her mother dying, and she refused to let it happen."