Lyria had lost count of how many time she had been into the Obsidian Dungeon, but the guards on the first floor had started greeting her now.
Tonight she moved fast, sword in hand, her cloak floating behind her as she runned.
"Back again, masked girl?" croaked a demon, that one had too many eyes but was actually nice.
"Routine inspection," Lyria answered cheerfully, slicing through the air. A flash of light sent the creature skidding into a wall, harmlessly smoking.
The next corridor opened into a hall of twisted vines. A pair of winged fiends were waiting there, ready to attack but the moment they recognized the small human in the silver mask, they exchanged a look and lowered their weapons.
"You can pass," one said, rubbing the back of his neck. "We don't get paid enough for this."
"You're demons," she pointed out. "You don't get paid at all."
"Exactly." He stepped aside with surprising politeness. "Have a productive raid."
Lyria grinned beneath her mask. "Thank you! Try not to eat anyone innocent while I'm gone."
"No promises."
She dashed onward, light magic flickering around her boots. The dungeon's black corridors coiled like veins through the earth, but she knew them by heart now—the cracked arch that looked like a sneer, the lava fissure that never got taken care of.
Another group of demons waited on the third floor. These ones were new—massive, scaly, still full of enthusiasm.
"She's just one human!" one shouted. "Get her!"
The older demons groaned. "Oh no, not this again."
A blur of motion—gold light slashing, flames bursting, smoke curling through the hall. When the haze cleared, Lyria stood amid a heap of groaning bodies, brushing soot from her cloak.
"Next time," she advised kindly, "think before attacking."
One of the wounded demons raised a trembling claw. "Would you… like to get a drink sometime?"
The others stared at him.
Lyria blinked. "A drink?"
He nodded eagerly. "I know a tavern two levels down—less lava, more atmosphere—"
"Tempting," she said, stepping over him. "But I'm kind of in the middle of storming your fortress."
He sighed. "Story of my life."
She left them groaning and climbed to the next floor, her laughter echoing through the tunnel. The air grew hotter, the stone darker, and her heart beat faster. Every level brought her closer to the chamber she'd never dared to enter until today.
The final staircase loomed—a spiral of obsidian slick with heat. She paused halfway, catching her breath, the mask warm against her skin.
This is it, she thought. Tonight I'm getting inside.
She took a deep breath before getting next to the door she was going to touch it but then stepped back.
I'm finaly going to see my crush, why am I stressing? Damn. Her heartbeat was getting faster and she had to make a small pause before getting back to the door.
Lyria you can do this, she thought before finally oppening the door.
The chamber beyond was vast and quiet, lit by rivers of molten rock that flowed between polished slabs of stone. The ceiling arched high above it was huge much more than Lyria own castle ceilings.
And at the center stood Naya Blackwell.
She wasn't wearing armor. Her usual armor wasn't here, replaced by a sleeveless black uniform that left her arms bare, the ink of her tattoos alive in the firelight.
Red and silver sigils wound down her skin, glinting faintly each time she moved. Her black hair was unbound, cascading like liquid shadow down her back.
She looked nothing like the paintings in the royal archives. She looked real—solid, dangerous, entirely alive.
And really fucking hot.
Lyria forgot to breathe.
Naya turned slowly, sensing her presence before seeing her. For the first time, the princess faced the demon general, Lyria was even wondering if what she was seeing right now wasn't a dream.
Their eyes met: one pair bright green behind a silver mask, the other a deep, burning crimson.
For a heartbeat, neither moved. Naya's expression flickered—surprise, then disbelief, then something Lyria couldn't name.
Then the general raised her hand.
The temperature spiked. Red fire coiled around Naya's arm, gathering in a sphere so bright the shadows retreated.
Lyria's instincts screamed. She barely had time to whisper a spell before the fireball roared across the room. The blast shook the entire floor, heat searing the air as molten energy tore through the spot where she stood.
She teleported.
Light swallowed her body, twisting space for the single instant her power allowed.
She landed on her bed back in Ardenthal with a sound like thunder. The impact knocked over half her bookshelf and set her curtains smoking. For a long second she just lay there, blinking up at the familiar ceiling.
"Well," she muttered, voice hoarse, "that went… better than expected?"
Her right arm trembled; the sleeve was scorched, the fabric eaten through at the edges. The heat had licked her skin close enough to blister, but she was alive. Barely.
She sat up slowly, still dizzy from the teleport. She could only use that spell once a day—sometimes once a week when the mana backlash hit hard. Tonight she'd been seconds from ashes.
Lyria pressed a hand over her chest, feeling her heartbeat slam against her ribs. "She didn't even hesitate."
A nervous laugh bubbled up. "Of course she didn't. Why would the Demon General hesitate? I broke into her room."
She fell back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling, a smile spreading across her face despite everything.
"She's incredible," she whispered.
Outside, dawn hadn't yet reached the horizon, but the first grey light crept through the window. She could still feel the heat of Naya's flame lingering on her skin, an imprint of power so vast it made her shiver.
Part of her mind scolded: You nearly died. This is obsession.
Another part—louder, reckless, thoroughly Lyria—answered: Yes, but have you seen her?
She rolled onto her side, clutching a pillow. "Okay. New plan. Next time I say something before she incinerates me."
Silence answered, broken only by the faint hiss of a smoldering curtain.
"Right," she sighed, dragging herself up to douse it with a burst of magic. "Maybe I'll start with hello."
Her reflection in the mirror looked back—hair wild, face pale, eyes bright with the same wild hope that had driven her into the dungeon in the first place.
She traced the edge of the silver mask lying on her nightstand. It was cracked from the blast, one half scorched black.
"You didn't even get to compliment her tattoos," she told it mournfully. "Tragic."
Outside, Ardenthal was beginning to stir, the city unaware that its golden princess had just faced the Black Flame and survived by inches.
Lyria opened the window, letting the morning air wash over her. Somewhere far below, the first bells of the day began to ring. She watched the sky lighten, heart still racing.
"She noticed me," Lyria whispered.
Her smile widened into something dangerous, almost triumphant. "That's a start."