I Accidentally Became The Evil Princess Of This Empire

In the valley where the barbarians, led by Ragnar, resided, the warriors stationed at the borders swiftly made their way to the entrance upon spotting their chief and the visiting Firenzan King. As soon as they reached them, they knelt in deference. The two men had just returned from an arduous search for Prince Hendrik, the missing brother of Emperor Matias.

"Welcome back, Your Majesty!" the barbarians greeted in unison.

King Froilan gave a curt nod in acknowledgment. He was King Froilan da Firenze, ruler of Firenzan, the son of the late King Maximilian da Firenze and Empress Aria Yvonne Serolf. His quest for his missing brother, Prince Hendrik Rembrandt, had consumed him. Hendrik, the son of Duke Claudius Rembrandt and Empress Aria, had vanished after a brutal ambush. He and his troops had been retreating from a recent battle when they were caught off guard by enemy forces. Accompanying him that day was their sister, Princess Charlotte, who had been tending to the wounded soldiers at camp. Tragically, she did not survive the attack, and Prince Hendrik disappeared without a trace.

There had been no word from their enemies—no declaration of his capture, no demands for ransom. It was as if he had vanished into thin air.

"I'm starving! Prepare food for us!" Ragnar commanded his men.

Without hesitation, his warriors hurried to obey. He and Froilan made their way into the longhouse, seeking much-needed rest after their exhausting journey.

"We've scoured the eastern regions of the empire, yet there's not a single clue about your brother's whereabouts," Ragnar remarked as he reclined on his bed.

Froilan, still standing, studied a map intently. "I refuse to believe he's dead. He's out there somewhere… I'm sure of it."

Ragnar turned his gaze toward him, taking in the king's determined expression. Froilan was the very image of his father—not just in appearance but in spirit. He was relentless, unwavering, a man who simply did not know how to give up.

"We should extend our search beyond the empire's borders," Froilan continued, rolling up the map.

Ragnar scoffed. "That's dangerous. The lands beyond belong to other nations. If we cross their borders unannounced, we could provoke an attack."

"We won't be trespassers," Froilan countered. "We'll send envoys ahead to notify them of our arrival and state our intentions. We seek only my brother, not war."

Ragnar let out a heavy sigh. "And what about us? We are barbarians. They won't allow us to enter their lands. You cannot go alone with just your Firenzan troops—I don't trust outsiders."

Froilan gave him a reassuring look. "Leave it to me."

Ragnar merely shrugged, his attention shifting as his men arrived, setting steaming plates of food before them. His stomach growled in anticipation. It had been too long since he'd had a proper meal. Without another word, he dug in, eating with enthusiasm.

Froilan, however, remained lost in thought. His mind was not on food but on his missing brother—one whose fate was unknown—and on another brother, gravely ill back home.

.

.

After resting, Froilan and Ragnar stepped outside to observe the barbarians in training. The entire field was alive with movement—warriors sparring, lifting heavy logs, and perfecting their combat techniques.

"Haha! Look at them!" Ragnar said proudly, his arms crossed over his broad chest. "They're full of energy!"

Froilan merely smiled and nodded, but before he could respond, a commotion erupted nearby. Loud shouting and the sound of fists colliding filled the air.

"Hey! Hey! What the hell is going on!?" Ragnar bellowed, storming toward the disturbance. Froilan followed closely behind, his sharp gaze scanning the scene.

Two men were locked in a fierce brawl—a young man and an older, more seasoned warrior. A group of barbarians struggled to pull them apart.

"Tsk. Why the fuck are you two fighting?" Ragnar growled, irritation evident in his voice.

"He started it!" the older man snapped, pointing an accusatory finger at the younger one, his glare full of rage.

Ragnar and Froilan turned their attention to the young man. He stood silently, his expression unreadable, eyes averted as if he didn't care about the chaos he had caused.

"Hey, I don't know you," Ragnar said, his brows furrowing. "Are you a new recruit? Who brought you here?"

The young man remained silent, refusing to meet Ragnar's gaze. His indifference irked the barbarian chief, making his fists itch to strike.

"Chief, I brought him here," one of the warriors finally admitted, stepping forward hesitantly. "We found him near the border, unconscious. He has no memory of who he is or where he came from, and he had nowhere to go, so we allowed him to stay and train with us."

Ragnar's face darkened. "You let a stranger into our tribe without my approval?" he roared. "What if he's a fucking spy?!"

The warrior immediately dropped to his knees. "Forgive me, Chief! I'll remove him from the tribe at once!"

Ragnar didn't hesitate—he kicked the kneeling man, sending him sprawling on the ground. Then, he turned back to the young man, scrutinizing him closely.

He was different. Unlike the rugged barbarians, this one had fair skin, a noble-like appearance, but his left eye was scarred, blind. A wound from a past battle, no doubt.

"You say he lost his memories and has nowhere to go?" Ragnar muttered, scanning him again.

"Y-Yes, Chief," the wounded warrior replied, clutching the side where Ragnar had kicked him. "His build isn't as large as ours, but he's got skill."

"Does he know how to fight?" Ragnar asked, his eyes gleaming with interest.

"We've seen him training alone," one of the barbarians said. "He rarely speaks and avoids anyone who tries to approach him."

"I watched him train once," another chimed in. "His posture is sharp—he knows how to fight with his fists."

Ragnar smirked, then let out a booming laugh. "A fist fighter, huh?" He turned back to the young man with a wicked grin. "Then let's see for ourselves. You and me—one-on-one. No weapons, just our fists."

The surrounding barbarians exchanged uneasy glances. There was no way the newcomer could stand a chance against Ragnar. Their chief was ruthless, a master of dirty tricks, and took pleasure in crushing his opponents.

Ragnar folded his arms and tilted his head. "What's your name, boy?"

Silence.

One of the warriors leaned in and whispered something to Ragnar.

"Koko, huh?" Ragnar smirked. "At least you remember your name." His grin widened. "Then let's fight, Koko! Wahahahaha!"

The barbarian warriors roared in excitement, eager to witness the spectacle.

Froilan, however, wasn't paying attention to Ragnar's obnoxious laughter. His eyes were locked on Koko. There was something familiar about him.

This young man… Why does he look like my father?