The silk hem of her gown whispered against the marble floor, a quiet protest as Alisanne knelt before her father. The Grand Throne Room of the Reign shimmered with golden light, stained glass windows filtering the noonday sun into slivers of crimson, azure, and gold. Her father, High King Vaelen, sat upon the Obsidian Throne like a war-forged statue—his armor ceremonial, but his gaze sharp enough to wound.
"You are too soft," he said, voice echoing down the chamber like a blade being drawn.
Alisanne lifted her gaze, crimson eyes filled with unyielding gentleness. "Mercy is not weakness, Father."
"It is when it blinds you to truth," Vaelen snapped. "The world beyond these walls does not barter in kindness. It eats it. You would be devoured whole."
The words struck, though she didn't flinch. She was the youngest of his children—seventeen, barely, and with no taste for war or scheming. Her brothers were raised on strategy and steel. She preferred poetry and gardens, healing over harm.
"I will learn," she promised.
A pause, then a nod. "You will accompany Caelis. For two months. You will see how the world truly works."
Her stomach turned at the name. Caelis. The Flame of Purity. Her father's most feared weapon. A man who had burned a rebel city to cinders to purify "corruption." Who wielded his holy title like a pyre of judgment.
"I do not fear fire," she said, though her hands trembled slightly.
"Good," the King replied, already turning away. "Because the world is full of it."
---
The two months that followed carved away the last of Alisanne's naivety.
Traveling with Commander Caelis was like walking beside a wildfire that never slept. He was tall, gaunt, his cloak of white and crimson trailing embers when he moved. His eyes glowed faintly with unnatural heat, and his presence made even seasoned knights step carefully.
His holy title, Flame of Purity, allowed him to burn through lies, corruption, and even enchanted protections. His flames devoured more than flesh—they judged souls.
Alisanne had watched from her chariot as Caelis razed bandit dens without mercy, executing prisoners who begged for a second chance. She had wept once—quietly, in her tent—after a village was torched for harboring a cursed object they hadn't known existed.
Caelis had not comforted her. He had merely said, "Compassion is a knife. You will learn to sheath it."
Still, she learned. She listened. She asked questions.
Some soldiers mocked her behind closed doors, calling her Porcelain Princess. But others began to nod in respect when she helped bandage wounds, when she soothed a dying soldier's last breath.
Caelis watched her closely, like a smith examining a brittle blade. She wondered if he expected her to break.
She didn't.
The rain had stopped just before dawn, leaving behind a landscape of gray mist and damp earth. The air smelled of iron and smoke—harsh, metallic, unnatural.
Princess Alisanne leaned back against the cushioned interior of her chariot, cradling a warm cup of herbal water between her hands. The liquid no longer steamed, but the scent of ginger and dried violet lingered. Outside, hooves squelched through muddy roads, and the creak of wagon wheels punctuated the steady rhythm of the marching column.
Meria, her maid and lifelong companion, sat across from her, folding and unfolding a scroll bearing the Reign's crimson wax seal. "They're calling it a containment sweep, Your Highness," she said, frowning at the message. "A breach from a dungeon. Low-star, or so the initial report said."
"Then why send Caelis?" Alisanne asked quietly, her gaze fixed on the gray curtain beyond the window flap.
Meria hesitated, brushing a strand of black hair behind her ear. "The report was dated a week ago. There's mention of growing irregularities. Higher than expected monster aggression. Then... nothing."
"Nothing?"
"No further contact." Meria's eyes met hers. "They're calling it a delay, but... they've braced for full extermination protocol."
Alisanne set the cup down, her lips tightening. "So they already believe the village is gone."
"Yes."
She let the silence stretch, the slow dread of it seeping through her skin. A week of silence. She knew what that likely meant. A week was too long when dungeons evolved. If this village had been in the breach's path...
She leaned her head back, her crimson eyes closed. "And my father approved this?"
"He gave Commander Caelis full authority," Meria confirmed, her tone careful.
Of course he had. A week of silence was all it took for the Reign to discard a village like an ember in the wind. And now she was being carried toward the ashes.