Okay, so this background is based off of what little background I provided in my other story 'A Beacon of Hope in a Castle of Ice'

For anyone who has read my other story, you know this is far shorter than my normal chapters. I am using this chapter to test waters and draw some feedback to see if I should go on with this, or possibly let it die down for now. :) Please give your honest opinion on this chapter! (Even though it's just a short prologue x3)

Prologue – Once Upon a Time


At the beginning of every tale is the protagonist that starts it all. Whether they be their own person, or a tragic hero that follows the manipulation of their unknown puppeteer. However, within this story there is anything but a protagonist that starts it all. I am no hero of any sorts, and I have no intentions of being one.

The world I live in is filled with mediocrity, and the pathetic lives of people who know little of what true pain is. But what can one person know about true pain?

Do you consider being prone on a concrete floor, unable to move after being blindsided, kicked, insulted, and brutally beaten while a girl that lacks any form of ability to protect herself steps up and tries to defend you as pain courses through your body? Not at all, that is only humiliating. But there is far more to accompany the situation.

She's only what . . . 16? Maybe 17?

A girl that has known you about a week, but despite that is willing to risk her life at the thought of saving her new friend. What little courage that could be mustered in the tiny form is focused on the mere possibility of saving a life. However, the four men that stand between her, and being a savior are anything less than pushovers. Each one bulky in their own regard, and all of them deadly while unarmed.

The excruciating pain that is left all over from the assault that has only been delayed thanks to the appearance of this one girl becoming too much, and fading into a blackness to be recovered from hours later, only to find out you've been saved . . . but not by the person you thought.

I am no protagonist. I am a cold-hearted woman who plans on leaving a mark on Remnant, and in the history books.

I am sadistic, manipulative, and always making sure I get the things I want . . . one way or the other.

At the start of my tale . . . there was a girl that stalled for enough time for my two accomplices to arrive on the scene and take care of the troublemakers.

Although the real question that everyone should be asking is: 'What happened to that girl?'

As pleasant as it would be to say she survived that day would bring me to a point of elation, although the display of such an emotion would never make it past my outer shell. Unfortunately, the sweet, innocent, and caring teen that risked her life for me is gone from this world.

Instead, she is replaced by someone far more dangerous. My attempts at repaying a debt I owe her – my own life – setting me further into a larger debt to her since I could do anything but bring her back as her normal self.

There are little facts of life we all need to accept. For some it may be that you will never fit into that one dress before prom night. For others it's the constant reminder that your life won't be as you wish it to be. No matter how many shows you watch, or how many books you read. The reality for me is far different from those trivial matters.

I don't need to worry about fitting into a dress before prom night. I will conjure my own to perfectly fit my physique. I don't worry that my life isn't how I wish it to be. Simply because I chose this lifestyle for myself.

But surely there are some regrets to be had, correct?

Most certainly. I regret lowering my guard, and not giving those four the slowest of deaths until they are groveling messes to use as my personal footstool. I regret having someone I found to have no hateful feelings towards get dragged into this situation. For me to not hate someone that is not my subordinate is tough in itself, but for a small girl with brown hair, chocolate colored eyes, and eye-catching white streaks to compliment the vanilla-colored outfit she wears catch my attention on a busy street one day is its own fate that I am unfortunately a slave to.

What happened to that girl you ask? She's alive. Very much alive. I did what I could for her, and set her on her own path but she covered the path I offered, and chose to follow the shadows of my dark road. I never learned her name and I made the grave mistake of deciding a new one for her while she slumbered and recovered because upon her waking she wanted that name kept.

I can't understand why she wants a name I randomly thought up to be kept as her own. Perhaps a symbolic meaning to her new life? A way to remember me as the one responsible for making her how she is now?

Oh . . . her name?

I named her Neopolitan.