Revenge.
The enemy was upon us.
Death lay in wait with its jaws opened wide, eager to devour all who would pass from the living to the dead this day. Looking from the wall, Victoria felt torn between love and loyalty, knowing exactly what was at stake should she betray either. Yet one would ultimately triumph over the other.
The question was, which would it be?
“I will not stop unless the Hero of Tasia faces me!”
This was the somber promise of the prince who had marched his army across the unforgiving desert for twenty days and twenty nights without relenting. His people were as resilient as they were violent, forged beneath a merciless sun and raised amid constant struggle. Peace had endured between their nations for years.
Until it hadn't.
The blade in his hand grated across her cousin's gorget, slipping into the vulnerable gap beneath his jaw. Blood sprayed in a crimson arc across the prince's armor as her cousin's neck opened violently, releasing his spirit.
And now that same blade rested against the throat of her most trusted friend.
Her comrade.
The man who had shared battle woes and triumphs beside her.
He too joined death.
Her king father gave her a stern look, one that should have rooted her to the spot. Yet her brother stood next in line.
This was unacceptable.
The sky overhead held her tears, burdened with dark clouds that swallowed the sun. Thunder grumbled lightly at first, only increasing in volume as another life was taken, then another. Men who had trained together since boyhood lay scattered upon the blood-soaked field. Some still breathed, groaning through shattered teeth while surgeons hurried between the fallen with cautery irons already glowing.
She would not cower behind someone so innocent as him.
He was younger.
Deserving of life.
Moving into action, she ignored the King's warning. He had always believed her impulsive, but punishment was preferable to the searing of her conscience.
“Lesly, help me get ready.”
“With haste, Your Highness.”
The maid moved with an efficiency that never faltered.
Victoria first wrapped linen around her chest, flattening her figure and protecting her skin from the constant rubbing of steel. A padded gambeson followed, thick and quilted, its weight familiar against her shoulders. Sweat gathered beneath the layers before she even touched metal.
Piece by piece, the armor came together.
Greaves strapped over her shins.
Poleyns protecting her knees.
Cuisses buckled around her thighs.
The breastplate compressed her breathing slightly as Lesly tightened the leather straps. Mail covered the vulnerable joints beneath the plates, its countless rings whispering softly whenever she moved.
The process was slow despite the urgency. Real armor was not something one simply threw on. Every buckle needed securing. Every strap had to sit correctly. One loose fitting could become a death sentence.
Finally, her helmet was lowered over her head.
The world narrowed instantly.
Her vision reduced to a thin slit.
Her hearing became muffled.
The scent of oiled steel and old leather filled her lungs.
Drawing her blade, Victoria rested a hand upon its dark grip.
Unlike the broad arming swords favored by most knights, hers was a long, wicked falchion. The blade curved only slightly near its tip, placing more weight forward and giving each strike terrible cutting power. Nicks and scratches marked the steel from years of use. It was not elegant.
It was made to kill.
Victoria moved toward the gate, which was promptly opened when the soldiers gazed upon the familiar suit of armor.
From the narrow sliver within her helmet, she rode further from the castle walls. Behind her, the gate groaned shut once more, sealing itself with a thunderous crash.
“So good of you to make an appearance,” the prince called. “I was beginning to wonder how many heads I would need to take before we finished what was started upon the battlefield of Gazolon.”
Wordlessly, she advanced.
Never once taking her eyes off the crazed mad dog of the enemy kingdom.
Blade raised, she settled into her stance. Her footing was careful despite the mud and blood beneath her boots. Veterans knew battles were often decided by the ground beneath them long before blades ever met.
A vile chuckle escaped him.
He advanced slowly at first.
Then charged.
The prince's sword descended in a brutal strike aimed not at her head but at her leading shoulder, seeking to break bone through armor and numb her sword arm. Victoria met it with equal ferocity. Steel crashed against steel, the impact rattling through her arms and into her teeth.
Neither warrior gained ground.
Neither wasted movement.
That was the difference between trained fighters and common soldiers.
There were no dramatic flourishes.
No spinning attacks.
Only efficiency.
Only survival.
The prince suddenly kicked dust toward her visor. The cloud struck the narrow eye slit of her helmet. Victoria turned away instinctively and immediately felt the rush of air as his blade passed where her neck had been.
She dropped low.
Dragging her falchion across the ground, she struck upward in a savage rising cut.
The prince leapt backward.
Not quickly enough.
The edge scraped across his thigh armor, carving a deep groove into the steel and nearly taking his leg from beneath him.
“Yes...” he breathed, a feverish grin spreading across his face. “This is what I had hoped for.”
Victoria did not care to decipher his meaning.
Her only concern was ending this battle quickly.
With movements honed through years of relentless training, she surged forward once more. Their blades met again and again. Sparks burst between them while rain finally began to fall from the heavens.
Soon both abandoned clean cuts altogether.
The distance had become too close.
The prince slammed his shoulder into her breastplate.
Victoria answered by striking with the pommel of her sword.
Gauntleted hands seized wrists.
Elbows crashed into helmets.
Their blades became secondary as they grappled for leverage.
This was the truth of armored combat.
Not graceful swordplay.
But a brutal contest of strength, endurance, balance, and nerve.
And as thunder cracked overhead, neither warrior showed the slightest intention of yielding.
