Princess zetulah Viridian POV;
The War Tent (Viridian Encampment, Western Territory)
Air. I need air.
But the war logs suffocate me.
Lord Gavrik Viridian. The ink is still wet, bleeding through the parchment like an open wound. His name. His seal. His betrayal.
My uncle. The man who taught me how to hold a sword, who tucked a sobbing twelve-year-old into bed the night Mother's ashes cooled. The same man who drank Fenrik's favorite spiced wine hours before my brother's corpse was found in the mud.
My hands tremble. The parchment crumples in my grip—thin as a shroud, brittle as a corpse. Change it. Unwrite it. But the ink is a brand, seared deep.
Across the table, Solric clears his throat. The general's got that look again—like I'm a feral pup he's scared might bite.
"Princess." His voice is careful, measured. "You shouldn't—"
"Tell me." The words come out raw. Begging. I hate it.
For a second, I think he'll lie. Then he exhales, rubbing his scarred temple. "Original orders had Fenrik posted north. Guarding supply lines. Safe."
Safe. Fenrik hated safe. "Then why was he in the valley?"
Solric's jaw twitches. "Orders changed. Last-minute. Redirected him straight into Emberclaw's teeth."
The tent sways. I grip the table—splinters lodge under my nails. "And you just… let it happen?"
His voice drops to a rasp. "A Viridian noble sealed the command. Question it, and you're crow food before dawn."
I shove the logs at him. They skid across the table, nearly toppling a candle. "And this? What's this, Solric? A fucking joke?"
His silence says enough.
When he finally speaks, it's to the floor.
"Blood debts don't settle clean."
The stronghold's gates yawn open. Ivy strangles the walls—our family sigil half-buried under green. Fitting.
Inside, the council chamber is thick with murmurs. Parchment dust, old smoke, and something metallic, like rust or dried blood. Gavrik sits at the head, a statue carved from ice.
No shock. No guilt. Just waiting.
He's been waiting for this.
"Princess Zetulah." A noble sneers. "The traitor's daughter honors us."
I ignore them. Slam the war logs onto the table. The broken seal gleams—viper fangs sunk into our stag crest.
"Explain."
Gavrik doesn't even glance down. "Forged documents. Emberclaw's tricks."
"Bullshit." My voice cracks. "You fed him to them."
The room goes tomb-quiet.
Councilors study their boots. Their rings. Their anything but me.
Gavrik sighs—like I'm a child throwing a tantrum. "You've never grasped the cost of power."
"Power?" A laugh claws up my throat. "You gutted your own blood for a chair."
He leans forward, eyes glinting. "Fenrik wept over dying songbirds. You think he'd gut a deer to feed his men?"
The ice in my chest spreads.
He's not denying it.
He's proud of it.
Wine. Iron. Bloodroot incense.
His chambers reek of him.
I don't take the offered chair. Don't touch the wine he pours—Fenrik's favorite vintage. Gavrik drinks deep, unfazed.
"You were always stronger," he says. "Fenrik? Soft heart. Softer spine."
The floor tilts. Breathe. Just breathe.
"You slaughtered family."
"Saved our line." He gestures to the window. Moonlight bleaches the fields—his fields now. "Emberclaw would've chewed Fenrik to bones. But you?" A slow smile. "You'll burn their throne to cinders."
My vision blurs. Fenrik's voice echoes—"Zee, look! A falcon!"—as we raced through the barley fields. Now those fields are graves.
He wants a weapon. A queen-shaped blade to wield.
Joke's on him.
Blades cut both ways.
Gavrik steps closer. His hand hovers—not offering, testing.
"Choose, girl."
The old nickname stings. He hasn't called me that since I beat his best knight at fifteen.
"I've already made my choice."
The words settle like a noose around my throat.
Fenrik's smile. Mother's cold fingers in mine. The way Gavrik's sword felt in my grip—steady, sure, right.
I don't answer.
But I will.
Oh, I will.
First, the crown.
Then his heart, still beating, on the pyre.
—-------------
One candle flickered—just one—casting restless shadows that curled like ghosts against the stone walls. I stood rigid before it, the cold gnawing at my ribs. I didn't shiver. Let it bite. Let it hurt.
Across from me, General Solric stood motionless, arms folded beneath his silver-stitched cloak. His storm-gray eyes tracked my every twitch. The air between us? Thick enough to choke on.
"How many?" My voice was quiet but sharp as a blade's edge. No point dancing around it.
Solric's throat bobbed. Measured, always measured, but tonight—was that hesitation?
"Enough to make noise," he said, voice gravel-dry. "Not enough to survive the echo."
I stepped closer, the candlelight catching the wildfire in my eyes.
"House Emberclaw has ruled by fear for three generations."
A breath. A heartbeat.
"Time to show them how it burns."
A vow spoken aloud is a vow sealed in blood. I ignored the whisper of a memory—my brother's laughter, bright and full, before the war stole him away. I crushed it. Buried it.
Let the fire carve out the rest of my softness.
The map sprawled across the war table like a corpse mid-autopsy. I traced Emberclaw's southern routes—thin veins pumping food, weapons, arrogance. My nail dug into the parchment. Here.
Solric leaned in, forehead creasing. "Starve them, and they'll come snarling."
"Let them." My knuckles whitened. "Hunger makes wolves stupid."
He exhaled, skepticism laced in every breath. "And when they retaliate?"
I smiled. Not the sweet kind. The kind that shows teeth.
"We'll be waiting."
A pause. A shadow flickered across my expression.
"Patient as graves."
---
(Southern Emberclaw Territory – Under a Blood Moon)
The moon wasn't just red tonight—it was a raw, open wound.
We moved like wraiths, slipping down the cliffs without a sound. No war cries. No clanging steel. Just the crunch of boots on gravel and the too-loud drum of my own heart.
I unsheathed my sword.
Below, the caravan lumbered forward, guards laughing at some joke. I almost pitied them.
A howl split the night.
Chaos.
Claws tore through leather. Teeth found throats. My blade bit into a soldier's ribs, warm blood spraying my face. I spun, parried, breathed—alive, alive, alive.
Then—
A horn. Loud. Wrong.
My stomach twisted. They knew.
From the trees, Emberclaw warriors poured out, red eyes flashing in the firelight.
No—impossible.
Pain seared through my side. Not deep, but enough to burn. I twisted, slicing my attacker's throat before the blade could sink deeper.
I gritted my teeth, breath sharp.
This was no ambush. This was a trap.
Solric's axe sang beside me. Banners burned. The stench of scorched grain and blood choked the air.
I fought. I bled. I survived.
But victory didn't taste like triumph. Not yet.
I stared at the bodies strewn across the ground, my chest rising and falling.
This wasn't an ending.
"Beginning," I whispered. The word tasted like ash.
—---
(Castle Emberclaw – Southern Territory)
The soldier collapsed at Ragnis' feet, blood bubbling from his lips.
"Viridian… ambush…"
The king didn't blink. His obsidian throne devoured the torchlight. Devoured everything.
"Who."
The man trembled. "P-Princess Zetulah."
Silence.
Then—laughter. Dark and wet, like a butcher sharpening his knife.
"War?" Ragnis grinned, all fang. "Sweet girl."
A pause. A flicker of something unreadable in his crimson gaze.
"She doesn't know what she's begging for."
He turned to his council. No rage. Worse—calm.
"Tell Moriba and Azzuri." A finger tapped the throne. Once. Twice.
"Viridian survivors burn at dawn."
Red eyes glowed.
"Deliver her to me alive."
Silence stretched, heavy as stone. The torches flickered. The shadows stretched.
One of his generals shifted. "My king… should we strike now?"
Ragnis exhaled slowly, fingers tapping the armrest again. Once. Twice.
"No." His voice was quiet, almost thoughtful. "Let her think she's winning."
The room stilled.
A hesitation. A flicker of unease.
"She's young. She's reckless." Ragnis leaned forward, smiling. "And soon, she'll realize what we already know."
The war was never hers to win.
"Let's see if she's truly a survivor, or she is just dumb lol her brother."