The first thing I see when I wake up is a notification hovering over my face.
GOOD MORNING, FINAL CALAMITY (FRAGILE EDITION)!
Status: Alive (somehow)
Vital Stability: 81%
Next Scheduled Event: FAMILY VISIT (High Embarrassment / High Affection)
Recommendation: Brace.
I blink.
"Oh…No," I croak. "Absolutely not. Skip cutscene."
"Unfortunately," Lyriel's voice drifts over from somewhere near the window, "family events are mandatory."
I turn my head.
My room has been quietly colonized.
Seraphine is perched on the edge of the sofa with a mountain of documents, signing and stamping, crown set aside on the coffee table. Elira is sitting cross-legged on the floor, polishing a sword she absolutely does not need in my bedroom. Lyriel is by the window with a stack of notes and a cup of steaming tea. Mira is curled in an armchair, knitting something soft and fluffy in pale rose yarn.
My harem base camp.
"You're awake," Mira says, instantly abandoning her knitting to hurry to my bedside. "How do you feel?"
"Like I danced for three hours, emotionally combusted, and then got used as the center of a political storm," I say. "So…pretty good, all things considered?"
She frowns and puts a glowing hand to my forehead anyway. Warmth spreads through me, smoothing the lingering ache in my muscles.
Seraphine sets her pen down and leans forward, eyes scanning my face like she's looking for cracks.
"Any dizziness?" she asks. "Shortness of breath? Nausea? Sudden desire to run away and elope with a foreign envoy?"
"Only the last one," I say.
Four heads snap toward me.
"I'm joking," I add quickly.
The HUD pings.
EMOTIONAL TEMPERATURE: 45% (WARM)
RISK OF GROUP JEALOUSY: MANAGEABLE
Before anyone can interrogate me, there's a knock.
A polite one. Once, twice, three times. Then the door flies open with the force of an event flag being kicked in.
"Fia!"
My name my nickname, actually hits me like a physical thing.
Only one group of people calls me that particular way.
House Ardentis has arrived.
A storm of velvet, lace, and indignation sweeps into the room.
At the front is a tall man in rich black and crimson, hair shot through with dignified silver despite his relatively young face. His eyes are the same strange sapphire as mine, but darker—banked fire instead of open flame.
Marquis Cassian von Ardentis. My father.
Beside him, holding her skirts with lethal grace, is a woman whose beauty hits me with weird déjà vu. Golden-red hair twisted up with pins, soft green eyes, a mouth made for smiling and scolding equally. Her gown is practical by noble standards, but the embroidery at the cuffs is intricate flames twining with roses.
Lady Helena von Ardentis. My mother.
Trailing after them: a lanky young man with tousled dark-gold hair and my eyes, but stormier—Lucian, my younger brother—and a composed woman with a fan in hand and a gaze sharp enough to cut paper—Isolde, my older sister.
Behind them, a small train of servants laden with boxes, blankets, and one enormous basket that smells like soup.
"Why," is the first thing Mother says, eyes already shining, "is my daughter sitting up in bed instead of being buried under at least three blankets?"
I open my mouth.
Seraphine, Elira, Lyriel, and Mira all stand at once.
The temperature in the room spikes.
"Marquis, Marchioness," Seraphine says quickly, dipping into a perfect curtsey. "Welcome. We"
"You," Father says, and I have never heard a grown man put so much raw emotion into one syllable, "went to the frontline."
His gaze lands on me.
I freeze.
In the game, Fiametta's father barely existed: a background mention, a name on a family tree. Here, in person, he looks like someone who would reroute a river by yelling at it.
"I…" I start.
Mother gets to me first.
"Oh, my heart," she says, sweeping around the bed to take my face in both hands. Serious noble composure evaporates instantly. "Look at you. Pale as parchment. Those awful dark circles. Do they not feed you at the palace? Lucian, set the food there. Isolde, check her pillows. This is criminal."
"Mother," I protest, muffled by her thumbs pressing into my cheeks. "I'm fine."
"You collapsed on a battlefield," she says sharply. "That is the opposite of 'fine.'"
"She also annihilated an army," Lyriel offers mildly.
This does not help.
Mother whirls on her.
"You let her?" she demands of the four heroines collectively.
Seraphine straightens, shoulders going squared soldier instead of crown princess.
"With respect, Marchioness," she says, "no one 'lets' Fia do anything."
"Exactly," Elira mutters.
"She made her own decision," Mira adds softly. "We tried to warn her, but…"
All eyes swing back to me.
Betrayed! All of them!
My father exhales, long and slow.
He comes to my bedside, looking taller than when he entered—which shouldn't be physically possible, but here we are.
"Fiametta," he says, voice low.
I brace.
"You are grounded."
I blink.
"…What but I'm an adult?"
"Grounded," he repeats. "No frontlines. No calamity-level spells. No collapsing within a three-mile radius of an active war front. Do you understand?"
I gape at him.
"I'm a grown woman," I manage to Say.
"You are my child," he counters. "My terminally ill, self-sacrificing, reality-breaking child. The empire may call you a hero. I call you an irresponsible little flame that refuses to stay in the hearth."
Lucian snorts under his breath. Isolde hides a smile behind her fan.
The HUD helpfully pops up a new window.
NEW TITLE ACQUIRED: Hearth's Reckless Flame
Source: Marquis Cassian
Effect: +25% parental scolding, +50% cuddling when sick
Mother turns back, brandishing a spoon like a weapon.
"Open," she orders.
"Mother."
"Open."
I open my mouth on instinct. She spoons warm broth into it.
It tastes like childhood. Or at least, Fiametta's childhood. My brain does a weird double exposure with instant ramen and convenience store bentos.
Emotion punches me from the inside.
"Helena," Father says wearily, "you can't feed her like she's five in front of the Crown Princess."
"I can and I will," Mother says. "If they won't take proper care of her, I will do it myself."
Seraphine actually flushes.
"We do take care of her," she says, sounding offended and guilty at the same time. "We have strict schedules. Mira monitors her vitals. Lyriel has a whole notebook of—"
Lyriel coughs lightly. "That is classified."
Mother narrows her eyes at them, then at me.
"How many times have you coughed blood in the last week?" she asks.
I consider lying.
Her gaze sharpens.
"Three," I say.
"Five," Lyriel corrects.
"Seven, if you count the ones she tried to hide with a handkerchief," Mira whispers, utterly betraying me.
Mother goes very, very still.
Seraphine takes half a step closer to the bed, tension rolling off her.
"Marchioness"
Mother smiles.
It is not reassuring.
"Cassian," she says sweetly. "Did you bring the documents?"
My father sighs and produces a leather folder from one of the servants.
"I assumed we'd need them," he says.
The folder lands on my lap with a weight that is not purely physical.
"House Ardentis formal stance," Mother says, tapping it, "on where and how our daughter is to be deployed. We've been warning the council for years that her condition makes frontline work unacceptable, and now they have proof."
"Proof that she can win wars single-handedly," Father mutters. "Which they will, no doubt, ignore in favor of heroism."
Mother glares at him.
"We will not discuss this in front of her," she says. "It will stress her."
I stare at them both.
"I am right here," I say.
"Yes," she replies. "And your job right now is to eat your soup, drink water, and be adored. Leave the politics to us."
She spoons more soup at me.
I accept my fate.
Once the initial storm of scolding and declarations subsides, the visit settles into something…warm.
Chaotic, but warm.
Servants set up a low table piled with food from the Ardentis estate: hearty stews, fresh bread, some kind of spiced tea that smells like oranges and cloves. Mother insists on rearranging my pillows until she's satisfied I'm at a "proper angle for digestion." Father claims an armchair and immediately starts arguing quietly with Seraphine about legal protections for "people who refuse to treat themselves as fragile despite obviously being so."
Lucian hovers near the foot of the bed, pretending to examine the embroidery on my blanket.
"You look weird in that dress," he mutters finally.
I glance down at the soft sleep gown Mira put me in earlier. "This is literally the least dramatic thing I've worn all week."
"I meant…" He gestures vaguely at my whole…everything. "All of this. The…Hero of the Ridge thing. The multiple proposals thing. The 'accidentally deleted an army' thing."
I grimace.
"Yeah," I say. "That."
He shifts, looking uncomfortable.
"When the reports came in," he says slowly, "they kept calling you 'the Flame of the Empire' like you were…some kind of weapon. But then the healers' report said 'patient collapsed, coughing blood, please tell her to stop.'"
"Great bedside manner," I mutter.
"I wanted to punch something," he says.
Lucian has always been a little bit spiky; Fiametta's memories paint him as the kind of younger brother who mouths off to nobles but sneaks sweets into your room when you're bedridden.
Seeing his face now angry and worried and trying not to show either—makes something twist in my chest.
"I'm not going to…die tomorrow," I tell him softly. "I'm not that fragile."
"That's the problem," he snaps, then winces. "You look fine. So you act like you're fine. And then you pass out for two days, and the letters we get are all 'don't worry, she stabilized' like that's supposed to be normal."
His hands curl into fists.
"I hate this illness," he says under his breath. "If I could punch it, I would."
I swallow.
"Same," I say. "Get in line."
He snorts despite himself.
Isolde approaches then, closing her fan with a soft snap.
"Lucian," she says, "you're hovering."
"I'm allowed," he mutters.
She rolls her eyes and turns to me.
"Little sister," she says, "you've certainly caused a stir."
Her tone is dry, but there's relief in her eyes.
"I prefer 'restructured narrative expectations,'" I say.
"Yes," Lyriel says from across the room. "She has a talent for that."
Isolde's gaze flicks over my four fiancées (fiancée-adjacent? proto-wives? reality anomalies?), then back to me.
"I heard four proposals," she says. "One from the Crown Princess, one from her Knight-Captain, one from her Archmage, and one from her Saintess. In public."
My ears heat.
"That…did happen, yes," I say.
Mother, overhearing, beams.
"I cried," she says cheerfully. "Cassian had to hand me all three handkerchiefs."
"I did not" Father starts, then gives up. "It was…a scene."
"We are still working out the legal particulars," Seraphine says, slipping back into royal mode for a moment. "But the Emperor has agreed in principle. With the Ardentis family's support, it will be easier."
"Of course you have our support," Father says. "If Fia wants four wives, she will have four wives."
I choke on my soup.
"Cassian," Mother scolds lightly. "Don't embarrass her."
"She's already in the center of the empire's gossip," he says. "A little parental endorsement won't kill her. Unlike frontline work."
"Father," I wheeze.
He looks at me, expression softening.
"You deserve happiness," he says simply. "For however long you have. If that happiness involves four women who are clearly as insane about you as we are, then so be it."
The room goes quiet.
Seraphine's eyes shimmer. Elira looks abruptly away, jaw tight. Mira presses her hands together like she's praying. Lyriel's fingers twitch around her cup.
The HUD chimes.
NEW BUFF: FAMILY APPROVAL (STACKING)
Effect: -30% Social Backlash, +20% Wedding Planning Chaos
Mother claps her hands lightly.
"Enough gloom," she declares. "Lucian, give her the gift."
Lucian startles. "Why me?"
"Because you're hiding it behind your back," Isolde says.
He sighs dramatically and pulls out a small wrapped package.
"It's stupid," he warns me, thrusting it forward. "And if you laugh, I'm taking it back."
"I already love it," I say, because that's what you say in any route where you want the sibling affection points.
I unwrap it carefully.
Inside is a small, hand-carved wooden figurine. The carving is a tiny version of me in a cloak too big for her, hair flowing, arms outstretched. The wood has been stained red at the edges of the cloak, like flames.
It's…rough. The proportions are a little off. The hair is more like a porcupine than actual hair. But the expression—determined, a little stubborn—is weirdly accurate.
"It's for your nightstand," Lucian mutters. "So if you…you know. Have to stay in bed. You can at least have a little 'you' that looks like it's about to go yell at the sky."
My throat closes.
"Lucian," I say, voice cracking, "it's perfect."
He looks away, ears red.
"Don't…cry or anything," he says. "You'll get snot on it."
I carefully set the figurine on my nightstand.
The HUD flashes again.
TRINKET EQUIPPED: Tiny Reckless Flame (Handmade)
Effect: +10% Resistance to Despair, +5% Family Bonding
I blink rapidly until my eyes stop blurring.
Mother, sensing the emotional saturation level, swoops in.
"All right," she says briskly. "Now that we've all reassured ourselves that you are alive and still impossible, we can begin."
"Begin what?" I ask warily.
"The babying," she says.
I should have seen that coming.
Babying, as defined by House Ardentis, is not subtle.
It begins with food.
Mother decides the palace kitchen cannot be trusted to properly nourish her "fragile little ember," so she has servants bring in tray after tray of home dishes. Every time I empty a bowl, another appears.
"Eat," she insists. "You need strength."
"I have too much strength," I protest. "That's the entire problem. I sneeze and delete small battalions."
"Then you need more healthy strength," she says, unconvinced.
Mira sits at my side with a contented smile, occasionally healing away the minor stomach discomfort as I overeat.
"This is medically dubious," Lyriel observes, but she's eating bread, so she has no leg to stand on.
It continues with blankets.
Isolde vanishes for ten minutes and returns with half the palace's luxury textile budget.
"You always complain of being cold," she says, layering a thick Ardentis red blanket over my legs, then a softer white one with rose embroidery, then a ridiculously fluffy thing that might once have been a cloud.
"I haven't complained even once today," I say.
"You always do," she replies. "Preemptive solution."
Lucian ends up dragged into it; he grumbles but adjusts the blankets with surprising gentleness, making sure nothing pulls on the IV line Lyriel persuaded me to accept for mana stabilization.
By the time they're done, only my head and hands are visible.
Elira snorts.
"You look like a very smug burrito," she says.
"I am a very smug burrito," I tell her. "Worship me."
She bows theatrically. "As you command."
Babying escalates to hair-petting.
Mother claims one side of the bed, climbing up to sit beside me and run her fingers through my hair.
"You always run yourself ragged," she murmurs, half to herself. "Even as a child. You would study spell theory until you fell asleep on the desk. Now it's the battlefield and politics instead."
"That sounds fake," I say weakly. "I barely studied in my old—uh, in hypothetical alternate lives."
She pauses, then continues, unfazed.
Father takes the armchair at the foot of the bed, reading through some terrifying amount of paperwork, but every few minutes his gaze lifts, checking my breathing, the color of my face, the way my chest rises. Every time I catch him, he looks away, feigning annoyance.
Isolde and Lucian sit on the floor, leaning against the bed. Occasionally, Lucian pokes my foot through the blankets just to make sure I'm still responsive.
Seraphine, Elira, Lyriel, and Mira end up pushed slightly outward by sheer parental force, but they hover close, forming a second ring of protection.
At some point, Seraphine tries to protest the over-babying.
"She's not that fragile," she says. "We spar sometimes. She can toss me across the arena with one hand."
Mother freezes.
"You make my terminally ill daughter spar?" she asks, voice dangerous.
"It's more like…light practice," Seraphine backpedals. "She barely moves. I do most of the footwork."
"She still overexerts herself," Mira says, frowning at Seraphine.
"Traitor," Seraphine hisses.
Lyriel adjusts her glasses (when did she put glasses on?) and says, "In fairness, controlled sparring under observation is safer than letting her pent-up mana explode randomly."
"So you admit you let her explode," Father says.
"I said 'controlled,'" Lyriel insists. "Mostly."
Elira coughs. "Look, with all due respect, Lady Helena, Lord Cassian…if we don't let her see some action, she'll sneak out. I've seen it. She does this thing with the servant corridors and then Mira covers for her"
"I do no such thing!" Mira squeaks, face going bright red.
I sink lower under my blanket mound.
The HUD flashes again.
DANGER: SECRET SNEAKING HABITS REVEALED
Risk of New Restrictions: 92%
Mother inhales.
Then grabs my hand.
"From now on," she declares, "one of us will stay in the capital at all times. If they must drag you to some battlefield nonsense, someone from House Ardentis will be there to make sure they don't accidentally shatter you."
"That seems excessive," I say quickly.
"No, that seems reasonable," Father says, glancing at the four. "You are capable women, but you also clearly encourage her worst instincts."
"Hey," Elira protests. "We also keep her alive."
"Barely," Isolde murmurs.
Seraphine lifts her chin. "We are doing everything in our power," she says. "But if having the backing of House Ardentis helps protect her further, I will gladly accept it."
Mother looks at her for a long moment.
Then smiles.
"You love her," she says simply.
Seraphine's composure cracks. "Yes," she says, voice soft but certain.
"You all do," Mother adds, looking at Elira, Lyriel, and Mira in turn.
Elira straightens. "Yes."
Lyriel inclines her head. "Obviously."
Mira clasps her hands. "With all my heart," she whispers.
Mother nods, satisfied.
"Good," she says. "Then you won't interfere with us spoiling her."
I make a strangled noise. "I am right here."
"Yes," she says, pinching my cheek. "And you are very cute when flustered."
My face burns. Seraphine looks personally offended on my behalf, which somehow makes it worse.
The HUD, traitor that it is, adds:
STATUS: Over-Babied
Effects:
- All affection gains doubled while family is present
- All cool villainess points temporarily disabled
I groan and drag the blanket up over my head.
Somewhere, everyone laughs.
Eventually, the visit has to end.
Duty calls. The Emperor requests Father for council sessions. Isolde has estates to manage. Lucian has sword practice—or, as Mother calls it, "pretending to stab things instead of dealing with your feelings."
They file out one by one, each leaving some trace behind.
Father rests a hand briefly on my head, the gesture more intimate than a kiss.
"Rest," he says. "Let us worry for once."
Isolde squeezes my shoulder and promises to send books I'll actually enjoy. Lucian pretends he's just stretching when he ruffles my hair.
Mother is last.
She leans down and presses a kiss to my forehead.
"My little flame," she whispers. "Don't burn yourself out before your wedding."
"I'll try not to," I say, eyes prickling.
Her fingers brush my cheek one last time.
Then they're gone, taking the whirlwind of House Ardentis with them.
The room feels quieter, but not empty.
Seraphine exhales. "Your family," she says, "is terrifying."
"They're sweet," Mira says softly.
Elira grins. "I like them. Anyone willing to ground the living calamity gets my respect."
Lyriel taps her notebook. "They also provided useful genetic data," she murmurs.
"Lyriel," I say warningly.
"What?" she says. "Your father's mana signature is fascinating. No wonder your vessel is overloaded."
I sink deeper into the blankets.
"…I'm never living this down," I mutter.
Seraphine comes to sit on the edge of the bed again. Gently, she tugs the blanket down so she can see my face.
"You realize," she says quietly, "that you are now officially the most protected person in the empire."
"Feels like it," I say.
"You have an Emperor, a crown princess, a knight-captain, an archmage, a saintess, and an entire ducal house between you and danger," she continues. "If anything wants to hurt you, it will have to get through us all."
My chest tightens—not with pain this time, but something warmer, heavier.
"That sounds…nice," I say.
"It is," Mira says, perching on the other side and taking my hand. "You don't have to carry everything alone, Fia."
Elira sprawls at the foot of the bed, back against the frame. "We'll fight," she says. "Your illness. The council. Fate. Whatever. Just point and we'll swing."
Lyriel leans against the window frame, watching me with that sharp, assessing gaze that has somehow softened recently.
"And I," she says, "intend to hack the system that put that 'terminal' flag on your status. Fire genre or not."
The HUD pings, almost shyly.
MAIN QUEST UPDATED:
"Find a way to live long enough to see the next ball"
→ "Find a way to live long enough that everyone else gets old first."
Party Members:
- Overprotective Family (Ardentis)
- Overpowered Fiancées x4
Chance of Success: UNKNOWN (but improving)
I laugh, a little shaky, a little disbelieving.
"I was supposed to be a villainess everyone hated," I say quietly. "A tragic endpoint. A bad ending route."
Seraphine smiles, leaning down to rest her forehead lightly against mine.
"Too bad," she whispers. "You're ours now."
"Fire genre," Elira adds. "We burn the script."
Mira squeezes my fingers. Lyriel's eyes shine in the fading light.
Wrapped in blankets, surrounded by absurd, impossible love, with my family's warmth still lingering in the room, I let my eyes drift closed—not from collapse this time, but because for once, sleep feels…safe.
"Okay," I think, as I drift off, the HUD dimming to a soft, watchful glow.
"Maybe being babied isn't so bad."
Outside the window, the evening sky glows with orange and red.
Somewhere, quietly, the world's FIRE parameter ticks up another notch.