Lemma learned the truth in a cellar that smelled of mold and fear.
It lay beneath a grain warehouse near Grayhaven's outer district—one of many such places that had appeared since the kingdom changed hands.
Officially, they were storage sites. Unofficially, they were where people went when the Dawnwardens asked questions.
Lemma stood in the shadows of the stairwell, listening.
"…we can't keep doing this," a man whispered below. "They said it was for protection. For order.
A woman sobbed softly. "They took my daughter. Said she was chosen."
Boots scraped stone.
A familiar voice followed—confident, polished, practiced.
"Careful," said the Dawnwarden captain. "Accusations against Her Majesty border on treason.
Lemma's jaw tightened.
She edged closer, peering through the gaps in the planks.
The cellar was lit by a circle of red lanterns—not arcane, not divine, but something in between.
Chains lined the walls. Sigils were carved crudely into the floor, half-erased and re-cut, as if repeatedly corrected by someone who didn't truly understand them.
A man knelt at the center—older, gaunt, shaking violently.
"We paid the tithe," he pleaded. "We gave the grain, the silver—"
"You gave what was required," the captain replied calmly. "But the quota changed."
A priest stood beside him—not of the sun, but of something darker. The symbol on his stole made Lemma's stomach churn: a broken crown encircled by thorns.
Seraphina's mark.
The priest raised a dagger etched with demon script.
"This one will do," he said. "The Demon King of Ash grows impatient."
The world went quiet.
Lemma felt the Dragon's Brand heat—not warning, not fear.
Permission.
She stepped out of the shadows.
"Step away from him," she said.
Every head snapped toward her.
The captain frowned. "This area is restricted."
Lemma's gaze flicked to the priest, then to the sigils.
"So it's true," she said softly. "She really did sell the kingdom."
The priest's eyes widened.
"You—"
Recognition dawned too late.
"Impossible," the captain muttered. "You're dead."
Lemma smiled.
"So people keep telling me."
The Dawnwardens drew their blades.
"Seize her," the captain ordered. "Alive, if possible."
The Demon Kings stirred.
Let me take him, purred the molten voice.
No—this one is mine, hissed the cold.
We can share, suggested a third, amused.
Lemma ignored them all.
She moved.
Not fast.
Not graceful.
But inevitable.
The first Dawnwarden lunged. Lemma sidestepped clumsily, grabbed his wrist, and shoved—not with strength, but with will.
The air thickened.
The man slammed into the wall hard enough to crack stone, collapsing in a heap.
The second hesitated.
That was his mistake.
Lemma crossed the distance and drove her fist into his chest. She felt ribs give—not from force, but from pressure concentrated into a single point.
He crumpled, gasping.
The captain drew back, face pale now. "Monster."
Lemma turned to him.
"You don't get to use that word," she said.
The priest tried to run.
She caught him by the collar, slamming him to the ground. The dagger clattered away.
"Tell me," Lemma said quietly, kneeling over him. "How many?"
The priest laughed weakly, blood on his lips. "You think killing me changes anything? The throne is protected.
The gods look away. The Demon Kings—"
Lemma tightened her grip.
"How many?" she repeated.
"…Hundreds," he whispered. "Soon, thousands. Her Majesty offers souls. In return, the kingdom prospers."
Lemma closed her eyes.
When she opened them again, her voice was steady.
"What Demon King do you serve?"
The priest smiled, triumphant even now. "The one who waits in flame."
The molten voice surged eagerly.
Yes, it whispered. Say my name.
Lemma stood.
She dragged the priest to the center of the circle, forcing him down onto the sigils. The chains rattled as she wrapped one around his wrist—not carefully, not gently.
The Dawnwarden captain backed away slowly.
"You're making a mistake," he said. "The people love us. We are their shield."
Lemma looked at him.
"No," she said. "You're her excuse."
She placed her hand over the Dragon's Brand.
The pressure inside her focused—tight, dense, terrifyingly controlled.
The priest screamed as the sigils ignited—not summoning, but reversing. The demon script twisted, rejecting its own intent.
Flame erupted.
Not outward.
Inward.
The priest burned without fire, his blood boiling, his soul dragged screaming into nothing. The smell was wrong—too clean, too final.
The Demon Kings recoiled.
You deny me? roared the molten one.
She is not yours, snapped the cold voice, satisfied.
Interesting, murmured the third. Very interesting.
The priest fell silent.
Ash drifted to the floor.
Lemma stood over what remained.
Her hands shook.
Her stomach twisted.
She had chosen this.
The captain stared in horror.
"What… what are you?" he whispered.
Lemma turned to him.
"I'm the cost of your lies."
He ran.
She let him.
Outside, bells began to ring—not celebration, but alarm. Dawnwardens shouted orders. Citizens gathered, whispering, afraid.
Lemma emerged from the warehouse into torchlight and stares.
Blood stained her hands.
Someone screamed her name—not "princess," not "majesty."
Just her name.
"Lemma."
It spread like a ripple.
The false heroes would hunt her now.
The gods would notice the broken contract.
Seraphina would feel the loss.
Lemma Heartfilia walked into the crowd, her name carried on blood and fear—
—and for the first time since her birthday, the world remembered it had made a mistake.