We were sisters, once. Of course, we still are sisters, but we're sisters by blood and not by bond. I suppose we're mostly to blame for the war raging in our kingdom: the land is split in two and its citizens divided. Our mother died when we were younger, claimed by an illness incurable to any healer. We both were grief-stricken, but time has healed our wounds by now. And our father? Her death did not make him stronger, did not make him strive to make the land a better place in her honour. No - he wilted, like an old, yellowed flower, and he became weak.
The kingdom was failing.
Soon, he perished. The months to follow were - at first - grievously unbearable. We'd lost both our parents, two princesses of age thirteen, and we were afraid. We didn't know what to do. What could we do? How could we heal our shattered kingdom, broken by our father's weakness and his death?
So we did the only thing we could: we tried to rule. But it wasn't working; arguments tore apart our bond and shredded what little was left of the trust between us. We couldn't rule together; that much was clear. Both had our separate ideas, our own goals. This was no argument we could simply forget; the things we said unforgivable to the other.
Six months later, a war was raging: one side red and the other white. We claimed our father's mighty dragons: the last left of their kind. And now, we're both enemies, leaders of our own glorious armies and loathing the other's very existence.
We are the last of the Angelis bloodline, and this is our story.