Morning light spilled in the room slipping past the curtains and settling on the half dead body tangled in the bed.
For one moment, the princess looked angelic well if the angels slept sideways, half draped in torn sleeves and faint scorch marks.
Her first thought when finally opening her eyes was that her body was like it had been crushed by a dragon.
Her second was that she'd fallen asleep in the same burned clothes she had teleported home with.
" Oh, nice just what I needed," she groaned, sitting up.
The scent of smoke had clung to her hair and she had some faint burn marks on her where the flames had touched her last night.
She pressed a palm to it,then her magic did the rest. Warm golden light bloomed beneath her skin, erasing the sting and healing the burn marks.
By the time the burn was totally gone she remembered that the demon general really wanted to kill her but she had looked hot while doing so, so it's okay right ?
" Am I delusional, yes but I will go again with a plan."
She tossed off the ruined clothes to the floor, then froze when footsteps came from the corridor. The maids would be here any second to wake her.
" Oh no. I have to be quicker."
She tried the fastest she could, took the clothes, tied it all together and shoved it deep into the bottom drawer of her wardrobe. A quick charm and sealed it shut. No one could see them.
She grabbed a nightgown of pale blue silk and threw it over her head just as the door opened.
" Good morning, Your Highness!," sang Mira, her arms full of towels. Behind her came two more maids, already heading towards the bathroom.
Lyria straightened, trying to act innocently
" Good morning! Isn't it a lovely weather outside?"
Mira blinked. " It's raining, your Highness."
" Exactly," Lyria said serenely. " The perfect weather to stay in bed and sleep."
The maids exchanged smiles, the kind that means our princess is being strange again but we love her anyway and then began preparing the bath.
Steam soon filled the chamber, carrying the scent of rose and citrus oils. Lyria slipped into the water with a sigh that was half bliss, half relief.
Her muscles loosened, the ache from last night's adventure dissolving.
Mira began brushing Lyria long hair, carefully untangling the strands. " You went to bed early yesterday. You must have been really tired."
" Exhausted." Lyria said, closing her eyes. From almost being roasted by the hottest woman, she thought.
The youngest maid giggled. " Perhaps from all those readings? You always stay up late in the library when you're not in your room."
"Yes, reading," Lyria said, smirking .
"Definitely reading."
—-
An hour later, dressed in a beautiful sea-green gown with lace, she made her way through the palace corridors toward the library. Her reflection in the passing mirrors looked too perfect.
If only perfection could help me survive demon fire, she thought, suppressing a sigh.
The royal library was really big, almost 5 times Lyria chambers, every wall lined with shelves of pale wood. Light filtered through the windows and one could hear the rain outside.
She greeted the librarians with her usual nod, then headed straight for her favorite spot: a secluded corner beneath a window where the light was soft.
She opened a stack of texts on magical resistance, pretending to study while her mind replayed last night on an endless loop.
Naya Blackwell. The Black Flame.
And gods, that woman.
Lyria thought stopped. She pressed her hand to her temple. " Focus," she whispered.
Lyria's quill stopped mid-sentence. She pressed her hand to her temple. "Focus," she whispered.
It was hopeless. Every time she closed her eyes she saw black tattoos along Naya's muscular arms and the hot murderous look just before the explosion.
" She looked so fucking hot." Lyria admitted, not even surprised by her own honesty. " Also murderous. But mostly hot."
The librarian passing by cleared his throat. Lyria tried an innocent smile and looked at him until he hurried away.
When the hall finally emptied, she took her things and slipped toward the staircase at the back, the one that spiraled down to the restricted section.
Officially, only scholars of the high council were allowed here but Lyria was a princess who could do whatever she wished.
She arrived at the demon archives.Torches burned with blue-white flame, illuminated shelves of grimoire and books. Her pulse quickened as she descended the final step.
She moved between rows until she found what she wanted: History of the demon lineages. The spine glowed faintly when she touched it.
She carried it to a table, spread her notes, and began reading the book.
Each page detailed one of the demon king's generals: names, symbols, histories.
Naya Blackwell filled an entire chapter.
Naya Blackwell, the Black Flame.
Commands the Obsidian Dungeon.
Lyria flipped another page , dust rising almost making her sneeze . The section on the Black Flame stretched across several pages, written in the meticulous hand of someone who clearly feared their subject.
Naya Blackwell, the Black Flame.
Classified: SS-Rank Demon.
Known age: over a century (exact number uncertain; records lost during the Great Infernal War).
Height: approximately six feet and three inches.
Role: Right Hand of the Demon King, Commander of the Obsidian Dungeon, Keeper of the Lower Flame.
Primary Attribute: Infernal Fire — capable of altering physical reality at extreme output.
Secondary Attributes: Weapon Conjuration, Thermal Manipulation, and Psychological Warfare (noted tendency to intimidate before execution).
Assessment: Highly intelligent. Lethal. Cruel. Absolutely without mercy.
Lyria leaned back in her chair, eyebrows raised. "Cruel, absolutely without mercy… yes, yes, terrifying, I get it," she muttered. "But who wrote this? Someone she turned into ashes mid-sentence?"
The book continued in grim tones about the countless raids she'd ended singlehandedly, about the fortresses that had melted under her flames.
Every word was meant to horrify. Instead, it made Lyria's pulse quicken with fascination.
Her eyes fell on the accompanying illustration—a crude painting of a red-skinned figure, half-smoke, half-monster, with claws like sickles and no resemblance to the woman she had seen.
Lyria blinked, then frowned. "That's not her."
The artist's attempt at horror looked more like a really ugly demon.
"She doesn't look like this at all," she said out loud, flipping the page indignantly.
"Where are the tattoos? The arms? The jawline? Whoever painted this clearly hated beauty."
Her voice dropped into a whisper. "She looked so much better in person…"
She caught herself smiling like a lovesick fool and groaned softly. "Saints above, what is wrong with me? I nearly died and I'm complimenting her look."
Still, she couldn't help it. Memory replayed in her mind of the general.
A quiet giggle escaped before she could stop it.
"That face card… ridiculous. No mercy, no weakness, perfect posture—of course she had to be sculpted by fate's cruelest sense of aesthetics."
She shook her head quickly, cheeks warming, and forced her attention back to the text.
The following section was short, only a few lines written in the faded ink of scholars who'd likely given up hope:
Weaknesses: None confirmed.
Countermeasures: None effective.
Recommendation: Avoid direct confrontation. Pray she remains uninterested in your existence.
Lyria stared at the final line, exhaled slowly, and muttered, "Well, too late for that."
She rubbed her temples.
"So no known way to beat her. Great. Excellent. I'm researching how to get killed more efficiently."
Her quill hovered above her notes before she scribbled down: Strategy required: not dying immediately. Step one—learn fire resistance spells. Step two—compliment her instead of startling her.
She leaned back again, eyes half-closing, murmuring, "Cruel, merciless, heartless—yes, but at least she's consistent. The consistency of an active volcano."
The more she studied, the deeper she fell into thought.
—-
The hours slipped away. She barely moved except to turn pages and refill her inkwell.
The quiet of the library wrapped around her , punctuated only by the scratch of her quill and the occasional mutter, "How does someone stay that powerful for a hundred years without a vacation?"
By the time she looked up, the soft afternoon light had turned gold, spilling through the high windows. Her stomach growled faintly. She blinked, realizing she hadn't eaten since this morning.
"Oh," she said weakly. "Lunch. Right. That was a thing."
She gathered her notes into a precarious pile, intending to return the book, but she decided to keep for the moment.
—-
When she finally emerged from the restricted section, the main hall was dim, torches already lit.
She'd missed not only lunch but nearly all of the afternoon.
She returned to her usual study table in the safer zone of the library, setting down her notes.
A blank parchment waited there, and she began drafting what she optimistically titled Operation Don't Die (and Maybe Flirt).
Her list began practical:
Research heat wards.
Enchant armor for thermal resistance.
Improve reaction time.
Then, below that, she added:
Compliment tattoos before she sets me on fire.
Bring expensive wine as peace offering.
Avoid making eye contact for more than five seconds (too distracting).
She stared at her handwriting and burst out laughing softly. "I've officially lost my mind."
Still, the laughter felt good. It steadied her after the chaos of the night before.
The candles had burned halfway down when footsteps echoed in the hall. Lyria looked up to see a familiar armored figure approaching—one of the palace guards, looking both relieved and wary.
"Your Highness! We've been searching everywhere. Dinner is being served."
She blinked at him, momentarily disoriented.
"Dinner? Already?"
"It's nearly nightfall, my lady."
She glanced toward the windows—indeed, the world beyond had dimmed into twilight.
"Ah. So it is."
As she rose, gathering her papers, the guard's eyes drifted to the thick book still half-hidden beneath her notes.
"Should I… have that returned to the shelves?"
Lyria smiled sweetly. "No, that one's extra credit."
He nodded, deciding not to question the princess.