We were outside Riverrun's Adventurers Guild as I met Garrick's eyes. ''I said I wanted independence. I meant it, no more babysitting for you, old man.''
He huffed, half-laugh, half-resignation. ''Then don't die in there. The clerks bite harder than the monsters.''
''Noted.''
Marcus stepped forward, a serious expression crossing his face, dropping his voice so only I could hear, while the other soldiers guarded the road we were on. ''We'll hold the square, my prince. No one will trouble you while you're inside.''
I nodded once, grateful for the man's loyalty. Then I turned toward the doors. The crowd watched. Every eye in Riverrun, it felt like, fixed on the moment the once-useless prince walked up the steps alone. I pushed the heavy doors open with both hands. The noise hit me first: laughter, shouts, the clink of tankards, the low growl of someone haggling over a quest reward.
The smell was thicker inside: woodsmoke, old parchment, oiled steel, and the faint metallic bite of blood that never quite washed out of the floorboards. I stepped across the threshold. A hundred conversations stuttered and died. Heads turned. Tankards paused halfway to mouths.
The bard in the corner missed a note on his lute but recovered, keeping people entertained while they went about their business. I walked straight toward the registration desk, boots echoing in the quiet, feeling the weight of every stare. Time to make it official and become an adventurer so I can enter the dungeons as my siblings had.
Even my sister Sarah had gone in, despite her age, and fought the monsters scared the old Arthur. Moments later, I shook my head at the whispers and was standing in line. People stared at me, whispering among themselves. I was too busy admiring my surroundings to bother with their gossip.
It looked like your typical Adventurers Guild. A row of boards covered the wall to the left, with the counters on the far right. A long bar, which impressed me more than it should have, was in one corner, serving the many people who were relaxing between quests. Warriors and mages went about their business, picking up quests or talking to the women behind the counters.
The guild ladies were attractive, but my gaze didn't linger the way the other men did, eyes hungry and obvious. Without taking another look, I let out a quiet sigh. Focus, Arthur. Strength first. Everything else can wait. Then the guild fell silent again when people started spotting me.
Not the hush of my entrance, this was sharper, edged with recognition and something close to wariness. Conversations didn't just fade; they snapped off. Tankards lowered slowly. Chairs creaked as people turned. I glanced back, only to see a woman walking through the doors at the head of a small group.
She was the beauty that didn't ask for your attention; she took it, whether you liked it or not. Short orange hair framed her face, tousled as she'd just walked off a battlefield, falling just past her ears in a way that left her neck bare and vulnerable, except nothing about her looked vulnerable.
Those big brown eyes swept the room in one slow, predatory arc, hot, bright, looking for something or someone to challenge her. They didn't soften when they touched anyone, even the higher-ranked Adventurers. If anything, the temperature in the guild dropped a few degrees when they passed over me.
Her leather armour clung to her like a second skin, moulded to every dangerous curve and hard-earned muscle. It hugged the swell of her hips, the powerful lines of her thighs, the taut strength of her waist, practical enough to save her life, tight enough to remind every man in the room what kind of body lay beneath the blood and steel.
She moved like she owned every inch of the floor she walked on, hips rolling with a lethal, unhurried grace that made my pulse kick despite every ounce of discipline I'd built. The guild had gone dead quiet. Not the stunned hush of my entrance, this was something deeper, more primal.
Like the room had suddenly remembered there was a predator among them, and every instinct said: don't move. Don't breathe too loud. Then an older man finally emerged from the staircase above, his steps measured. My gaze shifted to him; he met my eyes for a split second, gave the barest nod of respect, then turned toward her. ''Athena Bloodletter!'' he called, voice carrying just enough authority to cut the silence. ''Up to my office. We have much to discuss.''
I stood there, still half-turned toward the registration desk, when the woman known as Athena did the last thing anyone in the room expected. She ignored the guild master completely. The older man's call went unanswered, hanging in the thick air like smoke. She didn't spare the stairs a glance.
Instead, those bright eyes found me across the room and pinned me in place like a spear through the chest. The corner of her mouth curved, slow and knowing, the first real smile I'd seen from her, and it sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with fear. She crossed the floor with that same stride, boots whispering on the boards, hips swaying in a rhythm that made every man in the guild remember how to breathe, even if only shallowly.
The silence deepened, became something alive and uncomfortable. Every eye tracked her, but she never looked away from me. When she stopped, she was close enough that I could smell her: leather warmed by body heat, faint iron, a trace of something sharp and herbal clinging to her skin like war-paint that never quite washed away.
Up close, every line of her body is a promise of strength and a threat of violence. My pulse kicked hard against my ribs, heat crawling up my neck despite every vow I'd made to keep my head clear. Focus, Arthur. Strength first. But gods, she made focus feel like a joke. She tilted her head, studying me the way a wolf studies prey that might, just maybe, bite back.
''Prince Arthur,'' she said, voice low, warm, almost intimate.
The kind of tone that could coax secrets out of a dying man or cut his throat a second later. ''I heard the rumours. The shameful prince finally crawled out of his wine barrel, traded the fat for muscle, and started swinging steel.''
Her eyes flicked down my frame and back up, slow and appreciative. ''But this,'' she gestured loosely at me, at the new sword, the straight spine, the man who no longer looked like he belonged in a tavern corner. ''This is something else entirely.''
I swallowed, throat dry. ''I'm here to make it official,'' I said, forcing the words steady. ''Join as an adventurer. Start earning the second chance I've been given.''
She stared at me for a heartbeat longer. Then she laughed, soft at first, then richer, brighter, a sound that rolled through the guild like distant thunder. Heads turned. Tankards stayed forgotten. Even the bard's fingers froze on the strings. ''An adventurer,'' she repeated, grinning wide enough to show perfect, sharp teeth. ''That's almost sweet.''
She leaned in, just enough that her breath brushed my ear when she spoke next, voice dropping to a velvet murmur meant for me alone. ''I know what you're going to become, I can sense death on you. You're dangerous now, prince. More dangerous than you know.''
Her eyes glinted, dark amusement and something hotter, something hungry. ''Whoever sent you here, they've woken a beast. And now that beast is loose on Verona.''
Athena held my gaze for a long second, letting the words sink in, letting me feel the weight of them settle in my gut like cold iron. Then she smiled, slow, wicked, and utterly disarming, and straightened. ''I'm going to give you some advice, don't go north. The Bomb Princess is killing princelings all over.''
Without another word, she turned on her heel, the motion smooth and final. The guild master was already halfway down the stairs, expression caught between irritation and resignation. Athena glanced up at him once, the smile still playing on her lips. ''Coming,'' she said lightly, as though she'd never ignored him at all.
She strode toward the staircase, hips swaying one last time, leaving a wake of stunned silence behind her. Every eye followed until she disappeared up the steps, the guild master trailing a respectful half-pace behind. The room exhaled all at once. I stood there, heart hammering, the ghost of her scent still lingering, her words burning in my ears.
Dangerous. A beast let loose. I looked down at my hands, the hands that had once trembled at the thought of a sword, and felt something shift inside me. Whatever she'd meant, whatever game she was playing. I wasn't going back to being the shameful prince. But one phrase kept burning in my mind: Who the hell is this Bomb Princess?
***
(Far North of Aldoria, Days Later)
The air itself screamed as I raised my hand and clicked my fingers. ''BOOM!''
A heartbeat later, the heart of a Town in the Orc Kingdom of Falcrest erupted in a blooming inferno of violet-black flame and shattered stone. My explosion magic tore through timber, iron, and bone like divine wrath given voice. Towers folded inward from the force. Walls burst outward in sprays of molten rock.
The sky above the town turned the colour of bruised twilight as more blasts chained together, each one answering the last in a symphony of ruin. The filthy Orcs had dared challenge the Morveth Kingdom. They had marched on our borders, burned our outposts, spilt Dark Elf blood under the moon.
Father had given me one simple command: teach them a lesson they'd never forget. And gods, how I loved doing this. I clicked my fingers once more. Another thunderclap of force rolled across the valley. A marketplace vanished in a perfect sphere of annihilation, the shockwave hurling orcish warcries into silence.
Smoke rose in thick, coiling pillars, black as sin, and the wind carried the sharp tang of scorched iron and charred flesh. Through the haze, I saw them. The Orc Champion and his companions, five silhouettes cutting through the chaos, charging straight for me. No hesitation. No formation. Just stupid courage and the kind of arrogance that gets legends killed.
My Royal Guards surged forward, silver blades flashing, dark cloaks billowing like storm clouds. ''Princess!''
I raised a single hand. ''Leave them to me, you fools.''
They froze mid-step, then fell back, bowing low, eyes wide with the mixture of fear and reverence that always greeted my temper. The Champion reached the crest of the hill first. A Sixth Circle Warrior, nothing compared to my Ninth Circle power. He was towering, broad-shouldered, his greatsword already trailing blue battle-aura.
Behind him, his companions fanned out, archer, mage, rogue, healer, all of them radiating that nauseating light of righteousness. I stepped forward slowly, heels clicking on cracked stone, the hem of my black-and-crimson gown trailing through ash like spilt wine. My red eyes met his.
He was strong. I could feel it, the pressure of his aura pressing against mine like a storm. Most would have flinched. Most people would have felt the instinctive urge to kneel. I grinned instead. A slow, cruel, delighted grin that bared the sharp edges of my teeth. Without waiting for a monologue or declaration of my supposed death.
I raised my right hand, ready to snap my fingers. The air around my hand began to shimmer, then distort, then scream as reality itself folded around the point of my focus. His eyes widened. I tilted my head, letting my long midnight black hair spill over one shoulder. ''Boom,'' I said softly.
Following that, the world was still trembling, dust and embers drifting like black snow across the shattered remains of the town. The Champion lay broken at my feet, his greatsword snapped in two, blue aura guttered out like a candle in a storm. His companions were scattered, groaning, crawling, or simply staring at the sky with empty eyes.
Victory tasted like ash and iron on my tongue. I exhaled slowly, letting the afterglow fade from my fingertips. Behind me, the softest rustle of silk on stone. I didn't turn. I didn't need to. ''Princess Nyxara,'' came the velvet voice of my maid, Elowen, always calm, always precise, even when the world was burning.
She stepped into view at my left, her silver hair braided with black thorns, her dark gown untouched by soot or blood. One gloved hand rested lightly on the hilt of the slender dagger at her waist. She never needed to draw it. People died from her words alone. She bowed her head once, a fraction deeper than protocol demanded.
Respect, yes, but also a warning. ''The ravens arrived while you were… occupied,'' she said, voice soft enough that only I could hear over the distant crackle of dying fires. ''Three messages. All telling the same thing.''
I tilted my head slightly, inviting her to continue. Elowen's lips curved in the faintest, coldest smile. ''The Third Verona Prince has awakened.''
The words landed like a thrown knife. I felt my red eyes narrow, the familiar heat of interest coiling in my chest. ''Arthur,'' I murmured, tasting the name like wine. ''The fat, drunken disgrace they kept hidden behind velvet curtains.''
''Not anymore.'' Elowen's tone was almost amused. "He shed the flesh of the old Arthur like a snake sheds skin. Lean. Strong.''
A slow, delighted shiver ran down my spine. ''And?'' I prompted, voice dangerously soft.
Elowen's gaze flicked toward the horizon, where the smoke of Falcrest still rose in thick pillars. ''He will march on Morveth in the future.''
''The Old Crone has seen it,'' she continued. ''She woke screaming from her trance three nights ago. Said the stars bled red, and a new beast walks the earth wearing a prince's face. She claims the Third Veronain Prince no longer hides behind wine and cowardice. He has tasted shame, and now he hungers for conquest.''
When I heard my maid's words, I laughed, low, throaty, the sound rolling out across the broken city like distant thunder. ''Hungry, is he?'' My fingers flexed, violet sparks dancing between them. ''Good. Let him come,''
I turned slowly, the hem of my gown sweeping through ash and broken spears. ''I'll be waiting to break him.''
My smile widened, sharp as a crescent moon, as I concluded this horrid affair. ''Tell father the lesson in Falcrest is taught.''
Elowen inclined her head again, already stepping back into shadow. ''As you command, my princess.''
I looked north, which was controlled by the Morveth Kingdom, toward the capital Nyxthar, then south, toward Verona, toward the awakened beast who dared to wake from his long disgrace. My red eyes burned brighter than the dying fires. ''Come then, Third Prince,'' I whispered to the wind.
I licked my lips, tasting victory and anticipation in equal measure. ''I've been waiting for someone worth killing.''