The prince arrived on a Tuesday.
Which felt…wrong.
Princes, in Fia's experience, were supposed to come with fanfare and omens—blood-red moons, prophetic dreams, system pop-ups announcing [ROUTE COMMENCING].
Not with a tired courier at mid-morning reporting, somewhat apologetically:
"Your Majesty, there is a…man at the outer gate insisting he is Crown Prince Lucien of Valgard. He's carrying his own luggage and eating street food. He says he's on holiday."
The council chamber had gone very still.
Valgard.
Enemy kingdom.
Altars. Iron Circle. The king who wanted to marry the villainess and turn her into living artillery.
Fia's heartbeat had spiked so fast Mira had flicked her a sharp glance and murmured, "Don't."
"Describe him," Seraphine had said calmly.
The courier had fumbled.
"Tall," he'd said. "Dark hair. Looks… annoyingly handsome, if you'll pardon the term, Majesty. Like a painter's idea of a hero. No escort, no banners, just…a white traveling cloak and a very expensive sword he keeps pretending is decorative."
Fia's stomach dropped.
Of course.
The first male lead.
In the game, Crown Prince Lucien of Valgard was the default route. All bright smiles and easy charm at first—the "gentle prince" archetype—before the story twisted.
Before the politics.
Before the bad ends.
Before he killed her.
Not personally, in most routes. He didn't have to. The script took care of that. He just stood there while the villainess was dragged away, or watched her fall, or offered her a gentle smile as he sentenced her to exile that was effectively slow death.
Fia's fingers dug into the wood of the council table.
Her dragon stirred, all heat and low displeasure.
This one smells…odd, Ardentis rumbled. Like someone the world likes. Dangerous.
"She's gone," Elira had whispered, low enough that only the small knot at the head of the table heard. "That look. That 'I just remembered three bad endings at once' look."
Lyriel had pushed her glasses up, eyes narrowing.
"If it is Lucien," she'd said, "he is blessed. Hero archetype. The system liked him as much as it cursed you. His presence is a variable I do not appreciate in our already unstable equation."
Mira's hand had found Fia's under the table, cool and steady.
"Breathe," she'd said, thumb rubbing circles. "He is one man with a foreign passport standing at our gate. Not a route. Not a script. Breathe."
And Seraphine—Seraphine had listened, weighed, and then stood.
"Fine," the queen said. "We'll meet him. In the small solar. Not the throne room. No audience. No ostentation."
Her eyes had flicked to Fia.
"You stay behind me," she added. "If this is some kind of ploy, I want his first obstacle to be a crown, not a dragon."
Fia had swallowed.
"Understood," she'd said.
Now, barely half an hour later, they waited.
The small solar was cozy by palace standards—white stone softened with rugs and green plants, sun slanting in through high windows. No dais, no thrones. Just a low table, several couches, a pair of armchairs.
It would have been pleasant.
If Fia's nerves weren't flayed.
Seraphine stood by the window, back to the light, wearing the informal version of her colors—dark crimson tunic, black coat, no crown but power radiating all the same.
Mira had claimed one armchair, posture deceptively relaxed, healer's satchel at her feet, a few discrete wards humming around the room like sleeping bees.
Elira lounged against a column, arms folded, sword at her hip, the picture of casual menace.
Lyriel sat on the arm of the second chair, a slim black notebook in her lap. She wasn't writing—just tapping her thumb against the cover in a precise, impatient rhythm.
Fia stood slightly behind and between Seraphine and Mira, dress simple today—midnight blue, high collar, sleeves to the wrist. No flaming skirts or dramatic corsets. She felt too exposed even like this.
Her palms were damp.
Her lungs were…behaving.
Small victories.
The door opened.
"Announcing His Highness Lucien Ardent Valgard," the guard intoned, clearly unsure how many of those titles were real and how many the man had casually given at the gate.
The man who stepped through did, unfortunately, look exactly like a painter's idea of a hero.
Tall. Broad shoulders without bulk. Dark brown hair pulled back into a loose, low tie, with a few strands falling artfully to frame a face that would look good on coins and wanted posters alike.
His eyes were a clear, ridiculous blue that caught the light.
His jaw had just enough stubble to suggest "I am relaxed and not performing for you," without tipping into disheveled.
He wore a white traveling shirt under a soft gray coat, dark trousers tucked into well-worn boots. A sword hung at his hip, but the scabbard was plain. He carried a leather satchel slung crosswise and, in one hand, a paper cone of candied nuts.
He popped one into his mouth as the door closed behind him.
"Wow," he said after a beat, looking around. "You really do all gather like a boss fight."
Fia's heart stopped.
That…was not in any of her memories of scripted Lucien.
Seraphine's voice came out cool.
"You stand in Arclight," she said. "State your purpose."
Lucien blinked, then seemed to visibly remember how people normally did this.
"Oh. Right. Formalities." He shifted the nuts to his other hand, wiped his fingers on his coat (Mira winced), and bowed neatly enough to prove he'd been schooled in it since infancy.
"Lucien of Valgard," he said. "Crown Prince, Sainted Hero, first of my father's very many headaches. Your Majesty."
His gaze flicked past Seraphine.
Landed on Fia.
He smiled.
Not the blinding, weaponized charm the game had taught her to fear.
Just…warmth.
"Aaand there she is," he said. "The Flame Calamity herself. The infamous villainess. The woman my father will not stop ranting about at breakfast. Hi."
Every muscle in Fia's body locked.
Up close, she could feel him.
Not like altars.
Not like dragons.
More like standing near the center of a web where a lot of threads happened to meet.
The world…notched around him. Tiny things. The way the light caught his hair just so. How dust motes seemed to drift out of his path.
Ardentis rumbled.
He is favored, the dragon said. But not like us. The weave likes him. It leans toward him.
Fia resisted the urge to bare her teeth.
"Lucien of Valgard," Seraphine said, stepping fully between them, her shadow cutting off his view. "You cross my border without entourage, without formal notice, during a war your father is actively escalating. You say you are on…holiday?"
Lucien winced.
"Yeah, that sounds bad when you put it that way," he said. "But yes. Vacation."
Mira's voice sliced in, clinical.
"Why?" she asked. "If this is an assassination attempt, it's a very inefficient one."
Lucien lifted both hands, candied nuts still in one palm.
"No assassinations," he said. "Promise. Cross my heart."
He actually traced a little X over his chest.
Elira shifted, boots scuffing against the floor.
"Careful," she drawled. "If you keep being that casual, my sword might slip."
Lucien's eyes flicked to her.
"Oh, hello," he said. "You must be the captain. I saw some of your work at the southern front. Very impressive. Terrifying, but impressive."
Elira blinked, thrown by the compliment.
"Thank…you?" she said.
Lyriel cleared her throat.
"Your father is using forbidden altars that eat people," she said flatly. "You understand how 'I'm just visiting' plays when that is happening."
Lucien grimaced.
"Yes," he said. "Deeply. Which is why I came unarmed except for my very pretty but mostly symbolic sword, and with exactly zero creepy cultists in tow. I needed…a break. From all of that. And before anyone jumps, yes, my guards know I'm gone. My father does not. Yet."
"You snuck out," Fia heard herself say.
Her voice sounded distant.
Lucien's grin flickered wider, boyish.
"More 'left through the front gate with a signed leave of absence my father didn't read before stamping,' but yes," he said. "I'm on sanctioned holy-hero vacation. I have paperwork."
He patted his satchel.
Seraphine did not look amused.
"You expect us to believe you strolled into your enemy's capital for leisure," she said.
Lucien shrugged.
"Honestly?" he said. "You're safer for me than my own palace right now. My father's court is a nest of altars and sycophants. I wanted to breathe air that hasn't been filtered through incense and sacrificial smoke for five minutes."
His gaze flicked past her again, to Fia.
"And," he added, tone going oddly gentle, "I wanted to see her."
Every head in the room snapped toward Fia.
Heat crawled up her neck.
"Why?" Mira demanded, before Fia could choke on the word.
Lucien looked genuinely confused that this needed explanation.
"Because," he said slowly, as if working through a basic equation, "according to my father, she is the greatest strategic asset on this continent and obviously destined to be my Empress once he's done doing…whatever horrible thing he thinks will make that happen. According to the priests, she's a walking blasphemy. According to the latest pamphlets—" he reached into his satchel one-handed and pulled out a crumpled sheet "—she is a dragon-touched seductress corrupting the hearts of innocent women."
He skimmed it.
"Honestly, this one sounded kind of fun," he said. "But still. Everyone is talking about her. I thought it would be polite to at least introduce myself to the person whose life my father is currently designing like a particularly deranged war map."
Fia's stomach lurched.
Seraphine stepped fully in front of her now, blocking her from his direct line of sight.
"You will not repeat that word in this room," she said quietly. "Empress."
Lucien blinked.
"Future Empress," he corrected, as if that made it better.
Mira's voice went ice-cold.
"Absolutely not," she said.
Elira snorted.
"Over my dead, extremely stabby body," she said.
Lyriel adjusted her glasses with slow, precise annoyance.
"Statistically," she said, "the odds of that happening dropped to near zero the moment she collected four girlfriends and a dragon. Your father needs a new model."
Fia found her voice.
"This is not a game," she said, words sharper than she'd intended. "You don't get to stroll in here and talk about me like a prize on a board."
Lucien looked at her properly then, over Seraphine's shoulder.
The hero's eyes were…tired.
Not with lack of sleep, though there were faint shadows there.
With weight.
With the dragging awareness of someone who had been told, over and over, that the world needed him to be a particular shape.
"I know," he said quietly. "Believe me, I know. I'm not here to claim you. I just…"
He trailed off.
Scrubbed a hand through his hair.
"Look," he said, words coming faster. "All my life, people have been telling me the story of Crown Prince Lucien—how he'll marry for power, how he'll conquer, how he'll 'redeem' whatever dark force his father decides to leash. The last year, that story started using your name. 'You will marry the villainess. You will tame the Calamity. You will make her yours.'"
His jaw clenched.
"I wanted," he said, "to look you in the eyes and give you the courtesy nobody in my palace bothers with."
Fia's pulse pounded.
"What courtesy?" she asked.
"The choice," he said simply.
He squared his shoulders.
The prince straightened over the tourist.
For a heartbeat, Fia saw the outlines of what he could be if the script had gone differently: the golden hero at the center of a tale, gravity drawing people into his orbit.
"Lady Fia of Arclight," Lucien said formally. "Dragon-touched, warbreaker, current bane of my father's advisers. You have every right to hate me. Every right to fear me. Every right to refuse me. So I will say it once, with witnesses."
He took a breath.
"I will not take you," he said. "Not by marriage, not by conquest, not by altar. If you ever hear that I am coming to claim you, you can know two things: one, that someone is lying; and two, that I will be on the opposite road, running as fast as I can in the other direction."
It was…not a confession she'd expected.
It wasn't even particularly elegant.
But something in Fia's chest unwound by a fraction she hadn't realized was knotted.
Mira's posture eased a hair.
Lyriel stopped tapping her thumb.
Elira looked baffled and impressed at the same time.
Seraphine, though, did not soften.
"You still called her 'future Empress'," the queen said.
Lucien winced.
"Yeah, that was…habit," he admitted. "Valgard's strategists talk like that. To them, you're all…pieces. I've been trying to scrub the vocabulary. I'm on vacation, your Majesty. I promise. No schemes. No speeches. No proposals. I'm here to eat new food, see if your parks are as nice as the pamphlets, and maybe—not that I blame you if this is a hard no—say hello to the woman my father keeps describing as an apocalyptic bride."
"All of that," Fia said flatly, "is not happening."
Lucien blinked.
Then he laughed.
It wasn't cruel.
It wasn't mocking.
It was…relieved.
"Honestly?" he said. "Good. Great. That's…actually what I was hoping you'd say."
The four women and one villainess stared at him.
"What?" Elira demanded. "You walk in here talking about 'future Empress' and you wanted us to tell you to get lost?"
Lucien shrugged, helpless.
"If you'd looked at me with big, hopeful eyes and said 'yes, please, marry me and save me from my terrible life,' I would have had to figure out what kind of person I am very quickly," he said. "I like to think I'm a decent human being. But I'm not sure I could handle being someone's last-ditch hope and their conqueror at the same time."
Lyriel narrowed her eyes.
"So instead," she said slowly, "you show up to…decline your own route."
Lucien's smile was crooked.
"I show up," he said, "to tell you that if you ever hear I'm knocking at your door with wedding contracts, it's because my father has killed me and stuffed my skin with one of his priests. I figured that might be valuable information."
Fia's laugh came out half strangled.
"That is…" She shook her head. "That is the darkest, stupidest reassurance I've ever received."
"Welcome to Valgard," Lucien said dryly.
He popped another candied nut into his mouth, apparently unfazed by the fact that four of the most dangerous people in the kingdom still watched him like he might sprout altar chains.
"Anyway," he went on, words slightly muffled, "now that we've established that I am not here to kidnap, marry, or otherwise acquire anyone, would it be horribly rude of me to ask if your kitchens do that fluffy cake with the cream in the middle? The pamphlet I stole from one of your traders mentioned it three times and I've been thinking about it for two border crossings."
Seraphine stared at him.
"You are unbelievable," she said.
"In my defense," Lucien said, "I did warn you I was on vacation."
Fia's lips twitched before she could stop them.
There was something almost obscene about it.
That a man who had been a faceless, looming threat in her head for months, an avatar of the game's cruel routes, could stand there complaining about cake.
He wasn't harmless.
The weave still curved around him.
The world still liked him in that small, insidious way.
But the person inside the favor and the title and the script looked…tired.
And, for the moment, disarmingly honest.
"You can have cake," Fia said slowly, before Seraphine could decide to throw him out on principle. "Under guard. Under wards. Under…an escort that will happily stab you if you do anything remotely cult-adjacent."
Lucien pressed a hand to his chest.
"You wound me," he said. "Nothing cult-adjacent. I'm trying to cut back."
Elira snorted.
"Sit," she said, jerking her chin toward a chair. "If you're going to be this ridiculous in our solar, you might as well do it sitting down."
Lucien obeyed, folding himself into an armchair with loose-limbed ease, sword settling against the side.
He glanced around at them again.
At Seraphine, still standing like a closed gate.
At Mira, fingers hovering near her satchel, ready to fight with vials instead of blades.
At Elira, coiled like a spring even when she looked relaxed.
At Lyriel, eyes dissecting him in a dozen ways at once.
At Fia, dragon coiled under her ribs, four warm presences at her back.
"Relax," he said softly, and for the first time it sounded like an attempt at comfort, not condescension. "I meant what I said. I'm on vacation. I just wanted to meet you. Now I have. 'Villainess: terrifying, beautiful, very attached to her girlfriends. Do not poke.' Noted."
He tipped his head.
"So," he added lightly, as if to puncture the tension, "any recommendations on what a foreign prince absolutely has to see in Arclight that isn't a battlefield?"
Fia exhaled.
The game in her head flickered.
Lines of script that had once led her to a collar and an altar rewrote themselves, just a little.
"Maybe the park with the big fountain," she heard herself say. "When the children aren't there. They…throw bread at anyone who looks too important."
Lucien's eyes brightened.
"That," he said, "sounds perfect."
Behind her, Fia felt Seraphine's incredulous glance.
Mira's wary amusement.
Elira's muttered, "If he turns out to be evil, I'm going to be so annoyed we let him eat cake first."
Lyriel's low, "Better to observe him as a tourist than as an enemy general."
Ardentis coiled, curious.
Strange hero, the dragon said. We will watch him.
Fia nodded minutely.
"Fine," she thought back. "We'll watch. From a distance. With swords."
Out loud, she said, "You can stay. For a little while. As a guest. Under conditions."
Lucien smiled.
"Conditions are my favorite kind of hospitality," he said.
He leaned back in the chair, finally—finally—putting the cone of candied nuts down on the table like a flag of truce.
"Vacation it is," he murmured.
No lightning struck.
No system banner appeared proclaiming [LuciEN ROUTE UNLOCKED].
The war did not stop.
The altars did not crumble.
But for one strange, cautious afternoon, the first male lead sat in their solar asking questions about pastry, and the villainess, her dragon, and her four very protective, very suspicious girlfriends listened—
not because they trusted him.
Not yet.
But because the world was no longer allowed to decide their roles without their consent.
And if the hero wanted to chill in the enemy capital on his day off?
Well.
They would decide what that meant.
Not the game.