(Zetulah's POV)
Blood darkened the dirt beneath my boots.
Not mine. Not yet.
It steamed in the cold, rising like a prayer to gods we stopped worshipping.
The trees groaned. The earth smoked. The dead whispered.
And him.
Prince Kaelith Emberclaw.
On his knees.
Bleeding. Breathing. Still alive.
His golden eyes flickered—defiant, broken. One arm useless, the other barely holding him up.
He looked like a prince carved out of ash and pain.
My sword hovered over his throat.
One breath. One swing. Done.
I still heard the fire. My brother's scream. The magic. The bones.
Do it.
But my hand didn't move.
Because he stepped in front of me.
Because he bled Viridian red.
"Princess..."
His voice cracked like ice breaking. Not a plea. Not pride. Just... tired.
My grip tightened.
Boots behind me. My warriors. Rage still hot in their chests.
Joric barked, "End him!"
Solric stepped closer. Armor creaking. "You know what he is."
I did. I hated that I did.
Kaelith coughed. Blood hit the dirt.
"Changed your mind, Princess?"
Even bleeding out, he had teeth.
"Healer!" I snapped.
The word sliced through the air like a blade. Everything froze.
Solric's hand twitched toward his sword. "You're sparing him? After all they've done?"
"We are not them."
My voice scraped from somewhere deep. "Bind him."
Kaelith laughed, bitter and broken. "You'll regret this."
"Probably," I said, sheathing my blade. "But you're worth more alive."
Liar.
I didn't know why I did it.
Only that letting him die felt like losing something that was mine.
---
[House Moriba – Catacombs]
Three hundred miles east, wine swirled in silver.
"The prince lives," rasped the assassin.
A jeweled hand stilled. Then—laughter. Soft. Cold. Sharp.
"Delightful," murmured Lady Moriba. Her fingers brushed a vial of poison like a secret she loved.
"Send a rose," she whispered. "With thorns."
A shadow peeled from the wall. Too many teeth.
"Shall I fix the Princess' mistake?"
"No. Let her squirm," Moriba said, eyes catching firelight. "Let her break herself."
---
(Kaelith's POV)
Pain.
Fire behind my eyes. Blades under my skin.
I woke to canvas. Smoke. Metal clinks. Viridian breath.
I should be dead.
Father would've left me to rot. My brothers? They'd cheer.
But she didn't.
Zetulah sat in the corner, dagger in hand. Ash in her braid. Blood on her skin.
She looked like a god of war that forgot how to pray.
I laughed. It hurt like knives.
"You should've killed me."
"Still might."
Her voice was a blade.
"Talk."
"About what? How many times my brothers tried to drown me?"
She didn't blink. Ice.
"Why did you turn on Moriba?"
I exhaled. Copper breath.
"You first. Why save me?"
She paused. Just a beat.
And in that silence—I saw it.
Not pity.
Not politics.
Something raw. Real. Terrifying.
Then it vanished.
"Rest," she said. Standing. Clenching the dagger like it was the only thing holding her together.
"We march at dawn."
"Zetulah."
She froze.
No one called her that.
"This changes nothing," she said.
Liar.
---
(Zetulah's POV)
The moon cracked through clouds like bone.
I stared at my dagger until my hand went numb.
Stupid. Reckless. Weak.
Solric hadn't said a word—but his silence screamed.
The camp whispered: traitor. Fool. Soft.
But worse than their judgment?
His eyes.
Kaelith's.
Not hate.
Not victory.
Something else.
Like he saw me.
You'll regret this.
I tilted my face to the stars.
"Already do."
In the dark, a spy slid a black rose into his sleeve.
And smiled.
—------------------------------------------
(ZETULAH POV)
Ash rides the wind. Not soft like snow—this ash bites. It carries the ruin of kingdoms. Blood seeps into the soil like truth too late to matter.
Kaelith Emberclaw stands before me. Not in chains. Not bowed. A king.
He wears the crown scorched into his name.
Everyone knows how he earned it.
He set his father on fire.
"You wear the crown now," I say, my voice cold. "But that fire? It's not your savior. It's the thing that'll burn you alive, Kaelith. If you're not careful."
His crimson eyes hold no apology. No shame. Just the flicker of wildfire—alive and dangerous.
"I didn't kill him for power," Kaelith spits, eyes dark as the smoke choking the sky. "I killed him because he chained us. All of us. I'm not some puppet, Zetulah. And now, neither of us are."
I can't speak. Because he's right, and I'm tired of hearing truth like a slap. The chains are gone. But the wounds they left? They're still bleeding. They've just been buried under ashes.
—----
(KAELITH POV)
I never wanted the crown.
But fire doesn't ask. It takes.
The night I killed my father, I killed the last piece of who I used to be.
Now, they call me King. As if that word means anything when everyone's just waiting to stab your back and crown the corpse.
Zetulah looks at me like she's dissecting me with her eyes. She's the new queen of a broken house, and still, she stands like she's unshaken. Unburned.
"You think I'm like him?" I ask, stepping close enough to feel her breath. The air crackles—between us, around us.
She doesn't blink.
"No," she says, steady. "I think you're worse. Because you still think you can save yourself."
My jaw tenses. "You think I'll become a monster?"
"I think you already have."
My hands ball into fists. "Then let them fear me. I'll burn every house that stands in my way. Watch me."
"And I'll stop you." She says it soft, but deadly. "Not because I want to. But because I must."
—--------
(ZETULAH POV)
Power warps. It doesn't knock. It slips in quiet, starts rotting from the inside out.
I've seen what it does. I've watched it chew through kings, split families, poison crowns.
Kaelith sits on a throne made of ash and bones. He won't last if he rules with only fire.
"They'll come for you," I tell him. "The moment you falter. They'll smell the blood. They always do."
He shrugs like it doesn't matter. "Let them."
"You need more than rage," I snap. "You need strategy."
He laughs, bitter and hard. "Why do you care?"
Because somewhere under all that smoke, I saw the boy who didn't want to burn.
—-----
(Kaelith's POV)
I hear the whispers. The doubt. The fear.
Zetulah's the only one who doesn't look at my hands and pretend they're clean. She sees the blood—doesn't flinch. And I can't decide if I hate her for it. Or want her to see more.
So I ask: "What would you do, if this crown sat on your head?"
Her lips twitch. Not a smile. A weapon. "I'd burn the world. Then rebuild from ash."
The words sound like my father's—but they don't feel like his. Her fire is different.
Alive. Honest.
"Then we rebuild," I say, stepping close. "Not for them. For us."
"He slaughtered his own father!" one of the lords hisses, voice dripping with fear. "And now you think he'll spare the rest of us?"
Zetulah rises. Not loud. But every head turns like she shouted.
"You're terrified," she says, voice like a weapon. "Not because of what Kaelith did—but because you know, in your bones, you would've done the same. If you had the courage."
Silence. I can feel their hearts beating faster. Prey.
Zetulah turns to me, calm as snowfall. But there's thunder behind her eyes.
I stand. Heavy is the crown? No. Heavy is being watched by those who want you to fail.
"Test me," I say, low, dangerous. "But be warned—I dare you."
Zetulah's lips curve—mockery or challenge, I don't know. But I feel it. I feel her burning beside me.
She thinks she can leash my fire.
Let her try. If she does, I'll burn her first.
A warhorn screams through the night. Steel sings. Footsteps thunder.
They're coming.
The other houses. The ones who smile while they sharpen their knives.
Zetulah meets my gaze. No fear. Just resolve so cold it burns.
"Let's burn."
The words roll off her tongue like a death sentence.
This time, I don't laugh. I smile.