It had started with trumpets and gold and velvet.
The palace seeped candlelight into the shadows, and the air itself was heavy with honeyed wine and ancient, poisonous roses.
Nobles from all across the kingdom arrived to welcome back the King.
And Charlotte—wearing midnight blue, a crown of smooth curls on her head—stood at the Queen's side, looking out over the ballroom with a soldier's objectivity.
They had taken care that the evening would be. memorable.
They had not set the fire, precisely.
They had only goaded it into existence.
A whisper to the steward.
A hint about the draperies.
A smile, a shrug, an encouragement towards fireworks just a tad too close.
The fire, when it finally started, was nearly an act of elegance.
At first, a flicker. Then a tongue of fire, curling up silk and velvet like the slow, conscious spreading of a smile.
Shrieks arised.
Violins collapsed.
Chaos flowered like a black flower over the marble floor.
Charlotte was on the sweeping staircase, inhaling the smoke like it was liberty.
And then—
The King's voice cracked the night.
"Get everyone out! Bar the doors—move!"
Guards swarmed forward, driving the nobles like panicked sheep.
But then—
The roar again, raw, desperate:
"Where is she?! Where is she?!"
Charlotte's heart, so certain a moment before, failed.
He wasn't yelling for her.
The King dived back into the flames. Past lords. Past ladies. Past the Queen herself.
Deeper, into the fire.
And when he emerged, it was with a common girl in his arms.
Smoke-stained, coughing, her dress singed at the hem.
He cradled her as if the entire kingdom would shatter without her.
The Queen stood mute, a locked knife in human shape.
Charlotte, by her side, did not stir.
She did not cry.
She did not beg.
She merely stood, as a child might stand and gaze at the final flash of an expiring star.
He had made his choice.
Once more.
And this time, before the world's gaze.
The ball was char and devastation.
The palace walls darkened.
The guests would speak for years of the blaze, the scandal, the vision of their king on his knees in the ash for a peasant maid.
But Charlotte would recall something else.
Something colder.
Something sharper.
Later, in the Queen's study, where the only audience was the hiss of dying embers, Charlotte spoke:
"He didn't even search for me."
The Queen's response was gentle and cruel:
"No. He didn't."
Charlotte's chin went up, the fire making coronets of red in her eyes.
"Then next time," she spoke softly and deadly,
"let's let it burn all the way to the ground."
The Queen did not respond.
She did not have to.
Her smile was sufficient.
A kingdom can weather many things.
But not the slow, dull gestation of vengeance in a child's heart.
And that night, amidst the embers, something new was born.