Part 11: The War of Wills

Prince Arson finally stood at the border of a once-verdant meadow, now reduced to blackened ash.

The scent of smoke clung to the air, but something new crept through the cinders — green.

Tiny sprouts pushed through the cracks, and vines crept slowly but surely along the edges of the charred land.

Again.

The same pattern — he burns, she grows.

Arson’s molten eyes narrowed. His hands, wreathed in flames, flexed at his sides.

Blaze laughed beside him. “She’s following you like a shadow, my prince. Or worse — a weed you can’t burn out.”

Scoria grunted. “A stubborn little sprout.”

Arson didn’t smile. He didn’t laugh.

Instead, he lifted his hand — and with a flick of his wrist, the remaining patches of green burst into flames.

The sprouts sizzled and curled into nothing.

“You can’t regrow what’s nothing but ash,” Arson muttered, his voice low and dangerous.

But even as the fire died down, more green crept along the border of the blackened earth.

A familiar voice rang out, calm but firm.

“You can burn as much as you want, Arson.”

Princess Sylvia stepped into view, her green skin glowing softly beneath the charred sky, her hair like vines tumbling over her shoulders.

Behind her, Thorne and Ivy silently observed the ruined land — and the new life already breaking through the cracks.

Sylvia's gaze didn’t waver. “But nature always grows back.”

Her voice wasn’t loud — it was steady, like the roots beneath the soil — unseen but unyielding.

Arson’s flames flared at his fingertips.

“If you keep standing in my way, Sylvia,” he growled, “I’ll burn everything. And if you dare to grow it back — I’ll burn it again.”

Sylvia’s expression didn’t change.

She knelt down, placing a hand on the scorched soil — and with a single touch, green vines sprouted from the cracks, winding up and around the dead roots of a burned tree.

Slow. Patient. Unstoppable.

“Then I’ll grow it again,” she replied softly.

The heat between them wasn’t just from the flames.

It was the collision of their beliefs — the rage of destruction versus the resolve of growth.

Blaze muttered under his breath, “She’s not afraid of you, my prince.”

And that — more than anything — was what drove Arson mad.

Far across the frozen lands, Prince Glacius watched silently as the river he had frozen solid cracked once again.

The ice, which had spread in perfect lines, now melted unevenly — glowing with an iridescent shimmer of fairy magic.

A single droplet of water fell from a melting icicle — a sound so small, yet to Glacius, it was a thunderous insult.

Drake scowled, his frozen blade resting on his shoulder. “She’s undoing your work, again.”

Frysta's icy gaze didn’t move from the glowing figure in the distance. “Princess Peggy.”

There she was — a glowing beacon of light in the middle of the frost.

Princess Peggy floated just above the ground, her golden wings shimmering as they radiated heat, melting the ice Glacius had carefully laid across the land.

She wasn’t just fighting the freeze — she was liberating the water beneath it.

The frozen river cracked again — loud, like glass breaking.

Glacius’ expression didn’t change, but the air around him grew colder.

Peggy smiled — not out of mockery, but defiance.

“You freeze everything in place,” she said, hovering just out of his reach. “But rivers are meant to flow.”

Her hands glowed as she touched the ice — another crack echoed as more water gushed free.

Glacius spoke softly, but his voice cut through the cold.

“Flowing rivers cause floods.”

Peggy’s wings flared brighter. “Frozen rivers cause death.”

The ice around them creaked — a battle not of blades or fists, but of order versus freedom.

Drake’s grip on his sword tightened. “Shall I freeze her wings, my prince?”

Glacius didn’t move. His voice was calm. Controlled.

“If she melts too much,” he whispered, “I will freeze her — personally.”

Peggy’s eyes flashed.

“Try me.”

Meanwhile...The sky above the burned meadow was a sickly mix of smoke and green mist — a clash between the lingering flames of Prince Arson and the persistent regrowth of Princess Sylvia.

Arson’s fiery hands crackled at his sides, flames licking at his fingertips like restless serpents. His molten-red skin seemed to glow hotter every time he glanced at the creeping green vines curling through the charred soil.

Sylvia, calm and unwavering, stood firm — her emerald eyes steady, her hand resting lightly on the new sprouts pushing through the blackened ground.

Behind her, Thorne and Ivy watched Arson’s every move, ready to strike if the fire prince so much as blinked the wrong way.

Blaze chuckled beside Arson, his own flames flickering brighter with every vine he saw. “Looks like your little gardener just won’t quit, my prince.”

Arson's jaw clenched.

“Let me handle them,” Scoria growled, her hands already heating up, smoke rising from her palms. “We can burn their roots before they spread.”

Sylvia’s voice cut through the rising tension.

“You can burn the land a thousand times, Arson,” she said softly, “but it will always grow back.”

Her words weren’t a threat — they were a promise.

The flames at Arson’s hands flared.

He stepped forward, each footfall leaving a scorched mark in the soil.

“If you keep getting in my way, Sylvia,” Arson said, his voice low, “I’ll burn you next.”

Thorne took a step in front of Sylvia, but she gently raised a hand, stopping him.

“Burn me,” she replied evenly, “and even my ashes will grow something new.”

For a moment — a brief, dangerous moment — the air itself felt ready to combust.

Blaze’s smile widened. Scoria’s fists tightened.

And Arson…

He stared into Sylvia’s unblinking green eyes.

Why wasn’t she afraid?

Why wasn’t she begging him to stop?

_ _ _

Miles away, the frozen lands crackled — ice against light.

Prince Glacius stood like a statue of frost, his breath turning the air into mist, his cold presence spreading with every quiet step he took.

Beside him, Drake rested his frozen sword against his shoulder while Frysta hovered like a silent wraith — both awaiting their prince’s next move.

Across from them, Princess Peggy floated just above the icy river, her golden wings glowing with a warmth that melted the frost wherever she moved.

The water beneath her shimmered — freed from Glacius’ frozen grip.

Her generals, Dave and Veronica, circled the broken riverbanks, their magic pulsing with flickers of light that cracked and shattered more of Glacius’ carefully laid ice.

“Another crack,” Peggy teased, a sly smile tugging at her lips. “Your ice is losing its grip, Glacius.”

Drake’s jaw tightened, his sword flashing with a layer of frost.

“Mind your tongue, fairy,” he snarled. “You’re melting what doesn’t belong to you.”

Peggy’s smile didn’t waver.

“Water belongs to itself,” she replied simply.

Glacius, ever calm, watched the water flow again — wild and untamed. His cold fingers twitched at his sides.

“You think you’re liberating the river,” he said softly, “but all you’re doing is unleashing chaos.”

His icy breath curled through the air.

“Order keeps the world from falling apart.”

Peggy’s wings flared brighter, the light dancing along the ice.

“Freedom keeps the world alive.”

For a long moment, they simply stared at each other — the stillness of frost against the wild glow of light.

Frysta broke the silence, her voice like cracking ice. “Shall we freeze her wings, my prince?”

Peggy’s smile faded, her eyes narrowing slightly.

But Glacius didn’t blink. His gaze, cold and calculating, never left Peggy’s.

“If she melts too much,” he whispered, “I will handle her myself.”

Peggy’s glow flared — not out of fear, but of defiance.

“You can’t freeze light, Glacius.”

The ice beneath them groaned — not from battle, but from the weight of their opposing ideals.