The heavy canvas of the tent blocked out the silent moon, leaving White Choco Cookie illuminated only by the constant flame of her own rapier. She sat cross-legged on the rough floor, the polished golden plates of her armor catching the shifting red glow. Her fingers traced the cold steel of the guard before resting on the pommel's ruby.

The Flameblade. It never dimmed. It never slept. It was the memory of her reckless deal, a promise of guaranteed victory fueled by pure heat. Tonight, as the crackling sound of the permanent flame filled the silence, it felt more like a fever.

She had secured the perimeter. The threat was neutralized completely. Too completely, perhaps. The memory of the desperation in their eyes lingered— eyes that had met hers split second before the flame consumed them.

"Ruin is the price of keeping them whole," she whispered, the phrase tasting like burnt sugar on her tongue. She didn't regret the swings. Not truly. Regret was weakness, and weakness meant failure. Only the next fight mattered. She tightened her grip, even if it burned. Let the flame burn. Let it burn away everything unnecessary, including the scent of smoke and ash that seemed perpetually stuck to her dough. She needed to be sharp, and fire always sharpened the steel.