The silence after Sylvia's capture hung thick in the air, broken only by the crackling of Arson's dwindling flames.
His body trembled not just from pain, but from the humiliation searing deeper than any wound. Blood streaked his face, dripping from a cut above his brow, yet his molten eyes stayed locked on the path where Hard had dragged Sylvia away.
The neutrals, still cowering behind what remained of their homes, dared not speak first. They'd seen the destruction Arson was capable of - the way he'd burned their land, crushed those who resisted, and battled with unyielding fury. But now... he just stood there, breathing heavily, his flames too weak to reignite.
Finally, an older neutral man, his voice hoarse with fear but steady with resolve, spoke. "He took the princess... your rival. Aren't you going to... chase after her?"
Arson's jaw clenched at the word chase. "She's not my problem," he growled, though the words didn't carry the weight they once did. His pride was a battered thing now - torn apart by Hard's condescending victory. "Let the metal freak have her."
But his fists remained ablaze - a silent contradiction to his words.
Another neutral, a younger woman, muttered under her breath. "He doesn't care... He's the Prince of Destruction. He'd probably rather she die."
Arson's eyes flared dangerously at that, and for a moment, it seemed like he might strike her down - but his flames only sputtered out again, a hollow threat.
"She saved us," another neutral said softly. "She fought for us... even when you didn't."
That made Arson whip around, his scorched cloak flaring with the sudden movement. "I never claimed to fight for you," he sneered. "I fight for myself - for my kingdom. Your lives are nothing to me."
But the words tasted bitter on his tongue.
Because deep down - somewhere far beneath his raging ego - he knew that if he truly didn't care... he wouldn't still be standing there.
He wouldn't still be thinking about Sylvia's stunned face when Hard grabbed her arm.
He wouldn't still be picturing the way her vines had connected them for so long - a constant reminder of her presence, even when they bickered.
And he definitely wouldn't still feel this unfamiliar burn in his chest - a burn that had nothing to do with the flames he commanded.
One of the neutrals stepped forward cautiously. "If you're not going after her," the man said carefully, "then you should leave. You have no more reason to stay here."
Arson didn't move.
He didn't leave.
He just stared at the charred ground beneath his feet - and the faint trail of burned grass and broken vines leading toward the direction Sylvia had been taken.
The neutrals watched him, whispering amongst themselves. To them, it looked like a prince weighing his pride against... something else.
The weight of exhaustion finally caught up to Arson. His legs gave out, his vision blurred, and with a rough exhale, he collapsed face-first into the dirt. The embers of his flames hissed softly against the cold ground, flickering weakly - a rare sight for someone so consumed by fire and fury.
For a moment, there was silence.
Then, a few neutrals, those who still harbored deep anger toward Arson for burning their homes and killing their guardian, exchanged looks. The prince was defenseless - a villain brought to his knees by his own overexertion. This was their chance.
Weapons were drawn - simple, makeshift spears and poisoned needles - and they crept forward, their hearts pounding with a mixture of fear and vengeance.
But before any could strike, the old man who had spoken earlier stepped between them and Arson's unconscious body. "Stop this foolishness," he said firmly.
A younger neutral, his voice shaking with rage, hissed, "He killed our guardian! Burned our homes! He deserves-"
"-to be killed while he sleeps?" the old man interrupted sharply. "What pride is there in slaughtering a broken man?"
The words hung in the air.
"Sylvia," the old man continued, "showed us what it means to fight with dignity. To protect, not to destroy. Would you dishonor her by acting like the very man you hate?"
Reluctantly, the weapons were lowered.
The old man knelt by Arson's battered body, studying his burns and bloodied wounds. "We'll heal him," he said softly. "And leave the rest to fate."
When Arson's eyes snapped open, the first thing he noticed was the flickering warmth of his own flames reigniting - a sign that his strength had somewhat returned.
The second thing he noticed was the ring of neutral faces watching him carefully, fear evident in their eyes.
He smirked darkly. "You healed me?" he asked, his voice hoarse but still laced with arrogance. "You're all going to regret that."
The neutrals tensed, but the old man remained steady.
"Consider this my gift for your... kindness," Arson sneered. "I'll burn your pathetic homes to the ground." His flames flared, casting long shadows against the frightened villagers.
But the old man simply replied, "We are ready to accept our fates."
Something about that response made Arson pause. He studied their faces - no begging, no bargaining - just... acceptance.
It irritated him.
"You don't even have a chunk of pride," Arson muttered, his flames dimming. "What fun is it to kill people who want to be killed?"
His lips curled into a furious snarl. "I don't destroy those who willingly throw themselves at death."
The neutrals remained silent.
Frustrated, Arson turned on his heel. "But I'll still take your land," he growled. "This will be my territory now."
With that, he stormed away, his flames roaring back to life as he set his sights on new land to conquer.
For the next half-hour, Arson did what he did best - burn everything in his path. Trees collapsed under his blazing fury, neutral settlements were left as charred remains, and the air filled with smoke and ash.
But as time passed... something strange happened.
The usual thrill of destruction - the rush of power - felt dull.
Every swing of fire felt a little less satisfying.
Every burned village felt a little more... empty.
His teeth clenched.
Was it because of her?
Had being stuck with Sylvia - constantly arguing, constantly challenged by her defiance - made this all feel less exciting?
Without her stubborn resistance and sharp remarks, the conquering game felt meaningless.
He cursed under his breath.
Then, as if driven by an unseen force, he spun around and made his way back toward the neutral village.
The moment the villagers saw him return, panic spread like wildfire. Some grabbed their weapons again, others backed away in fear.
But Arson didn't even look at them.
He tilted his head slightly, inhaling the air.
There it was - faint but unmistakable.
Sylvia's scent.
He didn't know when he had memorized it - maybe it had happened naturally after days of being tethered to her by those stubborn vines - but it was there. The soft, earthy smell of leaves and fresh rain.
Without a word to the neutrals, he followed the scent trail, his flames crackling softly with each step.
He wasn't chasing her. No, not at all.
He was just... tracking his next battle.
That's what he told himself.