2 A Bloody Proposal

The city was going to fall. Her kingdom was going to collapse. Staring at the sea of blood-red flames raging in the not-so-distant horizon, Princess Daphne Yirin wondered how she would die the next day.

A clean end perhaps. A snapped neck? Or a vial of poison?

No, the savage Northerners would never let her die that easily. Like how simply conquering her land and her people wasn't enough for their brutal likings, they would never be content with death alone.

Sever her alive limb by limb? Or burn her to a crisp?

Closing her eyes, Daphne reached into her sleeves, feeling for the familiar cold touch of metal before pulling out her silver dagger once more. She no longer knew how many times she had aimlessly stared at the light reflecting off the blade's perfectly polished surface, but as she felt the decorated hilt's weight on her palms, she could already see the scarlet spots that would stain its silver surface.

Even though the Northerners have not stormed the palace yet, she knew that her world had already fallen. By sunrise, the Kingdom of Eversun would be of no more. Only, if she was to become her kingdom's burial sacrifice, she would take down as many Northerners as she could before she dropped to the ground.

"Princess, I beg you again." A familiar voice dragged her thoughts back to reality. "Leave before it's too late. The King and Queen are waiting for you at the tunnel entrance."

Of course her aunt and uncle were ready to flee the palace. Somehow, Daphne was only surprised that they weren't already out of the city by now. Ever since her parents had passed away a few years ago, her kingdom's powers weakened by the day as the Northern barbarians crept ever closer, baring their fangs and simply waiting for the day to bite.

As for her aunt and uncle, all they knew how to do was to send them gift after gift in hopes that the Northerners would satisfy their gluttonous fill, only to personally nurse this former wolf pup into a snarling beast.

If only she hadn't been too timid to contest her uncle for the throne when she had been younger… And now, it was too late.

"Princess, please leave. No one knows what those Northerners would do…" The elderly maid's voice trembled as she suddenly fell onto the floor in a formal kowtow. "Your Humble Servant made a blood-bound promise to the formal Royal Highnesses to keep you safe. Please do not make Your Humble Servant break her sacred vows."

With shaking hands, Daphne helped her nanny up from the floor, trying to force her face expressionless to not betray her inner anxiety.

"I can't leave."

She walked back towards the window, turning her back to her nanny to hide the tears in her eyes. A little boy lay fallen on the floor, trampled over as her people scampered along the cracked cobblestone streets like pitiful creatures seeking shelter before a terrible thunderstorm. Her vision blurred, and the world below faded into bright pinpricks of torchlight that seemed to set the city aflame.

"I can't leave. I can flee, but what about them? We were the ones who lost the war. Why are they the ones who have to suffer for it?"

She shook her head.

"Why are they the only ones to suffer?" Daphne's voice cracked. "We were the ones who took their blessings and asked for their trust. And we too must be the ones to bear the weight of their curses. Even if I cannot reverse this current situation, at least let me fall along with it."

She ran her dainty fingers along the cool blade surface.

"Mother and Father would have wanted me to do at least such. When I meet them in the afterlife, I cannot bear the thought of their looks of disappointment knowing that I left their people behind."

A tower fell in the distance. Daphne closed her eyes again, not wanting to see the horrid scene before her.

"Please, my respected lady, leave. Flee with your daughter before it is truly too late. You both deserve better than this." She stood up straight, leveling her tiara. "This is the least I can do—"

A horrid scream pierced the already-turmoiled night.

"Princess! Come! Quick!"

Then, there was silence. Deathly silence.

— — —

Racing to the stairs, the sight that greeted Daphne was painful to look at, and she let out a choked gasp.

A frail girl trudged toward the staircase, leaving a trail of blood behind her with her every step. Under the flickering candlelight, the spots of crimson were especially bright against the otherwise pale marble pathway.

Daphne willed herself to run faster, praying that the image before her was all just a nightmare.

"Prin—" The wounded girl stumbled, barely catching herself as she croaked with a hoarse voice that sounded only half human. She opened her mouth again but found that no voice came out. She had so much to say, but she could barely keep her eyes open.

"Akira!" Daphne didn't want to believe it. Nor this could not be true. "What are you all waiting for! Call for a physician!"

Hearing her master's familiar voice, the girl crumpled to the floor, her fingers drawing crimson streaks on the ground as she made one final attempt to crawl forward. With all the energy she could muster, she looked up, her eyes full of glistening tears.

"Princess—"

Her body went limp. Daphne stumbled down the last of the steps, collapsing onto the floor as she reached out to the cold body.

In front of her, her personal maid lay naked on the floor, every inch of her pale skin covered with the crimson words "Give me your princess or there will be war."

With jagged handwriting across her bony legs…

In smaller font on top of her breasts…

A fine line of print around her dainty wrists…

Only, every stroke was slashed by a sharp blade, and it was hard to tell where the deep cuts began and the girl's flesh ended. Some marks were older, the darker color of rust, while some others were fresh, still oozing out blood as the girl lay still.

And most prominently, a giant crow soared on the center of her forehead, almost like that of a branding mark on a mere piece of livestock. The crow was intricately cut, the skillful wielder of the blade including the fine details of feathers and capturing even the deathly gleam in the bird's beady eyes.

The symbol was one that every citizen in the Kingdom of Eversun had come to know and fear in the past four years.

It was the same left behind when rivers of blood flooded the border cities and when corpses piled as high as mountains.

It was the harbinger of death, the reminder of the kingdom's imminent danger of being conquered.

What's more, it was the personal symbol of the barbarian king of the Northern Kingdom, a man so cold-blooded that it was said that he murdered his own brother and father without as much as a blink of the eye in order to seize the throne.

Outside, the horned trumpets pierced the night as a thousand men in armor marched into the Eversun capital city.