The Seine River was on fire.
Not with flames —
But with reflections.

Buildings burned above.
And the water mirrored every scream, every burst of cannon smoke, every silhouette falling from rooftops.

Ziya stood at the river’s edge.
Boots in ash.
Eyes in shadow.

Behind her, the rebels fought through the alleys.
Ahead of her — a single figure, waiting.

General De Ravone.
Her father.
The man who had signed the order to exile her as a child.
The man whose name was whispered in nightmares and rebel songs.

He didn’t draw his sword.
He simply looked at her.

“You were born to command,” he said.
“To restore what was broken.”

Ziya didn’t flinch.
She took one step forward.

“I was born,” she said,
“to end men like you.”

A pause.
A breath.
The sound of the city crumbling behind them.

“You think the people will love you?” he asked.
“You think they want a queen in ashes?”

Ziya looked past him —
At the bridge.
At the people gathering, watching, waiting.

“No,” she said.
“They don’t want a queen.”

“They want Ziya.”

And then —
She turned and walked away.

No sword was drawn.
No blood spilled.

But everything changed.