In the heart of a continent lay Ardenthal, a kingdom so beautiful that everyone visiting it often
wanted to stay more. Sunlight over the big towers, gardens bloomed beautifully and so many
fountains too.
Every day, the bells of the Saint Aurel's Cathedral would be heard, and people there were
loyal and proud of living here, loving the royalty who treated them always so greatly.
And among them, one name was loved more than all others.
Princess Lyria Ardenthal or the Sun's daughter, the jewel of the realm, was loved and
respectful, the perfect princess if you could say so.
Or so that's what people thought.
Behind a set of gold-inlaid doors, far from the public's gaze, that same respected princess
was ' twerking'.
Yes, twerking is the right word for what she was doing right now, not dancing. That was not
enough.
"Faster, Your Highness, faster!" cried the senior maid.
"I am fast!" Lyria insisted, tossing her silver-white curls over one shoulder.
A small music crystal pulsed on the dresser, thumping out a rhythm scandalous enough to
make angels retire early.
Two other maids watched, one covering her face, the other cheering loudly. They were
having fun.
"That's it! The kingdom could use this energy during all seasons !"
Lyria laughed breathlessly. "They don't deserve it! This is private art!"
Private art or not they were so loud they didn't even hear the door open .
The music stopped with a guilty squeak. One maid fainted backward into a pile of cushions.
The other froze mid-clap. Lyria remained bent at a right angle—poise and panic showing on
her face.
Framed in the doorway stood King Aldren, the hero of the town and the most tired father
alive.
For a long moment he said nothing. The silence lasted so long that the embarrassed crystal
tried to play another beat and then stopped before even trying.
Finally, the King sighed so hard, just by that you knew how tired he was of Lyria's attitude .
"Lyria."
"Yes, Father?" she replied in the gentle tone usually reserved for confesion.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. "You have a council meeting in one hour."
Lyria straightened, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from her dress. "Of course! I was, ah,
rehearsing."
"For what?"
"A charity performance."
The maids nodded in unison, though one still lay semi-conscious on the floor.
King Aldren regarded them all silently. "You will also attend lunch."
"Excellent," Lyria said brightly. "Will there be pastries?"
"Please behave at least for that."
"Ah. My favorite."
He exhaled again, perhaps remembering that she was his only child and, regrettably, his
heir. "Lyria, try to appear... regal this time."
"I'm always regal, Father. I just express it through movement."
"Then please express less." He turned and left before reality could wound him further.
The door closed, and the silence that followed was broken by the faint, sympathetic giggle of the senior maid.
"Well," she said, fanning herself, "that went better than last time."
"The last time he threatened to exile us for being too loud and noisy ," Lyria reminded her,
collapsing onto her bed with a groan.
"Do you think he'll ever understand modern dancing ?"
"Not in this lifetime, Your Highness."
Lyria rolled onto her back, staring up at the painted ceiling where a big rose garden was
represented. It looked so beautiful.
"Sometimes I think he was carved from the same marble as the palace. Beautiful,
immovable, and impossible to dance with."
The maid chuckled softly, gathering the discarded cushions. "You have a council meeting
soon, remember?"
"I remember." Lyria's tone was light . "And afterward, I'll need to rest."
Which, of course, was a lie.
Because tonight, while the rest of the palace would be asleep, the princess had another
place to be—one no servant, knight, or her father could ever learn about.
---
By the time the bells announced noon, Princess Lyria looked more like a princess than when
she was dancing earlier.
A pale-gold gown draped from her shoulders, her hair was braided into a crown. She looked
regal and beautiful.
The Council Hall of Ardenthal was a really huge room. Maps covered the walls, their borders
lit by red dots that appeared whenever the kingdom's scouts reported new demon activity.
At the long table sat ministers, generals, and the king.
"Your Highness," said Lord Varen, Minister of Defense, bowing as she entered. "We are
honored."
Lyria smiled, gentle and impeccable. See? Regal. She took her seat beside her father,
folding her hands as if she hadn't nearly been caught auditioning for chaos earlier.
King Aldren's gaze swept the table. "Begin."
A clerk unrolled a parchment. "Reports confirm increased demon movement along the
eastern frontier. Two trade convoys were attacked this week near the Vale Pass. Survivors
claim the demons had the sigil of the Black Flame."
A low murmur rippled through the chamber. Even the air looked to have changed.
Lyria kept her expression serene, though her pulse betrayed her.
The Black Flame—General Naya Blackwell. Commander of the Obsidian Dungeon.
Her name alone carried the weight of half a century of nightmares.
Lord Varen cleared his throat. "If Naya Blackwell has left her post, the Demon King may be
preparing a campaign. We should mobilize—"
"She hasn't left," Lyria interrupted softly. All eyes turned to her.
She blinked once, realizing she'd spoken too fast without thinking. "I mean—reports of her
movements are unconfirmed, correct? Perhaps... the attacks were by lesser demons
imitating her army."
The silence that followed was so loud that Lyria regretted talking in the first place.
King Aldren looked at his daughter with quiet suspicion. "You seem well informed on the
enemy general, Lyria."
"I read," she said quickly . "It's a hobby."
One of the ministers coughed behind his papers.
The king continued, "Nevertheless, we must prepare. The Black Flame is really dangerous."
Lyria nodded, face calm, heart a storm.
Lord Varen tapped the map. "Your Majesty, permission to increase patrols around the
Obsidian Front."
"Granted," said the king. "We cannot allow the dungeon to expand its influence."
As the council launched into strategies, Lyria listened carefully, schooling her features. She
even took notes.
But when Naya's name surfaced again, she drew a small circle around it, fingers brushing
the ink as if the curve might connect them and then smiled.
Her father noticed. "Is something amusing, daughter?"
She snapped the quill upright. "Merely... fascinated by enemy logistics, Father. Very...
logistical."
He sighed. "Try to remain fascinated by our own."
The meeting continued for hours. By the end Lyria was tired and bored. Lyria curtsied,
excused herself, and escaped before anyone could request another royal statement.
---
Night fell early that evening, clouds veiling the moon. The palace quieted, its corridors
echoing only with the distant patrol of armored boots.
In her chambers, Lyria shed the gold gown for a plain tunic and leather trousers. Over them
she drew a dark cloak, the hood shadowing her face.
From a hidden compartment behind her mirror she withdrew a slender mask and a sword
forged from celestial steel.
She fastened the mask and looked at her reflection. The transformation was always startling:
the angelic princess disappeared,to be replaced by something else entirely.
She slipped through a servant's passage, down spiral stairs that were so old they should be
replaced, emerging at the stables where her white horse waited.
" Time to go to the dungeon."