You were captured by the army of New Darlington and brought before the Fairy Knight Tristan.
Artoria was roughly dragged into the center of the military tent. Before she could even get a good look at the figure seated on the central throne, a hard blow to the back of her knees sent her collapsing to the ground.
"Well, this is laughable. Just look at you—you're nothing more than some random village girl."
The voice came from directly in front of her, dripping with mockery.
With effort, Artoria raised her head. A woman clad in crimson lounged carelessly in a seat before her. Her wine-rose dress hung loosely off the chair, matching the untamed waves of rose-pink hair cascading over her pale shoulders. Her boots—metallic, intricately carved, and deep red—were stained with a thick stench of blood. Whether the color was by design or from battle, it was impossible to tell.
Despite the distance, Artoria could smell the iron tang clearly.
The so-called "Blood Queen" stared her down with cold amusement, her narrow, pale eyes roaming over Artoria like a cat toying with its prey. A tilted black crown hung lazily on her head—far from the dignified appearance expected of a queen's heir. Instead, she exuded the petty arrogance of a spoiled noble.
"…Sorry, I don't understand what you're saying," Artoria said, biting her lip to steady her nerves. "I'm just an ordinary village girl."
"Oh, please. Still playing dumb? Even now? You think you can keep this up, 'Child of Prophecy'?"
Tristan jumped down from her seat and strode toward Artoria, grabbing her by the chin and wrenching her face upward.
"…Huh."
She paused, momentarily caught off guard.
For some reason, the revulsion that always welled up in her heart whenever she faced a fellow fairy… didn't come this time. Not from this girl. Not even a trace of it.
The confusion quickly soured into irritation—then into anger.
"I've been hearing songs about you and your damned prophecy for ages now," she growled. "And you! You've got the nerve to claim you're Mother's daughter?"
Her grip tightened, red nails digging into Artoria's cheek and drawing blood as she hissed:
"Don't get cocky, you lowborn brat! Mother has only one daughter—one heir—and that's me. Not you. Got it?!"
Any trace of nobility vanished from Tristan's voice. Her mask slipped, revealing only the raw, vicious jealousy underneath.
But as her words echoed in the tent, something inside Artoria snapped.
Her eyes blazed with fury, and before Tristan could react, she sank her teeth into the hand gripping her face—hard.
Pain exploded through Tristan's hand. Her scream tore through the air as she stumbled back, kicking Artoria away and clutching her bleeding fingers, sucking in sharp breaths through clenched teeth.
Before she could regain her composure to order an execution, Artoria's voice cut through the air, trembling with rage:
"—Who even understands what the hell you're talking about?!"
"What?" Tristan blinked, stunned by the outburst.
Artoria was trembling now, fists clenched, body taut with fury.
"'Child of Prophecy, Child of Prophecy'—everyone keeps calling me that! I'm so sick of it!"
Her mind flashed back to the countless simulations—the sneers, the mockery, the unbearable pressure, and the constant, suffocating expectations. Her voice rose, thick with fury:
"All of this—the prophecy, the so-called mission—none of it was my choice! You people forced it all on me! Why do I have to suffer for something I never wanted?! Why am I the one who has to carry this burden?! Why don't I get a say in my own life?!"
"I gave up my name! I threw away the Chosen Staff! I've done everything I can to hide, to run, to pretend none of it had anything to do with me!"
"I just want to live a simple life. Fall in love, get married, grow old, and die like a normal fairy! Is that so wrong?! Is that some kind of unforgivable crime?!"
Her voice cracked now, emotion pouring out unchecked.
"But you people—you people just can't leave me alone! You cling to that stupid prophecy and use it to ruin my life! Can't I just have a little happiness?!"
"Queen's heir? What does that have to do with me?! You're the ones who chose to believe in that prophecy! You're the ones who decided it had to be me! So why should I have to pay the price for your choices?!"
The tent fell silent as her voice rang out—a raw, unfiltered explosion of anger and resentment, not just at Tristan but at everyone who had ever tried to chain her to a fate she never asked for.
And then… silence.
Tristan just stood there, completely stunned. Mouth slightly open. Eyes blank. As if she had no idea what to say.
"…Ah."
Realizing what she had just done, Artoria immediately shrank into herself like a scolded child. Her mouth clamped shut, her gaze dropped, and guilt flooded her face.
Oh no oh no oh no I'm so dead…!
She'd really done it this time. She should've just played along, said she didn't care about being a "Child of Prophecy," that she only wanted a simple life. But no—she had to go and bite Tristan. Then yell at her. A lot.
She had a habit of doing this—getting all fired up, charging in without thinking, and only realizing the consequences after it was way too late.
"You little—"
Tristan finally came to, eyes locked on Artoria. Her lips parted, as if to shout something—
But just then, a soldier burst into the tent, tumbling in head over heels.
"L-Lady Tristan! A human is charging straight through the camp!"
No sooner had the words left his mouth than a shadow streaked through the tent entrance—and with one swift stroke, the soldier was decapitated.