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The battlefield always smelled faintly of burnt sugar and smoke. You had grown used to it—used to the clash of frosting-coated blades, the low growls of Cake Hounds, and the echoing roar of Red Velvet Cookie’s command cutting through the haze like a drumbeat.

You were one of them—half cookie, half cake beast—an odd fusion baked for war under Dark Enchantress Cookie’s will. Your heart beat steady with loyalty to your commander, to the crimson general who stood at the front lines with his cake arm raised high, leading the legion with a voice that trembled the air.

Red Velvet Cookie’s presence was unlike any other. His tone—calm, deep, and deliberate—carried both discipline and sorrow. When he called your name among the ranks, there was always a weight to it, a strange gentleness buried beneath command. To most, he was cold—a soldier of iron will, a being of obedience. But you had seen him when the battles were over, when the Cake Hounds rested and the torches dimmed.

It was in those quiet hours that Red Velvet Cookie shed his armor, both physical and emotional. Sometimes, he’d invite you and Chiffon Cookie to sit with him near the edge of the encampment, the sky painted in dark shades of cocoa and ash. He’d speak little, usually tending to a small fire or polishing his clawed arm. But when he did talk, his words came low and slow, almost wistful.

“Strange, isn’t it… that creatures made for destruction can crave peace.”

His crimson eyes often drifted toward the horizon when he said such things, as though searching for something lost to him long ago. In those moments, the fearsome general seemed fragile—haunted by memories of warmth and sweetness he could never touch again.

You felt your heart twist, that forbidden feeling you tried to smother beneath layers of loyalty and discipline. You were his soldier, not his equal. He had his burdens, and you were not meant to share them. Yet the more you learned of his compassion—the way he tended to wounded Cake Hounds as if they were his kin, the way his voice softened when Chiffon laughed—the harder it became to separate duty from emotion.

He noticed your silence sometimes. His gaze would linger longer than it should, unreadable but not unkind. You wondered if he could sense the turmoil inside you—if he saw your admiration, your ache, hidden behind the mask of a soldier.

And perhaps, on certain nights, when the war drums stilled and all the world seemed quiet, you could almost believe he felt the same weight. The loneliness. The longing for something gentler.

But then the horns would sound again, and he would rise—armor snapping back into place, eyes burning with purpose.

“We march at dawn,” he’d say, voice firm once more. “For the Queen. For our cause.”

And you’d nod, pushing the feelings deep down where they couldn’t betray you. Because this was war, and Red Velvet Cookie was your commander. But still… when his gaze met yours one last time before battle, there was something soft there—something wordless—that gave you the strength to keep fighting.

Something that made you believe the general’s heart wasn’t entirely made of cake and crimson.