1 - i don't want to go on like this

For a long time, the world was at peace. Land was shared, trade was prosperous, marriages between royal families created beneficial treaties. Before fire and blood carved deep scars into the Earth, the kingdoms of the continent of Ishgar thrived in uneasy but lasting tranquillity. Each kingdom was ruled by its own laws, traditions, and gods. Their differences carefully balanced in a fragile web of alliances and rivalries.

At the heart of it all stood Fiore, the empire of the stars, powerful and wealthy beyond comprehension. It was a land of gleaming spires, golden fields, and towering churches. The kings of Fiore ruled with divine authority, believing their bloodline was chosen by the gods. Their priests had the power to read the sky. Prophecies and fate danced in their hands. Their heavenly power was unmatched.

But Fiore was not the only great power on the continent.

Directly east was Alvarez, a kingdom built on steel and conquest. Unlike Fiore, Alvarez did not claim divine favour. Its rulers took power through force alone. Alvaran warriors were paramount in battle, generals trained from childhood in the art of war, soldiers picked from the sons of every household. Their towns were fortresses, their laws strict, and their loyalty belonged only to the strongest. The empire thrived off rich mines and a perfected art of blacksmithing. Quality weaponry beyond compare to any other kingdom, and they had a rich history to back it up.

Long ago, the people of Alvarez were blessed with the power to wield fire itself. They forged their own land with their flames, creating everything from nothing. That magic was no more, but it was burned in their history. No outsiders dared to stand against them in fear that power only laid dormant. But there was no need. Alvarez was a benevolent nation. Never did they use their power for avarice.

Then war ravaged the lands. Fire and the stars clashed; destruction loomed.

Fiore had just crowned a new king. The former hadn't survived his forty-fifth winter, and his ambitious nephew—Jude Heartfilia, Duke of Crocus—readily took the throne at the age of eighteen.

King Jude was not satisfied with ruling only half the land.

He wanted everything.

Only six months after being handed the crown, a brutal campaign was launched against the small kingdom of Veronica. The kingdom was rich with emeralds and diamonds, its people were mostly miners and artisans. With very little military strength, they stood no chance against the vast army that stormed them by surprise. Fiore didn't care. It was a massacre. Veronica was burned to the ground, and King Jude had new territory and a whole city of jewellery makers to order.

Over the next five years, Fiore tore through six kingdoms. All very small, none were able to fight back. Their borders had expanded rapidly, stretching from the northern tip of the continent all the way to the southern islands. They were expanding further west as well, but there wasn't much left to take.

Alvarez remained indifferent to the conflict tearing through Ishgar. Its people cared little for politics beyond their own survival. Fiore wouldn't attack them. Despite these little conquests, their military was no match for the born fighters of Alvarez.

Or so they thought.

Fiore attacked in the night. They marched on Terra Ignis, a fortress guarding the southern pass into Alvarez. The Fioran forces, believing their divine right would grant them an easy victory, sent forty thousand men to storm its walls. Terra Ignis held them off with only ten thousand.

For six days and nights, the sky was blackened with smoke, the ground crimson with blood. Fiore prayed for divine intervention. None came.

Alvarez was unlike the others. It had no gods to break, no faith to manipulate, no prophecy to fear. Its people were warriors by blood, its towns built for war. Every man, woman, and child had been raised knowing their kingdom would be tested. When the armies of Fiore crossed their borders, the Alvarans did not cower. They sharpened their swords. They answered with fire and steel.

The loss was devastating for King Jude. He had the fighting force of eight countries, and it was still not enough to knock down a piece of that empire. He had only angered them. Alvarez took his declaration of war and held it to Jude's throat. They started with the border. Every city down the eastern border of Fiore was decimated. Only one town, Cedar, was left standing with a gun to its head. Sparing them was a threat.

From then, Alvarez did not fight to win. They fought to make Fiore suffer.

When more troops marched on their land, Alvarez hit them with storms. They burned their own fields to deny the enemy food. They led Fioran armies into the frozen mountains, letting winter kill for them. Every road became a death trap, every village a battlefield. Alvarans fought in the shadows, striking like ghosts before vanishing into the mist.

Fiore, for all its power, was unprepared for a war that could not be fought on open ground. What should have been a swift conquest turned into a decade-long nightmare. So, Jude did some planning. Just north of the Wastelands lay the kingdom of Stella. A longtime ally of Fiore, Jude had avoided it during his seizing of the nations ten years prior.

Stella had quite the formidable Navy. They built unsinkable ships and indestructible ports. The seas were no match for their understanding of it, and Jude wanted it all. His own Navy would have no chance against theirs, so he found a new way to take it.

He approached in peace. King Acnologia was a sharp, percipient man. He had watched the young King of Fiore claw his way to the top only to be shot down by the powerhouse that was Alvarez. Now in his thirties, holding the ire of the people he forced into never ending battle, Jude arrived in Stella with the perfect request. He bowed to King Acnologia and Queen Anna and requested their only daughter's hand in marriage.

Princess Layla instantly refused. He was older and crueller than her previous fiancé- who Jude had killed when he decimated Bosco. But her opinion didn't matter. Not when the fate of her kingdom lied in this union. Her father sold her hand for the security of his country. Layla, only twenty, was married to a monster in a fortnight. Tears stained her hastily made wedding gown. Her bouquet was wilted- her favourite flowers unable to bloom in the off-season. But King Jude was only concerned with himself.

Stella was consumed by Fiore. Acnologia lost his throne, but kept his nobility, joining the king's council. And with his new control over the seas, Jude finally had a fighting chance. After six months of silence, Fiore made a move.

They struck from the North Sea in the dead of night on the last night of spring. Alvarez was remarkably unprepared. For years, Fiore had only invaded from the west. The mountains of the north were colder, icier, less protected. In one night, the volcanic town of Nakenaria fell.

In crimson armour, a red-haired man clutched the cold hands of his screaming wife. Fire blazed outside. Arrows flew overhead. Cannons boomed from the coastline. As a high-ranking soldier, he should've been out there giving his life to the crown. But he stayed hidden in his home on the battlefield, refusing to leave her side.

With war came pain. The pain of injury. The pain of death. And for the couple on the outskirts of the burning city, the pain of childbirth.

"Push!" He squeezed her hands desperately. A piece of their burning roof crashed to the floor. The woman in bed screamed. From fear or pain, she did not know. She was dizzy. It hurt. "He's almost here. Please, Evryn, keep pushing."

Her husband's demands to push were getting on her nerves. All she'd been doing for hours was pushing. Her first son never gave her this much trouble. This one would surely be double the handful, and it was a nightmare just to think about. This one couldn't wait for them to flee? She screamed again, her insides tearing open to fit its head.

With a loud cry, the newborn was out. Evryn couldn't tell if the cries belonged to her or the babe. Maybe both. Her husband bundled the tiny human in cloth, shielding him from the embers sparking around them. He smiled before turning back to his lover. "Get up, Evryn. We must flee before they find us."

"I can't move, Igneel." She whispered, closing her eyes and letting her head sink into the pillow. Igneel's face fell.

"We need to go. I need you to try... Evryn? Evryn!" Igneel set his newborn son on the bed, shaking his wife. Now was not the time to fall asleep. The army was gaining. He held a finger under her nose. Not a single breath. His heart dropped. He pressed his head to her still chest. No heartbeat. "No..."

The cries of his son snapped him back to reality. He heard shouts in another language, the sound of death was quickly approaching. He kissed his love one last time, rubbing his warm hands across her frighteningly cold ones.

The roof of his home caved in, the wood finally giving in to the roaring flames. Igneel wrapped the cloth over the babe's face, rushing out the back door. He ran. And kept running until he was well out of the village and safe in the mountains.

Some soldier he is, huh? Fleeing from the heat of battle to coddle his wife. Evryn. The thought of her body burning down there made him nauseous. He looked out at the horizon as he sat on a cliff. He watched the smoke rise from the remains of his hometown. He thought of his friends. His wife. To be forever buried in ash, what a fate.

The first sun of summer rose above the charred remains of his home.

"Summer..." Igneel murmured. "Natsu. Your name will be Natsu." He rocked his son, taking a stand and retreating into the woods. He had work to do.

Natsu does not remember his mother's face.

He does not remember the warmth of her arms, the sound of her voice. By the time he was old enough to understand what it meant to be loved—she was already gone.

His father, Igneel, was a warrior. One ruthless, feared, and highly respected. The only soldier who survived the Siege of Nakenaria five years ago. Hiding the reason for his survival, he was hailed a hero. Promoted from Lieutenant Colonel to Captain of the North Guard just after the siege, he used his new funds to rebuild his town from its scorched remains. Beyond that, he became a man who believed that strength was the only thing that mattered.

And strength could not save their home.

Strength could not stop the growing enemy when they came to destroy.

King Jude Heartfilia saw Igneel as a threat. He didn't appreciate threats. So, he burned the lands Igneel rebuilt from nothing to the ground. Again.

Natsu was five years old when he watched his father die.

He remembers the swords. The screams. The fire that consumed everything, devouring his home, his people, his world. It became his first understanding of irony. Fire was his element. His salvation.

In a flash, it became his curse.

Fire never hurt him. It was his gift. It should have protected his family too. But he was too young. Too weak. He couldn't save anyone, and he was left alone.

Until he met his brother.

Zeref was eleven years older. Igneel never spoke of him. His eldest son was a traitor. He let the Fioran army whisk him away at the age of ten, only to return a year later and help destroy what was once his home. He was a military prodigy and a genius of battle strategy. King Jude's personal favourite, according to rumours. After killing his own parent for the second time, his loyalty could not be doubted. So, he scoured the cinders of his father's labour until he found the unmistakable tiny head of pink that was born to replace him.

"Hi there, Natsu. I'm your older brother. Come, I'll take care of you from now on."

"Okay."

"Have you heard? The queen is in confinement."

"With an heir, surely."

"I hope she has only girls. We need more princesses, chances for our sons to marry rich. The world can't take another Jude." The drunkard spit before being snatched up by guards after the jest, dragged away, never to be seen again. His companions scattered. No one wanted to make an enemy of the ruthless king. Lest they end up with a chopped tongue or forever trapped in the dark depths beneath the castle.

A young boy quietly followed his brother through the dirty streets of Magnolia. For the capital of such a huge country, you'd expect it to be cleaner.

Natsu, only five, didn't understand why the people were so dirty and hungry looking. His own village had barely any money, but they lived happy lives. Here was the opposite.

Zeref stopped at a door, twisting a rusty key and urging Natsu inside. The house was poorly built and barren. Straw beds and a single stove. Zeref only smiled at Natsu's puzzled expression. "Welcome home."

"This is home?" Natsu asked.

"The king was kind enough to gift it to me. It's property I own. In the capital of Fiore. Only blocks from the castle. It may be poor quality, but it's worth more than a bag of gold."

Natsu's mouth formed an 'O' shape. "Do you work at the castle?"

"I do. And you will too. Together, Natsu, we are going to play a role in reshaping this kingdom. Will you join me?"

"Okay."

Zeref became Natsu's pillar of support. He was the calm to Natsu's boiling storm, the shadow cast from his glowing flames. For years, the brothers only had each other.

At ten, Natsu became a soldier. He joined his brother on the frontlines of a fifteen-year-old war. An Alvaran child, forged in the fires of war, quickly became Fiore's greatest weapon. The first in centuries with powers from beyond. Initially, the king wanted him dead. It wasn't until he realised the boy was of more use alive that Natsu was safe.

So Natsu was not fighting for a kingdom nor honour, but for survival.

The past felt all too foreign.

It was draining—living for a kingdom that not once but twice burned away his home. His mother, his father, their friends. All dead at the hands of his own superiors. But for a time, it was enough.

Then Zeref ruined everything.

His brother, his guardian, the last surviving member of his family, his only beacon of hope…

Betrayed him.

Princess Lucy Heartfilia was born under an ill-fated omen- a sky without stars. In her land, where the cosmos signified power and guided destiny, her birth was seen as a warning of a princess cursed with no fate at all.

Despite the darkness associated with her arrival, news of the new princess brought rare joy to the weary kingdom. Many assumed a child in the palace would distract the king from his hatred. Maybe bringing a temporary end to the violence. Their sons could come home, families would reunite-

The people of Fiore were proved foolishly wrong.

War still ravished the land. In fact, it only grew fiercer. Alvarez had a new target. Fiore had more to defend.

Inside of the palace, war was a foreign term. It was not to be spoken of in the presence of the princess, but she liked to listen, so she wasn't completely oblivious to the outside devastation.

Lucy quickly learned she was not the same as other children her age. She was treated differently. Though she was well fed, dressed in sophisticated gowns, adorned in ornate jewels and tiaras, she never felt very welcome in her home.

Despite having so much more, she always felt like she had so much less. She didn't have many privileges. She wasn't allowed outside, she spent her days trapped in gold and silk, locked in a palace that felt more like a cage.

Her mother often avoided her for reasons she didn't know. When Lucy would go to her, she would look away. She never read her books, or brushed her hair, or joined her for tea parties—even when Lucy worked so hard to colour an invitation. She left her daughter to the care of servants who feared her, only approaching to dress, feed, and bathe the little princess, then leaving before she could say a word.

Only her nursemaid, Aqua, treated her kindly. She was strict, sometimes mean. But Lucy knew she cared. Unlike the others. Aqua read her stories about fairies and romance. Taught her how to dream outside of the palace. She loved Aqua.

Her other bit of comfort came from her father. 'A tyrant', they called him. Feared across empires all over the world. His very name was enough to send the most battle-hardened warriors into shock. But Lucy had never feared him.

Not at first.

Not when she was young and still dreamed of love.

Not when she believed the man who held her hand and strolled with her through the palace gardens on her birthdays could never be the same man who commanded armies to burn, conquer, and kill.

Her small, dreamy world ended the day her mother died.

Lucy—a child of only seven summers—was told that it was sheer misfortune. The queen had fallen ill. No doctor could save her.

Small and trusting, the little princess had believed it. Her mother who was never sickly, who prided herself on health and beauty, who stayed hidden away from society in the safety of her quarters. Yes, sickness killed the queen. Her father said so, and he'd never lie to her.

Then things started to change. After that night, Lucy was no longer allowed to roam the palace freely. Certain rooms were put off limits. The palace staff was overhauled. No more lessons beneath the oak trees, no more sneaking into the kitchens to steal honey cakes, no more strolls through the garden hand in hand with her father.

The palace grew colder and colder. It no longer felt like a home. Golden halls that once echoed with laughter grew silent, suffocating under the weight of mourning and indifference. Lucy was moved from her warm west wing bedroom to the eastern tower—the coldest part of the palace-the part no one visited unless duty required.

Aqua, who once held her close and told her stories, was dismissed without explanation. Foreign tutors replaced her and did not speak of warmth, or kindness, or wonder. They spoke of duty. Of sacrifice. Of endless war.

Lucy learned quickly. She learned to walk with her back straight and her gaze low. To hold her tongue when her father's council debated her fate as if she were not in the room. She learned that disobedience meant punishment. Questioning tradition meant isolation.

But most of all—she learned how to pretend.

Smile when expected. Bow when required. Accept the hand of the high priest as he pressed his palm against her forehead, whispering blessings that felt like chains.

At night, when the weight of expectation became too much, she would slip out onto her balcony that faced the dark ocean and look up at the stars.

At the age of nine, only two years after her mother's death, Lucy was permanently confined to her tower after venturing into an off-limit area. Her father was in a sour mood at the time. The capital had just been attacked. Lucy heard the screams and explosions from her balcony. The guards posted at her door whispered of a rebellion. But her misbehaviour in such a fraught time only made her punishment harsher. She would never again dine in the banquet hall. Meals were brought to her on silver trays. House mice and dust bunnies became her entertainment. The gardens became a distant memory.

When she was eleven, she discovered a trapdoor beneath her dresser. Below it, a long, steep passageway led to the castle library. The books became her view of the outside world. She'd sit in silence with a weathered novel and be transported into new countries and the history of other lands. She found treasure in the dusty, untouched library and enjoyed it alone.

And one slow day, as if the stars aligned and destiny shined onto her, she made a life-changing discovery. She learned the truth.

She was just exploring. Something that had become her favourite pastime in the years since her close relationship with her father was severed. When he was away at war, the palace was hers. Terribly old and ridden with secrets, Lucy wanted to discover it all. Escape passages, unused for centuries, became her own private paths. The guards were only posted outside doors, this was her way to avoid them altogether.

The night before Queen Layla died, Lucy heard her crying. She had pressed her ear to the thick wooden doors of her mother's private quarters, knowing she wasn't allowed in, and listened to muffled voices—her mother's trembling, desperate pleas. Her father's cold, unyielding tone.

Back then, she didn't understand. Years later, she would. The truth had not been written in the history books. The truth had not been whispered by the nobles who bowed so easily to her father.

The truth had been buried with her mother.

But secrets do not stay buried forever. Fifteen years after her mother's death, Lucy found the truth hidden in a locked chamber deep within the castle's archives.

It was a book about omens. She was always told by the church her birth was a bad omen to the kingdom. She understood. It's why she was kept under lock and key in her tower. Why her mother died early. Her father feared she would be the downfall of his empire; the signs were already there. She hoped the book would tell her more. So, she pulled it from the shelf.

The book did not end up in her hands. It only tilted, and the sound of a lock clicking came from her right. Like any curious girl, she investigated. The next bookshelf had popped off the wall.

Another passage, how fun!

She slowly pushed the bookshelf further right, silently praying the guards outside couldn't hear it squeak. Inside was not a full path like she hoped, but two wooden chairs, a short marble table, and a leather box.

Lucy approached cautiously, hoping this wasn't a trap. The box was locked, but the key was already inside. Slowly, she twisted it. With a click, it opened. She leaned forward and peered inside. A disturbed spider ran out, causing the princess to jump. But she recovered quickly and grabbed the single content of the box.

An old letter. Faded ink, barely legible handwriting. But the script at the top was easy enough to make out.

Final confessions.

Lucy gripped the paper tighter and tighter as she studied the words.

To whomever finds this, know that I did not die of disease. Know that my husband is not the man he pretends to be. I have learned what he has done, whose blood he has spilled, I could not stay silent any longer.

I tried to stop him. I tried to save Fiore from his greed. I fear I have failed. I know he will not let me leave this palace alive.

Please, if my daughter lives, tell her I loved her. I'm sorry I could never say it. Tell her I fought for her.

And tell her to run.

The letter was unsigned. Unfinished. Hastily scribbled on a page ripped from a journal. But Lucy knew. She knew it was the truth. Her mother had not died of illness. She had been killed. By her own husband. By Lucy's father.

Now Lucy felt sick.

She didn't remember leaving the library. Nor how she made it back to her chambers so quickly. Or when she stood before her mirror, how long had she been staring at her reflection?

The reflection of a girl whose father murdered her mother.

Everything she believed, all the hope she held onto—it was all a lie.

Her father had smiled at her. He had kissed her forehead, called her his shining star. And all the while, he had killed the only person who had ever truly loved her. After forbidding her to ever say it. But why? What was the point of this? To keep her believing in him for almost twenty-two years. There had to be a reason. She would find out. But not here.

That night, Lucy packed a bag. She took only what she could carry. A light change of clothes, a sack of dry food, the little gold she had in her room. And she ran.

If her mother had truly fought to save her and died trying—then Lucy would not let her sacrifice be in vain.

She would fight, too.

She would burn everything her father had built.

And she would never stop running until he paid for what he had done.

Lucy had one chance. One night.

If she was caught—if she failed—there would be no second attempt. Luckily, she had spent years locked in the palace. Secret passages were her daily routes. Every hallway and corridor were ingrained in her mind, but knowing the way out was not enough. She had to move unseen. She had to be smarter than the king's men. She knew the palace's weaknesses, and she exploited them. The guards changed shifts at the second toll of the midnight bell. For a few short minutes, there was a gap in security. A moment of emptiness where the night patrol had yet to take their posts. That was when she would go.

She wrapped herself in a plain leather cloak, concealing the cream silk of her day gown. She left her jewels; they would only create noise and slow her down. The ones she stuffed in her small bag were what could be carried and traded. A dagger—small but sharp—rested against her hip. Her father had given it to her many years ago, just for protection. Now was the first time she may have to use it.

Her heart pounded as she slipped through the dark corridors. The weight of her mother's letter felt heavy in her pocket as a reminder, a promise. She would not die in this palace like Layla.

She reached the servants' passage at the end of the hall. A narrow staircase hidden behind an old tapestry; it was the only exit that did not pass directly by the guards. She grabbed a hanging lantern from the wall and made her way down. Her discovery of this when she was a child was the reason her freedom of the palace was restricted. Now it would come in handy.

Except she was not the first to think of it. Someone waited for her. Someone knew her plans.

"Going somewhere, princess?"

The voice sent ice through her veins. Her father's most loyal guard leaned casually against the first platform wall, looking up at her knowingly.

"Captain Zeref." She curtseyed, playing as innocent as she could dressed in rags and gripping a lantern in a place she was forbidden to set foot. This man had trained under her father himself since he was just a boy. This was the son he never had, sworn to protect the throne-not the people who sat on it. Zeref looked utterly unamused. Lucy knew she was in trouble. Her pulse thundered in her ears. She gripped the dagger at her hip beneath her cloak, knowing it would be useless. Zeref was stronger, faster, built for battle.

He drew his sword and swung it at her. She ducked out of the way with a yelp, not expecting him to move so quickly. She drew her knife, waving it around like a madwoman driving away the shadows. With a single swipe of his blade, he knocked away her only weapon. She gripped the lantern, his sword now inches from her throat. Was this the end? It might've been.

But he hesitated.

Because she was still the king's daughter. Even now, out of her tower in the dead of night, she was still the princess.

And Lucy used that moment.

She threw the lantern with adrenaline fuelled force. The glass shattered at his feet, fire bursting to life as the oil spilled across the stone. Zeref cursed, stumbling back as the flames licked at his boots.

Lucy ran. Something she would be doing a lot of in the coming days.

She grabbed her dagger and raced down the rest of the steps, heart pounding, breath ragged. Shouts rose behind her. Lights flashed in her peripherals. The alarm bell was sounding. Soon, the king would find out she was gone. She had minutes—maybe less. But she had planned for this. The servants' passage led to an old balcony that overlooked the river that wound through the city. She leaned over the edge. The drop was higher than she thought. The waters below were dark, cold, rushing loudly. But she had no choice.

A second later, the door behind her burst open. She did not look back. She did not hesitate.

She jumped.

The cold January air rushed past her, the wind ripping her breath from her lungs. For a single, terrifying moment, she thought, "This is it. This is where I die."

And then the impact.

The water was icy shock, snatching the warmth from her bones. It dragged her under, the violent current pulled at her like demons dragging her to hell. She kicked, fought, forced her way to the surface. She was never a strong swimmer, but the stars weren't ready to take her just yet. She broke free from the pull of the water. Gasping for air, she heard the shouts from above. The guards were looking for her. But the river current was already carrying her away.

Down past the roads and under the entry bridge. And she was free.

For now.