The street stretched all the way to the great gate by the castle walls. Small, perfect stone squares, alternating between light gray and white, made the ground look graceful and refined.
The buildings on either side were painted in soft tones of pink, blue, white, and gray, with delicate white trims beautifully carved around the light wooden windows and doors.
Everywhere she looked, people in elegant clothes laughed and enjoyed themselves. Along the sides of the road, small stalls stood crowded together, where the humbly dressed displayed their goods, hoping to sell them for a fair price. Amid the forced, proud, and judgmental smiles of hierarchy, the little princess walked with a thin, straight line for a mouth — unbothered by any of it.
Her dark red summer dress stood in stark contrast to the pale colours around her. A yellow flower adorned her red hair at the end of her braid. Her expression was serious, unapproachable. Her firm steps were followed by a tall, strong figure walking lazily behind — her guard. The air that followed them felt heavy and dim, too dark for such a bright and lively street. As the two passed, people turned to gossip.
A toppled cart blocked the way, forcing her to stop — and unwillingly listen to the deliberately loud whispers of two nearby ladies.
- Is that the Cold Fire Princess?!
- Look at her, as emotionless as ever.
- Her beauty may burn like fire, but her face is cold as ice.
- Didn't you hear about her mother? His Majesty's wild lover...
- You mean that crazy slave from a few years ago?
- Yes, that woman. A slave couldn't teach her daughter how to smile.
The princess clenched her teeth together. Her chest hurting like her heart was stabbed."Those are all lies. She was the sweetest person in the whole world."
A tear threatened to fall, but she wiped it away immediately, never breaking her painfully taught posture. Her guard, standing two meters behind, only smirked and enjoyed the show. Not a single glance at the girl. Not a single word to correct the disrespect. Not a single act of kindness.
She kept walking as soon as the way was cleared. Her inner voice screamed at her to run — to break the untouchable facade, to let the tears fall and yell her pain out for all to see. But instead, she exhaled softly, forcing her movements to stay steady.
"Breathe slow. Walk poised and straight. Keep your face gracefully hard — like marble. Just like a princess should."
The library was just down the street: a grand, refined building with a triangular entrance held by two marble pillars, large white windows, and a roof tiled in gold.
Inside, light-colored wooden planks, perfectly aligned, gave a warm yet elegant look to those who stepped through the main door. The furniture, in the same pale wood tone, adorned with delicate touches of white and gold, filled the room with quiet sophistication.
The ceiling was high, and the marble pillars extended upward, curving into arches that met above, making the space feel even taller — almost cathedral-like.
Yet what was meant to calm her only made her stomach twist. The same whispers followed her everywhere. Each new corner, each doorway, seemed to open into more creatively cruel gossip.
She headed to her usual spot in the history section — almost always empty. She didn't mind; in fact, she was grateful for the silence, for the gossip-free space. No judging eyes would reach her here, not while she studied in that quiet, secluded corner.
Her guard, meanwhile, stayed behind, flirting shamelessly with the librarian. He praised how beautifully her freckles made her pink cheeks stand out. How her golden hair matched the gold touches of the furniture. Her embarassed laugh could be heard from far.
The princess turned her focus to the bookshelf, grabbing the next study book without even looking at it. She had been studying them in order along the shelves. She walked to her table and sat on the elegant chair. The laughter echoed once more as she looked down at the book's cover.
"The Merciless Empire of Slaves."
Her heart wavered. Her mind lost grip on its princess-like composure. It was too much for one day. Her hands tightened around the book before she quietly sprinted back to the shelf, replacing it in its rightful place and grabbing the next one instead.
An aggressive whisper snapped her back to her senses.
- I can't keep doing this shit anymore. The guards almost caught me last time.
The voice came from a man, tense and exhausted, his anger barely contained as he leaned closer to the other in front of him. His whisper, though low, carried urgency.
- You owe it to your wife. We owe it to our kingdom. People deserve to know the truth about who they're ruled by — about what they've done to their own people... what they did to the love of your life.
The taller man spoke with conviction, appealing to the other's fading devotion.
- My children won't survive without a father!
The desperate man's voice wavered, rising despite his effort to hold it back.
- Shh... Don't raise your voice. You signed the terms when you joined the Investigation Guild. We work for a greater cause.
- I need the money to feed my girls but it won't matter if I am not alive to use it...
- Your girls might be next — taken and sold to those disgusting bastards!
The taller man tried to steady him, speaking with controlled fury, but his words only deepened the other's panic.
- No... I can't let that happen... Maybe there's another way. I can't keep stealing their documents and getting away with it.
- You agreed to infiltrate their organization. You think you can just walk out now? You know too much. The only way is to finish them — for good.
- I can't... I can't... They treat me like scum... And the screams, the cries... I can't take it anymore... There has to be another way...
The man's desperation grew louder than his anger. Sobs broke through his words, raw and trembling.
- The king... Maybe the king can help. He saved that slave and made her his lover years ago. Don't we have enough proof to take it to the king?
"Mom..." Valerie's heart stilled. Her breath caught on the single word as the two man continued.
- That only happened because the king fell for her beauty. Her unusual red hair bewitched him. Inside, he is as rotten as those under his command.
- But he saved her from the massacre. Maybe we can appeal his kindness.
"Kindness of the king...?" Valerie's brows furrowed. The man who calls himself king — the one who has made her life a living nightmare with endless discipline until her legs bled — her so-called father. He was incapable of even a flicker of compassion in his iron-clad heart.
The taller man let out a bitter laugh.
- Kindness? Our great king is greedy and cruel. If it weren't for her beauty, the day the Empire of Slavery began would've claimed one more head for the palace walls fifteen years ago — a red one.
Valerie touches her hair softly. "A head... with... red hair..."
Her chest tightens; her pulse hammers in her ears. The words replay in her mind like a cold, unstoppable wave. Her fingers clutch her braid as her trembling hands snatch the book from the shelf. She slides down to the floor, legs folding beneath her, eyes wide and unblinking. Cold sweat runs down her back as she flips the pages with shaking fingers.
"The Merciless Empire of Slaves
Slaves have been captured since the first attempts to conquer the world..."
Her breathing quickens as her eyes race over the lines. The library, the golden light, the comforting quiet — they all vanish. Only the loud, thunderous beat of her heart remains, pushing her toward a panic that builds with every sentence.
"Ruthless nobles forced them to toil in the mines, barely feeding them — giving just enough to keep them alive and useful. The man's faith was tempted after some years, and since then, women have been taken for other purposes: a minor offense against a noble could legally brand a woman as a slave. Some captors even flouted the king's own laws. When such abuses were discovered, the mass of slaves used for promiscuous ends were sentenced to death. It was declared their guilt for tempting married nobles into sin. On that day, heads adorned the castle walls, marking the beginning of the Empire of Slaves."
Her eyes find the black-and-white illustration that follows. The ink, crude and stained, forming heads mounted on spears, eyes wide in frozen horror, the earth darkened beneath them. Her breath catches; her heartbeat surges. She wants to look away, but she cannot.
A single image sears into her mind: a row of lifeless faces on spikes, hair matted with grime. A red banner flutters in the background. One head gleams in her vision — impaled, eyes vacant, hair a vivid, screaming red. The imagined scene sharpens beyond the drawing: the sobs, the screams, the metallic rattle of spears — all press into her skull. Her stomach twists; bile rises.
Her chest squeezes. Her throat burns. The pounding in her ears drowns everything.
- No... no...
Her voice is barely a whisper, swallowed by the drum in her head. Instinct screams to run, to flee, but her body will not obey. Her limbs tremble under a fear so raw it steals thought.
Tears spill hot and unchecked, tracing clean tracks down her cheeks. Her breath comes in short, ragged gasps. She feels trapped inside a loop of the same image — the head, the blood, the cruelty — replaying, relentless, marking a memory that will not fade.