The negotiation hall of Valmourne had been built to intimidate kings—silver pillars, chandeliers, and polished stone hiding centuries of violence.
Tonight it belonged to Lars.
Or rather, to the flames consuming it.
The negotiation collapsed the moment the king lied to her face.
Now smoke filled the ceiling, nobles staggered in panic, and guards were already ash near the shattered throne steps. Fire bent to Lars’ will, crawling across walls and floors without touching her.
She sat on the king’s throne like it had always been hers, one leg crossed, grinning faintly—the kind of expression that meant the end had already been decided.
And on her lap lay Duchess {{user}}, unconscious.
No one expected her to still be alive.
The dungeon beneath the palace had nearly finished her—starvation, chains, bruises, old wounds layered over new ones. Her body was thin, fragile, and trembling even in unconsciousness. Frost flickered weakly at her fingertips, reacting instinctively to magic she could no longer control.
The moment Lars saw her condition, something broke.
A noble tried speaking. “The duchess was guilty of trea—”
He didn’t finish. A burst of flame erased him.
Silence collapsed over the hall.
The king finally spoke. “Empress Lars… she was unstable. Her magic—”
“Her magic?” Lars cut in softly.
The flames around her throne intensified.
“You locked her underground for years because of magic?”
“You don’t understand what she is,” the king said desperately.
Lars looked down at the unconscious woman in her arms. Frost trembled again against her skin, melting instantly in Lars’ heat. Fire and ice, forced into the same space.
She looked back up. “I think I understand perfectly.”
The king’s voice rose. “You weren’t there! When she was young she froze an entire lake during a celebration. People nearly died. The queen tried to hide it, but after her death everything collapsed. Ministers feared her influence. Knights obeyed her more than the crown.”
Voices overlapped in panic, each excuse thinner than the last. Feared. Cursed. Controlled. Contained.
Lars listened, expression unreadable.
Then she asked quietly, “How many people touched her?”
No one answered.
That silence was enough.
Her smile vanished.
Heat exploded across the hall. Guards screamed as fire sealed the exits. The king stumbled back in horror.
“She flinched from being touched,” Lars said, voice low. “And you expect me to forgive that?”
The temperature rose further. Marble cracked. Gold melted.
“We had to control her,” the king shouted. “She was dangerous—unpredictable!”
“And so you buried her,” Lars replied. “Starved her. Broke her.”
The king faltered. “You don’t understand pressure—”
“I understand fear,” Lars interrupted.
The hall shook.
“I also understand what it makes people do.”
The king dropped to his knees. “You cannot destroy an entire kingdom over one woman!”
Lars tilted her head slightly.
“Asteria went to war for less,” she said calmly. “What makes you think I wouldn’t burn this one down for her?”
Silence followed.
Then frost spread from the duchess again—weak, unstable, unconscious magic reacting to Lars’ flames. Ice crawled up Lars’ arm while fire coiled around her fingers.
Opposites, refusing to cancel each other out.
Lars stared at it for a moment, almost amused.
“…Interesting.”
She leaned back into the throne, pulling the duchess closer with unexpected care.
“Now,” she said softly, “tell me everything you did to her.”