Not the Hero, Not the Villain — Just the One Who Wins

"Fine," Lilith said, her voice calm but edged with amusement. "You’re an interesting man, Ashen. I’ll gift you a tailored dress for the girl—free of charge."

She turned slightly and gestured with a flick of her fingers. "Lorien."

Her butler, a tall man with flawless posture and deep crimson attire, stepped forward and bowed deeply.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"Take the measurements of this dress," she said, gesturing to her own flowing crimson ensemble, "and make a custom replica. Smaller, for that little girl over there."

Lorien nodded. "Understood, Your Majesty."

Lilith turned back to me. "You’re really drawing attention these days. Stirring things up. What was your name again... Crimson Child, was it?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Crimson Child? You do know you’re only three years older than me, right?"

She smirked. "True. But in royal years, that’s a generation."

"The name’s Ashen. Not child."

"Right, right," she said airily. "I had no interest in attending this event, honestly. These diplomatic festivals bore me. But protocol wouldn’t let me abandon it. Then, I started hearing whispers. About you. About your strength, your shadow, your name. I came to watch you fight in the sparring tournament myself."

I gave a modest shrug. "Then I suppose I’ve disappointed you."