Humiliation burned through Scirocca like hot oil. Her hands shook as she dismounted; she didn't know whether she was angrier at Lans, her father, or herself.

The laughter and merriness faded behind her as she stalked away from the Hall. She let out a trembling breath, trying to scour the image of Lans' lustful eyes from her mind. You'll be all right, she thought firmly. You'll only have to stay here for two days.

Still...she couldn't fight her suitors forever. It was only a matter of time before her father wed her to some lord or another. And when that happened...Lans would be more than eager to take her. She wouldn't put it past him to arrange an accident for the poor Lady of Wayrn.

She headed towards the Southgate. The War of the Crimson Knights had shattered its walls had several years ago, and nobody had bothered to repair them since. Now, though, with all the unease in Valchtnalla and Scorvald, she wasn't sure if the way out of the city still worked.

Her fears proved unfounded. There was still a small gap in the wall, a crack dug halfway into the ground. She winced as she knelt down and squeezed through; not surprisingly, it was a much tighter fit now than it'd been nine years ago, the first time her father had taken her and Merocca around Slagvald to see her subjects. A ruler is nothing without his people, he'd told her. Back then, Scirocca had still been a bastard girl.

That conversation had been one of the last times Sirok had spoken to her about something other than her suitors, her sister, or her sword. On the way home, their procession had passed through the Elveswood...and Sirok had never been the same afterwards.

Rumor had it that he'd encountered an Elfmage in the Elveswood, a wizened sorcerer who'd prophesied the downfall of his family and the undoing of his kingdom. He said that the king's heir will be born of the serpent, one of his men had muttered. That the heir will steal the throne with steel and will be born three times. Bunch of bullshit, if you ask me.

Bullshit or not, the prophecy had altered Sirok. After the trip, his smiles had always seemed too tight, his words too eloquent. Immediately after they'd returned, he'd legitimized Scirocca and sent her to the master of arms.

And ever since then, she'd been fighting.

She stood up on the other side of the gate and brushed the dirt from her clothes, glancing at one of the structures along the road. Melia's Inn stood a few buildings down from the wall, a ramshackle structure of reddish mud.

She wasn't sure if Melia would recognize her now, years older and cloaked in a peasant's garb. The first time Scirocca had come to Aitma, barely six years old and still a bastard girl, the homely innkeeper had welcomed her with honey cakes and sweetened milk. Sirok and Merocca had been gone that day, both inside Lans' Hall.

This must be what having a mother feels like, Scirocca had thought, as she'd stuffed her stomach with the warm cakes and her heart with Melia's fantastical stories. The innkeeper, who had a head of the frizziest blond hair Scirocca had ever seen, was unmarried and barren, and had practically adopted her.

After that, whenever her father took her to Aitma, Scirocca had always found time to see Melia...until recently. Now, Sirok forbade her from seeing anyone but the Alchemists. 

A gust of wind swirled through the street, sending a shiver through Scirocca, and she slid her hands into her pockets. The dense smog of the city dissipated behind her as she headed into the Windfields and continued South.

It felt strange to think about how close Scorvald lay: just an hour of running would bring her to the Enuigja River, beyond which lay the Angel Plains of the Lion Queen's realm.

She reached a stream and sat down, her sandaled feet digging into the pebbly sand.

The water flowed by sluggishly, perhaps heading for the Denys River. The stream was a barely a stone's throw wide, yet she couldn't see the bottom. This is nice, she decided, leaning back against the bank. The gems in her scabbard glittered dully under the starlight.

The first jewel she'd won had been the prize ruby of Lord Saevyn Eykar. He'd given it to her as a gift after his son had failed to win her hand, and, fascinated with its shimmer, she'd started asking for gems from all of her suitors.

After her fourth victory, Sirok had increased the price of defeat to include a cherished animal and one other favor. There was luck in the number three, he'd said, although she suspected that he just liked riding and hunting with the animals she won. So far, Scirocca had given her father several falcons and hawks, two magnificent stallions, and half a dozen hounds. 

How much more must I win? How much longer must I fight? 

She swallowed, wrapping her arms around herself. 

And then, unbidden, the words of Lans seemed to ring through her ears. I have another sword that fares quite well in bed.

Anger burned through her as her fingers closed around the hilt of her sword. 

Why doesn't Sirok ever say anything to him? Why won't my own father do something? 

Bitterness welled up in her throat as she remembered her father's half-abashed smile. It is as if I didn't have any honor to defend. As if I am some lowborn apprentice of a swordsman and not his princess, his daughter....

But why should that surprise her? She was the best sword in Slagvald...and with her muscular figure and heavy-jawed face, she could easily be mistaken for a man. 

A brittle smile curled over her lips as she remembered how excited her nine-year-old self been to start sword-fighting. 

Now, she would've given anything to be a proper lady.

Something flickered in the corner of her eye.

Scirocca shot to her feet, her sword in hand. "Who's there?"

The night swallowed her voice. And then there was silence – nothing but the raggedness of her breaths and the dry rustling of the grasses.

"Wait!"

She spun around as a young woman staggered from the fields.

"Stop!" she said. "Stop - don't hurt us - "

"You idiot! Get back - oh, for heaven's sake." A man scrambled forwards, clutching a naked sword in his hand. "First we lose the horses, and now someone finds us - "

"Who are you?" Scirocca demanded. The woman was clearly injured, the cloth around her left shoulder dark with blood.

"No one," she said weakly, swaying as she spoke. Her hair was matted, her face streaked with grime and sweat. "No one important."

Scirocca squinted at the young woman's dress, at the faded scarlet badge upon her chest. "You're...you're a servant," she said slowly. "Oh no..."

"And you're gonna be dead if you don't leave us alone." The young man held the sword so clumsily that Scirocca almost laughed.

"You're in no place to threaten me," she said. "Besides, I won't harm you and you look like you need help. Tell me your names."

The man hesitated, glanced at the woman. She nodded.

"You're...you're right," he admitted grudgingly, lowering the sword. "My name's Luka. And this is Zalyne."

~~

I definitely didn't anticipate two my protagonists to meet so early on, but this was super fun to write. :)

So what do you think Scirocca will do now? Will she help Luka and Zalyne? And what do you think of that prophecy?

Thanks so much for reading! As usual, please vote and comment! <3