The Princess's Manservant

Bang.

Wooden swords clash. One strike is blocked, forcing the attacker to retreat.

“Have you grown tired, my prince?” the opponent mocks, a smug grin tugging at his lips.

The prince laughs heartily. “If I conquer, will you go easy on me?”

“Never.” He lunges forward with a bold strike. The prince blocks it, but sensing something different in the attack, he hesitates on his next move.

“Why hold back, my prince?” his opponent asks.

“I’m merely worried about your safety,” the prince jokes, swinging his wooden blade. “I do not wish to harm you.”

The opponent stops, his face blank as he processes the words—then bursts into laughter. “You jest, my prince. You should worry about yourself. If you don’t wish to—”

The prince attacks. His opponent is quick, but not quick enough. The prince knocks the wooden weapon from his hand and points his blade at him.

“You have been bested.”

The opponent raises a hand—but suddenly smirks. He dashes toward his fallen blade. “The battle isn’t over until I’ve been struck,” he declares, retrieving his weapon just in time to counter an incoming attack.

He closes the gap between them, striking the guard on the prince’s arm. The prince staggers, and in one swift motion, the opponent flips him, sending him to the ground. The prince lands on his back with a thud and groans as the tip of a wooden sword touches his throat.

“You have been bested,” he quotes.

The prince scoffs, then stretches out a hand. His opponent pulls him up.

“I admit defeat,” the prince says. As he dusts himself, he adds, “I expect nothing less from the son of our finest general.”

“You praise me too much, my prince,” the opponent chuckles. “You should be lucky that my brother isn’t here.”

“Ah yes. He would praise you, Obinna Ethan Okafor, the man that has bested the prince with pure skill,” the prince says as he wipes the sand and sweat from his arm, dusting off his dark brown hemp sleeveless tunic and matching shorts—attire perfectly suited for practice combat.

His Obinna laughs. “I agree.” He returns the weapons to the shelf, then takes off his guards. “You have improved, but I must advise you—next time, see me as a foe, not a friend.”

“Yes, yes,” the prince replies, pulling off his own guards and wiping his face with a wool towel. “I’ll be sure to remember that. Now, let us proceed to the matters of the day.”

Obinna nods and unfolds a document. “Rumors say men have been moving about at night.”

“I suppose that calls for a council meeting?”

“Yes—but that will be in a few days. Soldiers have already been stationed for now.”

“Let’s go and check on them, then,” the prince suggests as they head toward the exit of the training grounds.

“Indeed, my prince. We also need to visit the port. Goods from Aethelgard will be arriving soon,” Obinna adds, scanning the list again.

“I remember. Do we know what’s coming in?”

Before he can answer, they notice a servant running toward them—his short-sleeved tunic swaying with every step. The prince steps forward, sensing urgency.

“Greetings, my prince,” the servant says, bowing with a hand to his chest. “I apologize for disrupting your day.”

“Worry not,” the prince reassures. “Speak. What brings you here?”

“Nothing troubling, my prince. Your father seeks your presence in the study.”

“Understood. I shall see him right away. You may leave.”

The servant bows and departs. The prince turns to his friend. “I apologize for the interruption. I’ll see you at the port.”

“Of course.” Obinna bows lightly and exits.

The prince heads through the palace grounds, passing servants—the men dressed in brown, black, and red patterned plain gorge elbow-length tunics over plain dark brown pants, and the women in matching tunics over skirts—and he greets every one of them warmly.

His kindness had long proven that he was a prince without prejudice.

His steps are calm, though his mind wanders. Why did his father request his presence? Was it related to the council meeting? To the night wanderers? He wonders—but does not let concern overwhelm him.

At the study door, the stationed guards stand tall in wide dark brown tunics lined with akwete around the collar, their arms and calves protected with guards, high boots, spears in hand, swords at their sides.

The prince knocks twice, then opens the door. He peeks in—his father is present, seated at his desk clad in a fine, richly woven nude long sleeved tunic with brownish goldembroidery along the sleeves, neck and chest of the tunic—so he enters and closes the door behind him. With a hand to his chest, he bows.

“Please accept my greetings, Father,” he says, voice filled with respect.

“Dike, My son,” the king acknowledges, rising to pat his back. “Your greetings are well accepted.” He returns to his seat.

“Thank you for your generosity,” the prince replies. “Do you wish to discuss something?”

“Yes. But you seem eager—do you have plans for the day?” the king asks.

“Yes. I’ll be going to the port. I hear we’re expecting goods.”

“Ah, yes. Be sure to conduct a thorough inspection,” the king advises, unlocking a drawer. “I hear suspicious persons have been roaming the night. There will be a council meeting on this matter. Be sure to attend.”

“Yes, I was informed,” the prince says. “I will be there.”

The king retrieves an envelope and places it on the desk. He pushes it toward the prince. The prince picks up the already opened wax-sealed envelope and pulls out a thick sheet of paper.

MARRIAGE AGREEMENT, the title reads.

“Who is this for?” the prince asks.

The king leans back. “It is yours,” he says. Tension replaces the calm. “The former king of Aethelgard and my father made an agreement—that you and his future granddaughter would wed, to unite our kingdoms.”

The prince scoffs. “This is absurd,” he blurts, then quickly corrects himself. “I apologize for my rudeness—but how certain are we that Aethelgard has a princess?”

The king smiles, pleased by the question. He reaches into another drawer and pulls out a small white envelope decorated with a leaf motif. “This was written by the princess of Aethelgard herself,” he says, passing it over.

The prince takes it, feeling the weight—aware something lies within. But what troubles him more is the corner he has been pushed into. A political marriage. An arrangement he never asked for. And now, an expectation he cannot easily refuse.

“I’ll think about it,” he says reluctantly.

“I would advise you to discard that thought. Your duty as prince calls you,” the king warns.

The prince frowns, lowers his head, and turns to leave—documents and letter in hand.