The price of defiance

Princess zetulah viridian POV;

(Viridian War Camp)

Dawn didn't rise—it clawed.

Grey light oozed across the valley like rot in a wound, revealing the wreckage of what used to be our stronghold. My stronghold. Now it looked like a battlefield caught mid-scream. Smoke twisted through the air, thick with the stench of iron and burnt flesh. Blood slicked the earth where children once played. The land we'd bled for now bled for us.

The first assault had nearly broken our spines. Emberclaw's fire-wielders left the southern flank scorched, their flames turning warriors into ash before they could even cry out. But we held. Somehow. Barely.

"Princess," Solric's voice dragged me back, hoarse but steady. "You set?"

I turned, hand clenched around my sword so tightly I thought the hilt would shatter. Solric looked half-dead—blood crusting his beard, armor torn open at the ribs—but his eyes, gods, his eyes were still lit like hearthfire. Loyal to the bone.

"Set?" I laughed. Short. Ugly. "They've got dragonsbreath and twice our numbers. But sure, let's pretend we've got a say in any of this." I exhaled hard. "We hold. Or we die."

A quiet ripple moved through the soldiers around us—no cheers, no rallying cries. Just a boy with dirt on his cheeks nodding like he understood. He didn't. None of them did. I wanted to scream, you're following me into a meat grinder, but my voice was already cracked with smoke and grief.

And then the horns.

Low. Mournful. Stretching across the valley like death's yawn.

The earth trembled—not with footsteps. With something older. Deeper. Like the gods below were stirring.

Solric spat into the dirt. "Bastards aren't even waiting for us to bury the dead."

I opened my mouth to curse, to say anything—

But then the wind shifted.

Smoke curled past me, and under it—there. Sharp. New. The copper tang of fresh blood.

They were already moving.

---

(Emberclaw War Encampment)

Kaelith Emberclaw – POV

Fire always marked our mornings.

The ridges of the valley were glowing embers, our machines vomiting smoke into the pale sky. But no one was celebrating. Not really. Victory stank like rot, bitter and hollow.

Father stood near the war altar, flame light dancing across the gold woven into his robes. A king. A weapon. Never a man. "You'll lead the northern charge," he said without looking at me. As if he were sending a servant to fetch more wine.

My jaw tensed. "The Moriba assassins are already in position. There's no need to waste our soldiers—"

His head snapped toward me. "Waste?" His voice cracked like a whip. "You dare question me now?" Spittle flew with each word. "That Viridian whore has softened your spine."

The words hit harder than his fists ever had. Zetulah. Her name echoed like an oath in my chest. Her laughter during the summit, that smug little smirk, the way she twirled a dagger between fingers like it was part of her.

Sentiment? No. It wasn't that. It was something far more dangerous.

"I'll lead the charge," I said, spine stiff.

"See that you do," he growled. His eyes lingered on my throat too long. A reminder. He only ever offered love through threat.

I turned and walked, the noise of camp fading into a blur behind me. My fingers trembled. Not from fear—from knowing. Knowing that every step forward split me in two.

Loyalty or betrayal. Blood or truth.

But then the drums began. And there was no more time to choose.

---

(The Battlefield)

Princess Zetulah Viridian – POV

Chaos tore the world open.

Fire fell from the sky, hissing and screaming as it met flesh. Molten pitch devoured armor, turning warriors into silhouettes of pain. Solric barked commands, his blade slicing through an Emberclaw brute with the precision of a butcher.

I moved like breath. Claw. Slash. Duck. Rise. Shift.

Fur ripped through my skin as I changed, the half-wolf form cracking my bones into something feral. The pain cleared my mind. No time to think. Just kill.

But something twisted. A prickle down my spine. Danger.

Not Emberclaw.

I spun.

Blacksteel.

Moriba.

Assassins.

The first dagger hissed past my face. The second kissed my ribs. A warm bloom spread under my armor. Blood. Mine.

Focus. Breathe. End it.

I lunged—

And froze.

Across the battlefield, fire curling around him like a halo, stood Kaelith.

His eyes met mine. In the middle of this war, he looked like a ghost remembering his name.

His lips moved.

Run.

Then everything snapped.

Gold flashed beside me. A cursed Moriba blade, arcing toward my chest.

I couldn't move fast enough—

But Kaelith could.

He slammed into me, and the world cracked.

Thud.

The blade buried itself in his chest.

"No—no, no, no." My hands caught him before he hit the ground, blood already pouring through my fingers. Too much. Too hot. Wrong.

He coughed. Red flecked his lips. "Told you… to run…"

My throat burned. "Why? Why would you—?"

His smile faltered. "Had to… choose…"

And just like that, the light in his eyes vanished.

The war still roared behind me.

But here, in this ruin of a world, everything went silent.

---

Kaelith Emberclaw – POV;

Cold.

Not the burning kind. The other kind. The one that steals you slow.

Her face hovered above me—beautiful even soaked in blood. Should've kissed her when I had the chance. Should've told her she was the only thing in this damned war that made sense.

Darkness crept in, soft as breath.

Worth it.

—---------------------------------------

(Princess Zetulah Viridian – POV)

The battlefield isn't a place anymore—it's a scream given form. Steel clashes, flames chew the sky raw, and the air stinks of blood and burning. But none of that matters. Just him. Kaelith.

He's crumpled in the dirt, a cursed golden dagger buried deep in his chest. His breath comes in thin, broken gasps, like a forge bellows torn down the middle. Sweat mats his hair to his forehead, and his eyes—those vibrant emeralds—are turning to murky swamp water. Fading.

I drop beside him, hands shaking so hard I almost slice my palm on his armor. My fingers find his tunic—drenched. Then I see it: the poison. House Moriba's doing. That gold-glowing slime pulses from the wound, threading its way through his veins like rot laced with light.

Rage claws up my throat. I've watched comrades die choking on ash and bile, but this? This is like watching a part of me be carved out while I'm still breathing.

He smirks through the pain, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth. "Told you… to run, Princess."

The words gut me deeper than any blade.

I rip the dagger free with a snarl. Gold-spattered blood coats my wrists. His blood. Too warm. Too wrong.

Everything muffles—like the battlefield's been stuffed with cotton. Then I spot him.

Cyras moriba, zareth moriba's younger brother.

Propped against a shattered shield wall, grinning like a wolf at a feast. Robes spotless, untouched by war.

"A traitor prince?" His voice cuts clean through the noise. "And a fool of a princess? War's already mine."

My growl vibrates through my ribs. My shift tears through me before I choose it. Claws flash. Muscle and fur snap into place. I'm on him before thought can catch up—

Whistle.

High. Sharp. The kind that splits marrow.

Shadow-wolves.

They flood from the treeline, golden eyes gleaming like coins in hellfire. Dozens of them. Moriba's assassins. They don't snarl—they smile. Like they know how this ends.

Shit.

They fan out, circling. Closing in.

Kaelith's breath is a rattle now. Each one feels stolen. Solric's blade dances in the distance, Emberclaw grunts falling around him. I hear him shouting. "Zetulah! MOVE!"

I want to rip Cyras apart. Paint the mud with his gold-laced blood. But Kaelith's eyelids flutter.

Not enough time. Not enough blood left in him.

War horns scream—Emberclaw reinforcements.

Solric bursts through the fray, grabs my arm hard enough to bruise. "Now! Or we all die!"

My teeth grind. My soul burns.

"Take him."

He hesitates—one heartbeat too long—then hoists Kaelith over the saddle. The prince's head lolls. Blood paints a trail behind us.

Cyras laughs. "Run, little wolf! Lick your wounds!"

I spin, voice raw. "Next time? You run."

My horse bucks as we gallop, hooves pounding like war drums. Wind tears at my face. Behind us, the valley burns.

Ahead? Just darkness.

And unfinished vengeance.