The centurion adjusted the grip on his shortsword, and the violet light intensified. The blade seemed to grow.
“That sword may spew the fire of dragons,” he said, “but the one who yields it is merely human.”
His subsequent thrust was more aggressive than his previous swing, and Loran barely dodged it, much less tried to parry. His sword sliced the edge of her leather armor and bit into the flesh by her ribs. She gritted her teeth. He was more skilled with the sword than she was. True, the Powered armor helped his strength and speed, but that was the kind of academic difference one might argue about in a sword-fighting lesson, not on the field of battle.
“A one-eyed swordswoman with moves like a schoolmarm,” sneered the centurion. “Came into a bit of luck with a fancy sword, have we?”
Loran cared less about such mockery and more about the fact that she might die here.
His blade shone violet as he attacked her again, relentless and from all angles. Just dodging and parrying the blows was enough to make her lose her breath. Her opponent’s blade grazed her side again.
She could see that the centurion was pleased with himself. The Empire loved nothing more than power and strength, andthe subjugation of those they considered inferiors was a point of virtue to them. She remembered her petitions to the prefect in her attempts to save the lives of her husband and daughter, convicted for treason when all they had done was sing. The Empire mocked you if you cried. Stepped on you if you knelt. Spat on you if you begged.
She was goaded to the edge of the clearing, and there was only dense forest behind her. It would be even harder to defend herself there. Either she ended it here or she herself was ended.
And her opponent knew this. He paused in his relentless thrusts and proclaimed, in a loud voice full of pride, “I shall teach you who it was that killed you. I am Marius, high centurion of the Twenty-Fifth Legion!”
He raised his sword above his head.
Her very sight trembled. Not because she feared death, or because she was overwhelmed by Marius’s skills. No, this short vertigo came from rage. She was enraged at the man’s arrogant glee. Enraged that after having just declared herself a princess of Arland, she allowed herself to be backed into a corner like this. Loran was a princess of this land and its future king. She was not someone to be treated this way by a mere soldier of the Empire.
She knew, in her head, that such thoughts were ridiculous, that she was not a real princess and that the centurion’s words were closer to the truth—she was only a “schoolmarm” swordswoman with an interesting sword. But her body, for some reason, refused to acknowledge this. Her arms shook. Blood rushed to her head. The wound covered by her makeshift eyepatch grew hot.
Marius suddenly took a step back. The helmet that covered his head made his expression impossible to see, but his stance wasenough to convey his surprise and confusion. His boasts ceased. His sword hovered in the air.
“What—”
Loran threw Wurmath on the ground and charged at Marius like a rising wave. The centurion fell, a lighthouse overwhelmed by the force of an ocean, the metal giant landing on his back with a violent clang. The Powered armor hummed a pitch higher as it tried to get its owner back on his feet, but its efforts were in vain.
Loran, straddling the fallen soldier, brought her face right up to his helmet visor and growled, “You insolent bastard!”
Her right hand slipped under the gap between the chest armor and helmet as her left went for the helmet itself. There was a screech of ripping metal as the helmet gave way and went flying off, the chest armor crumpling like foil from her sheer strength. Marius’s bare face and chest were exposed. His thin cotton tunic was drenched in sweat.
Suddenly, her field of vision expanded—she could see out of her left eye. In the widened eyes of the terrified Marius, Loran saw the reflection of a blue flame in her empty eye socket, the same hue as what she had seen inside the dragon’s mouth.
“Dr—drag—dragon—”
“I am Loran. Princess of Arland.”
Loran plunged her fingers into Marius’s chest, which gave way like so much cooked meat to a fork. Dark red blood spurted from Marius’s mouth and chest.
She pulled her hand back, the force releasing another spray of blood, and rose. She picked up Wurmath and looked down at the centurion writhing at her feet. Soon, even the surprise and terror that had lit up his eyes were no more.
Loran held up her right hand, the hand that had pierced Marius’s chest. Her nails were dagger-like claws, but soon resumed the shape of an ordinary human hand, if a little callused. She touched her left eye and found that her eyepatch had a hole. The blue flame. It must have burned through the patch. She removed it and saw a burnt spot, as if she’d stuck a red-hot poker into it. The sight in her left eye that had briefly returned slowly turned back to black.
She stood there for a moment before remembering the standard-bearer of the Twenty-Fifth Legion and turning quickly toward the cart. The legion standard was lying on the ground now, and Gwaharad was strangling the standard-bearer with the rope that kept him tied to the cart. How had Gwaharad managed to take off the man’s helmet?
She approached the cart as the standard-bearer’s body grew slack. Gwaharad watched her for a moment in silence, then dropped the rope and turned to run. But the rope pulled tight against the weight of the cart, to which it was still tied, and he fell. Loran stepped forward with her palms up, showing she had no intent to harm.
“By all the sacred groves, what are you?” Gwaharad’s voice shook with fear.
Loran hesitated before answering. “My name is Loran, and I am an Arlander. I understand that your name is Gwaharad. Why have you been captured by the Imperials?” She hadn’t an inkling as to how a princess should sound. She tried to speak with dignity but without arrogance.
Gwaharad did not answer, only stared at Loran with wide eyes, rubbing at his cheeks with both hands. Loran mirrored him, touching her own face. She felt something hard and smooth andflaky. She rubbed harder, and two red scales, almost an inch in size, fell from her skin. Astonished, she scrubbed at her face—and found it covered from forehead to chin in scales, like a helm with no faceplate. They didn’t feel like they grew out of her, more like they had appeared from nowhere and attached themselves to her. Scales continued to fall as she clawed at her hairline and her chin in disbelief.
Gwaharad seemed to find her consternation reassuring. He bowed deeply. “I beg Your Highness’s forgiveness for my impudence.” There was respect in his voice where before it had held only fear.
“In truth, I am not His Majesty King Gwaharad but his brother, Emere. Circumstances compelled me to pretend to be the king, and I had no intention of misrepresenting myself to a princess of Arland. Again, I beg your forgiveness.”
