Chapter 164 Don't Comment on the Seasoning
Ashlyn
I never did believe in fairytales, at least not in the way they’re sold to you—the kind where everything is perfect and pretty and perfectly timed. The kind where the prince always defeats the dragon, and a golden light spills out of the castle door. That’s never been my story, and it’s not because I didn’t want it. I’m starting to think that maybe I didn’t know how to choose that version. Not until now. If I’m being honest with myself, my fairytale began before the dragons, before the dwarves, before the mess I made with a prince who thought I could be caged. Maybe I’ve been running from it my whole life, too busy hiding the pieces of myself I didn’t know how to protect. But today, I’m starting to see the edges of it, and maybe, just maybe, I’m ready to find out what comes next.
I guess I should start at the beginning, because who the hell likes a half-told story, right? Well, it all began when my dad fell in love with my mum, and, being adults and all, they did what they do best: they had me—a fire sprite with a hell of an attitude. I don’t have some tragic backstory, not really. Everything that’s happened to me has been...well...self-inflicted. You know, the usual shit. I grew up in a place that looked like it was built to be set on fire. Fire sprites, if you don’t know, we’re the kind that live for heat, literally, and metaphorically. My parents were loving enough, if you consider love to mean they didn’t kill me for almost setting the kitchen on fire while baking bread. It was a pretty standard childhood, filled with fireproof bedding, home-cooked meals, and all that sentimental garbage, until, well, that fire kind of burned out. Mum and Dad split because no one actually stays together when a fire sprite’s involved. It’s just the laws of nature. So I ended up with two homes. Mum’s house? That place was a sanctuary. Good food, a bed that wouldn’t light up in flames when I had a bad dream, and a lot of patience. Dad’s house? Well, that’s where the nightmare part of the story really kicks off. I had two stepsisters who were about as charming as wet cardboard, and the stepmother? What a witch, in all the worst ways, and yes, I know what you’re thinking. I must’ve been the absolute terror of the house, right? I mean, who wouldn’t be if they were being raised by someone who made every meal taste like burnt wood and had the emotional range of a pile of ash? But hey, that’s not the worst of it. Oh no. That would be the prince. The one with the perfect jawline and the narcissistic little grin that made me want to punch his perfect teeth out. His name was Prince Vinnie, and yes, I do know how ridiculous that sounds, but let’s not pretend that a name like that doesn’t scream, "I’m about to ruin your life for fun." He was about as far from charming as you can get without actually being evil. Just imagine the most smug, self-absorbed asshole you’ve ever met, then multiply that by a thousand, and there you go. Now, picture him deciding he wanted me. Not because of my beauty—hell, no. Not that I'm not gorgeous, I am, obviously. No, he wanted me because I was exactly the kind of challenge that would make him feel like the king of the world. So, what did I do? I acted out, obviously. I may have thrown a few things that shouldn’t have been thrown, set a couple of things on fire, and maybe made his favourite horse’s mane accidentally combust during a royal event. But none of that mattered when Prince Pretty-Face-Narcissistic-Butt-Head set his eyes on me. I guarantee that was not self-inflicted. No one asked me if I wanted to be the object of some royal obsession. He decided I was the one, and that meant the rest of my life was about to get really fucking complicated.
There I was, a young fire sprite with all this raw magic I couldn’t control yet, facing a prince who thought that because of his crown, he could have me as easily as a servant. What he didn’t realise is that fire sprites don’t belong to anyone. We burn hot and bright, and we do it because we want to, not because someone tells us to. So, there I was, standing in the middle of his perfect little kingdom, and Prince Vinnie had decided that I, a wild fire sprite, was the one thing his perfect world needed to complete the picture. To be fair, I did have the kind of magic that could warm the whole castle up just by walking through it. He wasn’t wrong about one thing: I could heat things up, alright. But I wasn’t about to let some pompous, self-absorbed little prince tell me when I could be on fire and when I couldn’t. He didn’t get it, though, and honestly, that was his first mistake. Vinnie’s obsession with me started off slow. I’d catch him staring at me from across the room like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to charm me or crush me with his ego. I figured I’d let him have his little fun. That’s what a princess does, right? She lets the prince chase her while she kicks dirt on his polished boots just to see him sweat. I didn’t need him to like me. Hell, I didn’t even need him to acknowledge I was alive. But apparently, he decided he needed me for whatever twisted reason his brain conjured up.
Do you want to know what the stupidest thing about all of that is, though? It's literally the fact that if he had just been nice, if he had been a decent human being, I maybe, probably, would have forgiven him for snatching me away from the remarkable life I was creating, or thinking about making for myself. I could have overlooked the weird way he needed to wipe instead of shake after peeing... maybe. Or maybe I wouldn't have wanted to set him on fire if he had just eaten the meals I made without making sly comments. Little, stupid comments like "I didn't know sprites liked their food this spicy." Or maybe if he didn’t insist on giving me that ‘I’m impressed, but I’d rather be hunting’ look every time I spent an hour making something half-decent. He said once that it was delicious—oh, except for the ‘extra seasoning’ he felt he needed to mention. I really did try to make it work, but when he asked me after the chicken if I was ‘sure I’d cooked everything through,’ I almost couldn’t resist seeing if I could cook him all the way through. And now, here I am, far away from that burning mess of a life, watching two people who get to choose their own happily ever after, probably without any comments about the seasoning. I wonder how Paul likes his chicken...