She'd let them all burn. It was not a form of revenge, though she would have liked it if it were. It was a necessity. If she let them die, bake in front of her like fish on the coals, she'd be doing them a favor. She was not the worst thing coming for them.
She picked up her skirts and moved away from the thick, from the black. Her hems singed, curling up. Normally the smell would bother her, but it was nothing amid the hair and flesh. It was nothing at all. Turning, she faced the rolling mists, so vast that she could easily lose herself in them. She wouldn't, she knew better.
The time of peace had ended, that much was certain. Her father's dreams of candy apple smiles and cool, white laughter were long gone as he withered in the flames. It was a mercy, she told herself. It was a gift that she had given them, after all. Death, even in this way, was a paradise.
Away from the smoke and heat, she could almost see in colors. The sun would rise behind her and the people would forget just long enough to be broken by the thing after. Broken in ways that the minstrels wouldn't dare to write about. Broken in ways that not even a princely kiss can heal.
It made her smile, candy apple red. Her father would have been so proud.
Y'all probably think I need therapy now.