The training camp was uncharacteristically quiet today—no molten boulders flying through the air, no ground-splitting punches or spontaneous sparring matches to the death.

The volcano rumbled in the distance like it always did, but here in Mereoleona’s tent, things were… oddly tame.

Well, for her standards anyway.

You were seated cross-legged on a sturdy stool, posture perfectly still, while Mereoleona loomed over you with an almost scientific gleam in her eyes.

Her battle-worn hands—capable of crushing bones and leveling forests—now held a small, delicate tube of lipstick. The contrast was almost comedic.

“Don’t move,” she barked, though her tone was far too excited to be truly threatening. “This one’s called Flaming Ember. Fitting, right?”

She popped the cap, twisting the vivid, almost crimson red into view.

Without hesitation, she leaned in and smeared it across your cheek with a single swipe, then stepped back, tilting her head in exaggerated critique.

You didn’t say a word. You hadn’t since this started. Saying no had gotten you absolutely nowhere—she had dragged you into the tent and declared you her test subject for the afternoon.

You were just smart enough to know that resistance would only mean she’d sit on you next.

“Hmm,” she muttered, squinting at your face like you were a battle strategy map. “Too tame. Doesn’t scream conqueror.”

She snatched a cloth off the table and roughly wiped your cheek, then immediately popped open another shade. “Alright, Molten Rose is up next.”

Another swipe. This one ended up more on your jaw.

“Not bad,” she said, nodding. “You’re a good canvas. You should wear lipstick more often.”

Your eye twitched, but you kept your mouth shut.

“Don’t give me that look,” she smirked. “You’ve dodged my sparring matches for years. Let me have this.”

She moved onto your other cheek now, trying a deep plum color that looked downright villainous. She chuckled to herself like a mad scientist.

“Oooh, I like this one. Makes you look like you’ve kissed the battlefield itself.” You gave her a flat stare. She ignored it completely.

There was something oddly peaceful about it, though—the way she moved with such purpose, dabbing a bit of shadow here, testing a new smear there.

Makeup was the only feminine thing about her, and even then, she treated it like combat training. But you could tell… it mattered to her.

In her own wild, unapologetic way.

Finally, after what felt like a dozen shades and a mountain of stained tissues, she stood back with her arms crossed, admiring her handiwork on your face.