Still...I’m not courageous.
Alaric says I am. But I realize they’re only saying it so I don’t fall apart.
I have no idea what sort of princess I’ll become out there.
But I hope to remember who I was before this began.
-W
Chapter Three
Erindor
The sun hung low over the southern training yard, casting the stone walls of the barracks in copper and fire. Bells tolled faintly from the temple towers, a deep, mournful sound that seemed to carry the weight of centuries beyond the courtyard walls. Crows circled above in the bruised twilight, their dark silhouettes looping lazily as if they were waiting for the moment when they could swoop down and claim whatever remained, hungry for the promise of a feast yet to come.
Dust rose with every strike, painting the air with the smell of sweat, steel, and scorched leather.
I rolled my shoulders and shifted my grip on the practice blade, my fingers wrapped firmly around the worn leather. Across from me, Sir Crowen grinned the way a dog might when it believes it has cornered something smaller.
“Ready to lose, commoner?” he sneered, tossing his sword in a flashy spin that made the gathered onlookers murmur.
I didn’t answer. His fingers drummed a restless rhythm against the handle. A slight, cheeky grin tugged at my lips. My silence annoyed him. It always did.
Crowen fought like a peacock; all flourish and no weight behind his wings. Yet, I knew his sort. He fought to be seen.Each strike, each parry angled toward the balcony where nobles gathered to sip and judge.
I fought to end things.
He lunged first, as expected. The motion happened with speed, aiming for the shoulder, intended and daring. I stepped aside. My blade flicked upward, catching his mid-thrust and twisting him off balance.
Still no applause. Only the hush of those waiting for one of us to bleed.
“You fight like an ill-nourished inchworm,” Crowen spat between breaths. “It’s not surprising that a woman’s never called out your name in pleasure.”
Laughter rippled through the onlookers—all squires, stable hands, one or two drunk veterans leaning against the fence.
The urge to retort flared and died. I’d learned young that silence is a blade of its own.
He advanced again, chest puffed out, pressing harder this time, sweat glistening on his brow. I allowed him to feel like he was driving me to my place. Let him believe he was in control. I watched as his movements grew bolder.
Then I turned. Stepped into his swing. And with a clean movement, one born not of pride but precision, knocked the blade from his hand.
It clattered onto the dirt before us.
Gasps and surprised chuckles reached my ears.
I met his eyes. “Losing to an inchworm must sting.”
His face darkened. He attacked without thinking, but I had already shifted. My foot swept low, catching his ankle. He stumbled and fell to the ground with a resounding thud. I stopped short of planting my blade in his throat.
The commander’s voice cut through the moment like a hammer on stone. “Enough! Stand down.”
Crowen seethed. I bowed, small and sharp, then returned the blade to the rack. I’ll leave them to their whispers. To their wonder.
As I passed the weapons rack, I sensed a mutter behind me.
Another snorted. “He’s too quiet. Even the commander flinches when he walks in.”
They weren’t wrong. I was quiet. And that silence unsettled people more than violence. It made them imagine things that weren’t there. Or worse, things that were.
