Victoria Xande: The Fire (Part 1)

From the moment I was born, the weight of the world was placed on me.

Expectations, duty, all things I was almost obligated to due to the circumstances of my birth.

I was merely the third daughter of the King and Queen of Xande. A girl who should have lived a lavish, calm, peaceful life.

I would have attended royal ceremonies, learned the proper etiquette of a princess, married whoever my family deemed suitable, and perhaps one day watched my elder siblings inherit the throne.

That was the life I thought I would have.

But I was born with a gift.

A gift that occurs once every few generations.

The Xande bloodline inherently possesses an innate affinity for a special type of ice magic called "Blood Rose Ice", characterized by its blood red color. All who bear the name Xande possess this power to varying degrees, but even the weakest Xandes are equal to Gold-plated adventurers.

My magic manifested at an extraordinarily high level from the moment I was born. Power far beyond what any child—or even most adults—could possess.

The court called it a blessing. The royal scholars, a miracle. And the people called it a sign that I was destined for greatness.

And because if this gift, my life course was already decided for me.

I was no longer simply the third daughter of King Frederick and Queen Song.

I was made Crown Princess of Xande. Before even my very capable elder brothers.

Before I was old enough to even understand what that title meant.

From that day onward, I was taught that this power wasn't mine alone. It was the kingdom's.

I was expected to master it, to hone it, to become someone worthy of the gift that had been thrust upon me—to be worthy of the duty thrust upon me.

And I did. Because back then, all I wanted was to make everyone proud.

My magic grew at an astonishing rate, and before long, I was able to measure up to even the Royal mages that had trained for twice, no, three times as long.

Then I took up the sword. At first, it was simply just another lesson. Another skill for the Crown Princess to learn.

But I found I had a talent for that as well. I trained and trained, until I had surpassed even my instructors.

And at only sixteen years old, I was considered one of the best duelists in Xande, rivaled only by the Platinum-plated and above adventurers that resided in the city.

I was no slouch in academics either. Studious, fast-learning. Every professor's dream student.

But of course, with these skills and titles comes impossible expectations. I was expected to be picture perfect. Every movement, every action, every word had to be deliberate and purposeful, for any slip-up or mistake reflected the Royal family.

At sixteen years old, I'm one of the best duelists in Xande.

Crown Princess, prodigy, miracle, a gift from the heavens.

Everyone seemed to have a different idea of who I am or who I was to be.

Everyone except for me. To me, I was simply Victoria. A girl who wanted an ordinary life born into extraordinary circumstances.

Of course, a completely ordinary life was impossible for one of Royal status.

Ceremonies, bodyguards, and the respect that I was granted just by simply existing—all things I had expected.

But I...just wanted to wake up in the morning without thinking about responsibilities—ones that were thrust upon me. 

I wanted to walk through the city on my own without a procession following my every step.

I wanted to make friends with people who spoke to me because of me, and not of my status.

I wanted to make mistakes. I wanted to fool around sometimes.

I wanted to choose my own path.

I wanted to be me.

Not a prodigy, not a weapon, not a symbol.

Just me.

Victoria.

But this is the life I was given.

No matter how much I wished for it, the world had already decided what I was meant to become.

At one point, I started to question whether I would ever truly find my own happiness.

I no longer know.

———

Midday. It's been uneventful as of lately. The streets of Xande are just as crowded as ever, the citizens gliding here and there in a stream of activity, yet I still feel as if there is nothing to do.

It's not uncommon that I take excursions to the common areas. I feel much more at ease here than I do sitting through yet another pointless meeting or ceremony.

Though it is precisely here that I wish I weren't such a prominent figure in my own kingdom. Even on days when I just wish to have a peaceful, ordinary afternoon, crowds will stop merely at the sight of me. 

You have already seen me plenty of times. My presence alone does not warrant such a reaction.

Alas, civilians and merchants and adventurers alike stop in their tracks to bow or wave or greet me with what appears to me as almost reverence.

Such a pain.

"Your Highness," my knight Cedric calls out, the clinking of his armor alerting me to his presence long before his words do.

"Cedric. What is it?" I reply, turning slowly. My hands are folded in front of me, resting gently on the fabric of my dress.

He stops before me, performing a quick, precise bow. He rises and nods at me, the sun reflecting off of his bright blond hair. "His Majesty the King has requested your presence at the palace."

I click my tongue. 

This father of mine...I love him and my mother dearly, but it would be a lie if I said I appreciated his particular brand of "overprotectiveness."

"For what purpose?" I question.

Cedric shuffles slightly in place, shoulders rolling. "He...said it was urgent."

"Father says everything is urgent. Send a message to him that I shall return by nightfall." I turn back around with a wave of my hand. "It is not often I get time to myself."

Or rather, the idea of time to myself. 

Even now, the only reason I was allowed to travel outside the palace walls was because of Cedric, who has been my personal bodyguard since I was born. He's served the royal family since he was fifteen, and in a sense, he has become akin to an older brother to me.

Speaking of older brothers...

"Besides, if it was as urgent as Father makes it out to be, he has my brothers to call upon as well."

"Your Highness, I—"

"Leave it, Cedric." I say firmly.

"...Alright." He sighs, before whistling harmoniously. A bird with mottled white and dark red feathers swoops down from the sky and lands neatly upon his shoulder. Cedric leans toward it and whispers a few words.

The bird chirps in response, and just as quickly as it came, it takes flight and disappears into the sky in the direction of the palace.

"Thank you." I say, glancing towards him. "As for you, you may also take this opportunity to get what you need done."

"I'm afraid I cannot do that, Your Highness. I must accompany—"

"No, you mustn't. Please, you have not had free time to yourself in ages." I gesture towards the busy streets. "Learn to let lose every now and then."

"...I suppose...I could get something for my sister." He hums. "But their Majesties would be furious with you if they learn that their heir's bodyguard was relieved of his post."

"I'll deal with that when the time comes."

"...Very well." Cedric bangs a fist to his chest, the metal of his armor creaking and clattering. "Enjoy your day, Your Highness."

He bows once more, before spinning around and disappearing into the crowd.

Finally. Some peace.

The passersby in front of me blink my way, and I wave them off.

For once, I can enjoy some alone time. Or as alone as I can be in the middle of the largest kingdom in Nousa.

I continue walking through the streets, letting myself wander without any particular urgency. The noise of the city surrounds me—the chatter of merchants, the clatter of carts, the occasional laughter of children. There is definitely something comforting about it. Here, I can simply walk. No council members waiting for me, no tutors, no ceremonies.

Here, it's just people living their lives.

Of course, as Crown Princess, eyes turn to me wherever I go. But I'd rather distant admiration than confrontational expectancy.

I find myself watching them more than I intend to.

A mother scolding her child for wandering too far from her stall. Two adventurers arguing over which tavern serves the best stew. A group of young students hurrying down the street, their books tucked underneath their arms.

Ordinary things, things that they have seen countless times.

And yet, somehow, they are fascinating.

Perhaps because they are things I have never truly been able to experience myself.

I pass through the Golruby District and eventually leave the denser parts of the city behind.

Today, I was looking to get some new gear fitted for me, as the one I have been using for training has begun to show wear. The leggings are torn in some places, and the leather is beginning to darken with age. While it is still usable, I would prefer my gear to be in top shape regardless.

Despite my family having our own armorer, I have my own preference.

It is on the eastern outskirts of the kingdom, operated by a family of Dark Elves called the Graywoods who have lived here for generations. Their smithy has been in their family for longer than my brothers have been alive, and I have visited them often enough that they're one of the few commoners that are know me personally.

It's nice to see familiar faces who treat me so plainly.

And so I go east. Past the Golruby District and past even the Royal Knight Academy, until eventually the stone streets give way to beaten roads and open fields. The eastern outskirts of Xande are much quieter than the heart of the kingdom, as to be expected. Fields of grass stretch across the near horizon, broken up by patches of tilled soil and narrow dirt paths. The outer wall that separates the fields from the shoreline loom in the distance, brilliant and ever present.

Bulls pull ploughs through the earth, guided by farmers who call out to them and wave them forward. Workers move to and fro, some running with stacks of hay strapped to their back, others flying overhead with pails of water. Smoke billows lazily from the chimneys of houses scattered across the plains.

A few farmers pause to wave as I pass. I return the gesture.

The eastern countryside is peaceful. Of course, nowhere near as impressively vast as the Saltrock Plains just west, but an impressive sight nonetheless.

I breathe in deeply. The air is different here. Cleaner, less crowded. For a moment, I almost forget I am royalty.

Almost. 

The building I'm searching for is only a few dozen flicks or so southeast. I narrow my eyes and raise a hand to shield my face from the midday sun, scanning the nearby land. It doesn't take long to find the building, as it's the only smithy in the eastern section of the kingdom. 

The furnace alone is enough to separate it from the farmhouses more northwest.

Adjusting my dress, I continue toward the smithy, passing by a few more farmers.

"Your Highness!" I hear a voice call out to me from above. I turn my head upwards. 

One of the farmhands—a Dragonian woman—is flying overhead. She waves excitedly at me, her wings beating slowly to keep her hovering in place.

"Where ya goin'? Needa lift?" she shouts, pointing toward her wings. "I can take ya there if ya need me too!"

I shake my head, waving back. 

"I'm alright," I shout back, gentle but firm. "I appreciate the offer, though."

"Y'sure? I got time before I—"

"I'm sure. Thank you." I nod before continuing on.

"Alright, then! Have a wonderful day, Your Highness!" the Dragonian woman shouts. She gives me one more wave, before soaring overhead, gliding towards the fields.

I watch her for a moment before continuing.

It is moments like that which remind me that the people of Xande are not nearly as intimidating as the palace makes them out to be.

Most of them are simply just people. People with families, jobs, friends. Things they worry about, things they look forward to.

And, apparently, a willingness to offer their princess a ride whenever she happens to be walking somewhere.

I almost smile at the thought.

Almost.

The road grows quieter as I walk farther from the city. The sounds of Xande gradually fade behind me, replaced by the rustling of grass, the moos of bulls, and the occasional call of a bird.

A breeze passes through the fields, gently lifting the hem of my dress.

I stop for a moment.

The silence is nice. Just the wind, and my own thoughts.

I close my eyes for a few seconds and breathe it in.

If only every day could be like this. 

I open my eyes and continue walking. Before long, the familiar shape of the smithy comes into view. Even from here, I can hear the rhythmic clang, clang, clang of a hammer striking metal. The sound is almost comforting.

Unlike the palace armorer, who always trreats every piece of equipment I request as though he is handling a priceless royal artifact, the family here has never made much fuss over me. They simply make what I ask for, and with ease, too.

Their quality is also quite satisfactory, if I say so myself.

Perhaps that is why I like them.

I approach the front entrance, heat rolling out through the open doorway, carrying the smell of coal, hot metal, leather, and oil with it.

Pulling my dress up slightly, I step inside, heels clacking on the hard stone floor.

"Hello?" I call out. The familiar noise of the smithy immediately surrounds me. A hammer strikes an anvil somewhere in the back.

Someone is filing down a piece of metal at a nearby workbench, and a young Dark Elf girl sits in the corner, carefully sorting a collection of nails and small metal fittings into wooden trays.

Another one is seated at a table, eating what appears to be a late lunch, with a book propped open beside their plate.

Everyone seems to be doing something different.

The moment I step inside, however, several pairs of eyes turn toward me.

"Hm? Oh!"

A Dark Elf woman looks up from the piece of armor she is polishing, yellow eyes widening.

"Your Highness!" She says as she stands, immediately brightening as she wipes her ebony hands with a towel.

I offer her a small smile. "Good afternoon, Lyra."

From behind the main forge, an older man raises his head, though you couldn't tell by just looking at him. Elves naturally age much slower than most. 

A smile spreads across his face. "Well, I'll be damned. Welcome in, Your Highness."

He sets his hammer down and wipes his forehead with a cloth.

"Aezo, I specifically remember requesting you call me simply 'Victoria', no?" I hum as I approach the family.

"It just feels wrong to be so familiar with the Crown Princess, doesn't it?" Lyra pipes up, to which Aezo, the "old" man, nods.

"Indeed it does...I don't think I'll get used to it." He shakes his head. "You were here the other day, princess. What do you need?"

I tilt my head. "The other day? You mean when I came to repair my breastplate seven weeks ago?"

"Is that not the other day?" Aezo scratches his head with a gloved hand.

"For you, perhaps."

The younger man at the table, around my age or older, snickers.

"She's got you there, Dad."

"You can speak up when you finish replacing the charcoal, Kael," Aezo chides. Kael rolls his eyes, giving me a slight wave before going back to his book and food.

I can't help but let out an amused huff. "Good to see that nothing has changed."

"Ah well, wouldn't be much of a smithy if it did." He approaches, still wiping his hands with the cloth.

"Now what brings you out this far?"

"I require new training gear, specifically my leggings." I pat my legs. "The ones I've been using along with the leather fittings are beginning to wear down. I would like them replaced."

Lyra crosses her arms. "Same measurements?"

"Yes..." I pause. "Well, mostly."

She gives me a mischievous smile. "Her Highness is still growing, hm?"

"She is still young," Aezo chimes in, before cracking his knuckles. "But that does mean my daughter is going to have to take your measurements again."

I turn to Lyra, who tilts her head with a friendly smile.

With a purse of my lips, I groan. "...Is that really necessary?"

"Yes, Your Highness." Lyra says firmly.

"Fine," I sigh. "I suppose that is why I came here in the first place."

"Then let's get started!" Lyra cheers, clasping her hands together. "Kael, don't you dare peek!"

"What the hell?" Kael exclaims, seemingly taken aback by the comment. "Why would you automatically assume I would?"

"I'm kidding. Seriously, don't peek."

"I wasn't going to in the first place..." he snarks before throwing an apple seed towards her.

Lyra doesn't react to it, the tiny thing bouncing off her shoulder harmlessly.

"Sorry about him," she says to me.

I shake my head. Some things, at least, are pleasantly ordinary.

———

"Hahh!"

Ksshh!!

My sword clangs against steel, the sound ringing in my ears.

My instructor—my new one—smirks as he pushes his own blade back against me.

"Not bad, kid," Sword Saint Wu Tian hums. His foot suddenly shifts, and before I could react, his heel slams into my ribs.

"Guhh!?"

I slide backward across the dirt, my boots scraping the ground. I catch myself by driving my sword into the earth, stopping my momentum.

I cough once, clutching the pain throbbing in my chest, before pulling my blade free and straightening myself. I raise my sword once more, tip pointed at him.

The Sword Saint grins. "But you lack conviction." 

He twirls his sword before lowering the blade beside him. "Again!"

"Tch..."

After I had my measurements taken by the Graywoods, I returned to the palace soon after, only to find a furious Queen and a King who seemed to have been woken up mid-nap.

The Sword Saint had arrived in my absence, and due to forcing my bodyguard too abandon his post, my mother ordered me to undergo my first proper training regiment under the Sword Saint.

Sword Saint. A title only granted to the greatest swordsman or swordswoman in the world. It is granted to the best of the best, and the one who had bested the best.

A person of such high accolade surely has more on their plate than training a princess in swordsmanship. Even if I am a prodigy, I'm nowhere near the level of those outside these walls, or even some in them.

Xande is no stranger to Adamantite-plated adventurers.

Tightening my grip on my sword, I charge once more.

Our blades meet again.

Ksshh!

I try to catch him with an upwards swing from low, but he merely taps it out of the way with the flat of his own blade.

I strike at his torso with a thrust, but he steps aside casually. I slash upwards once more, before bringing my blade down toward his neck. He dodges the first, before hitting the next one aside.

Kssh!

He dodges or redirects every blow with almost insulting ease. 

He ducks.

I follow with a thrust.

He twists his body aside.

Another strike.

Another parry.

Another.

Every movement feels effortless for him.

It's infuriating.

"You hesitate," he says, rubbing his chin.

"I do not." I snap.

"You do."

I charge, and he blocks. Our blades lock together, and he looks me directly in the eyes.

"Your body knows what to do. Your instincts know what to do. But something in your head is telling you to hold back."

He shoves me away.

"Again."

I grit my teeth.

I had heard that the Sword Saint was difficult to impress. I'm beginning to understand why.

"Your footwork is good," Wu Tian says.

He casually circles around me, and all I can see of him are his flowing robes.

"Your technique is excellent. Your reaction speed is ridiculous for your age."

I spin around, trying to find him behind me. Before I could even blink, the butt of his sword smacks right between my eyes, sending me tumbling backwards.

"Gah!" I cradle my head in hands, snapping my eyes up at him.

"But you're fighting like someone who doesn't want to hurt me."

"..." I lower my head and stare at the ground.

Something about those words makes my stomach twist...but I know exactly what he means.

Two years ago, when I was fourteen, I was sent on patrol with my former instructor. A routine sweep of the forest north, which had a tendency to house petty thieves and stray monsters. Nothing particularly dangerous.

That was what we were told. Right as we were about to return home, we were ambushed. Insurgents bearing a flag of our emblem carved out surrounded our patrol before we could properly organize ourselves.

I remember the screams. The clashing of steel. My own confusion.

Several of our soldiers were slit at the throat. Blood churned from their necks as they collapsed lifeless to the ground.

My instructor himself was bounded, weapon taken. A blade was pointed at his throat, ready to cut his head from his body.

I remember screaming at myself to do something. So I did.

My blade was drawn, and ice flew from my fingers.

I still remember the first person I had slew.

The sound of my blade finding his chest and the gurgling scream that wailed from his throat.

And then I remember the silence that followed.

Then I killed another. And another. I cut them down one after the other.

There was no time to think, no time to hesitate. I wanted to move, and my body moved.

Ice erupted from my hands as my sword tore through armor and flesh. The soldiers who were still alive and bound were freed as the attackers fell around them.

I remember the stench of blood. It was everywhere.

Heavy, metallic—sickening. My face was covered in the spurts that had sprayed from their wounds. My hands were stained to the wrist by ichor. 

And I...remember looking down at myself afterward, hands steady even as their life dripped from my fingers.

And I didn't feel anything at all.

That is what had frightened me. I had just killed people. Not rampaging monsters, not mindless beasts, but living, breathing people. Murderers they might have been, but they were still people.

And while I understood what I had done, there was no grief that had overwhelmed me. Only the knowledge that if I had not done it, they would have done it to us.

Perhaps that should've been enough. Perhaps it was simply what happened when someone is forced to make a decision like that.

But even now, I wonder.

What kind of person can kill someone for the first time and feel...nothing?

I never asked anyone that question. And no one asked it either. My parents were cried tears of joy to hear that I returned safely, my instructor told me he owed me his life. The soldiers that survived that day further deepened their everlasting allegiance.

I wondered if there was something wrong with me. That my gifts came at the cost of my own humanity.

I don't feel like others. I don't laugh, I don't smile, I don't cry, I don't anger like others.

...I still recall the smell of the blood in the air, and the warmth coating my skin. Yet I could never recall if I felt any sort of remorse for them.

I tighten my grip around my sword, gritting my teeth.

"Again," the Sword Saint says, brushing back his smooth, long light purple hair. "Do not hesitate."

I look up, and his eyes stare down at me. There's no judgement behind his eyes, just expectancy.

I stand back up, shaking the pain from my head, before raising my blade towards him once more.

"Yes sir!" I shout.

I wonder if what the Sword Saint sees as a lack of conviction is actually something else entirely.

Perhaps I am not afraid of the act of killing.

Perhaps I am afraid of how little killing frightens me...

And the person I would become because of it.