High above the sanctified kingdom of Valmora, the skybridge glistened with morning dew, its translucent floor casting soft rune light patterns across the polished stone. From its edge, where clouds spilled over the cliffside like silken veils, Princess Ivelle stood alone.
The sunrise spread golden light across the horizon, but her gaze was fixed below, on the rivers of people flooding toward the capital of Brimholde — citizens, merchants, soldiers, and pilgrims. All awaiting the crown's announcement. All oblivious to the unrest clawing beneath the kingdom's porcelain surface. Her hair, a cascade of crimson fire, danced in the wind. Poised and unmoving, she stood like a living sculpture of defiance. Footsteps approached from behind. She didn't turn. "Your Highness," a voice said, calm and formal. The attendant bowed, eyes lowered. Ivelle gave a small nod. "Is it time?" "Yes, Princess. Preparations have been made. The stage is ready… though you asked not to be told." A pause. "But—Her Majesty has sent escorts for you." Still, Ivelle did not turn. "And where are they?" "Waiting just beyond the west corridor. I told them you would meet them in the courtyard."
Ivelle inhaled deeply. "Good." The attendant hesitated, concern etched in her face. She glanced once more at the vast kingdom below before giving a respectful bow and retreating. The moment she vanished around the curve of the bridge, four figures appeared — the queen's hand-picked Crown Sentinels, each clad in lacquered white armor etched with gold runes. They met the attendant along the walkway. "She's gone ahead," the woman told them. "Courtyard. West wing." They bowed. As they walked off, one of the younger guards leaned toward his captain. "You do know we can't force her to come, right?" "Shut it. She won't resist. She's not the type to ambush us." They reached the courtyard. The lead guard pushed the doors open—just as a bowstaff hurtled through the air.
Instincts flared. He caught it mid-flight, though barely. His grip trembled where the impact landed, and he hissed through his teeth. Ivelle stood across the courtyard, a glint of amusement in her eyes. Sunlight struck her like a spotlight. In one hand she held a slender longsword, but rather than raise it, she stabbed the blade into the earth beside her and turned toward a weapon rack at the garden's edge. She walked slowly, eyes scanning the selection. "You're here to escort me?" she asked without looking.
"Yes, Princess," one of them answered quickly.
"We're not here to harm you. Please, let's not—" "Spare me the courtesy," she interrupted, her fingers dancing above sword, dagger, mace. Her hand hovered over a hammer for a beat too long, and the guards subtly shifted their stance. Then she moved on—and chose another bowstaff. "I'm not a dictator," she said, tossing each of them a staff with smooth, precise throws. "So I'll give you three reasonable options."
They caught them, confused. "One: you turn around and tell my parents I refused. Two: you pretend you never found me. Or three…" She spun the staff once, grounding it lightly against her shoulder. "You try. Just one of you—land a strike, even a graze. Make me stumble, make me touch the ground with anything but my feet. If you do, I'll come willingly." The guards stared at her, horrified. "We can't," one stammered. "Touching you is treason." "Technically," she mused, "only if you hurt me." That was when the robed mages entered the courtyard — five of them, each bearing different sigils of magical discipline. Their presence sent a ripple through the air, faint sparks trailing from their sleeves. Mana channelers. Scholars of the sanctum. "You outnumber me now," Ivelle said, her voice laced with playful challenge. "Surely that earns you some confidence." The guards looked at each other again. Their grips tightened on their staffs.
The princess stepped into the center of the ring, lowering her stance, one foot sliding slightly behind the other. Her eyes shimmered, unreadable. The courtyard fell silent, save for the soft rush of wind through the trees and the hum of mana from the mages watching. The castle halls of Valmora were awash with pale morning light, filtering through windows of mana-glass. The walls glimmered with runic reflections, the silence echoing faint footsteps that seemed reluctant to meet. Valisheen, the court mage of Brimholde, descended the polished staircase with the quiet grace of someone lost in calculation. A scroll half-folded beneath one arm, his mind elsewhere—until he came to a pause. At the corridor's other end, a woman stood just at the threshold of the entry arch. Dressed in flowing robes of starlit white and adorned with a silver circlet etched with radiant glyphs, Sister Vohria of the Church of Velaris entered without hesitation.
Valisheen composed himself at once. "Sister Vohria," he said smoothly, though a subtle tightness curled around his words. "A rare morning bloom, walking the crown halls." Vohria gave him a serene nod, her hands folded neatly before her. "Valisheen. I trust the light finds you well." "It finds me," he answered, forcing a faint smile. "Though it sometimes brings company I do not expect." She stepped closer, her composure unwavering. "Unexpected arrivals often serve greater purposes than planned ones." "Or they simply arrive with intent unspoken." She did not react to the edge in his voice. "The Queen sent me. I am to observe Princess Ivelle's reception by the Crown Sentinels." "Ah. Then you are only moments behind them," Valisheen replied, inclining his head toward the west corridor. "I believe she requested their company in the open courtyard." "I thank you." Her expression remained unreadable. "And what calls the court mage away from the royal circle so early?"
Valisheen's smile sharpened faintly. "Curiosity may be a virtue in the temple, Sister. But in the court, it bites back." "Perhaps. But those who walk closest to the flame should know its warmth from its burn." For a moment, the two regarded each other in quiet, the polished marble beneath their feet reflecting shared shadows. Then, with a small bow, Vohria passed him without another word. Valisheen watched her go, eyes narrowed. The west courtyard stirred with wind and anticipation. Silver trees cast long shadows over the pale stone arena. The princess stood at its center, framed by the rising sun and the gleaming weapon rack. Around her, five robed mages and four Crown Sentinels formed a loose ring. Each mage bore distinct sigils embroidered into their sleeves, each carrying their own style of mana discipline. Mage One ignited a flowing script of flame through the air, a fire-dancer tracing a spell of containment.
Mage Two held his staff aloft, channeling light-based illusions that shimmered in false movements. Mage Three knelt to the ground, embedding frost sigils into the flagstone, setting subtle traps in radiant frost. Mage Four stood silent, palms together, weaving a barrier matrix through the surrounding energy. Mage Five, the last, held no instrument. With mere breath, he shaped raw mana into vibrating orbs that darted with sentience. The Crown Sentinels remained wary, each bearing a bowstaff marked by the royal crest. "Last chance," said the Lead Guard, though his voice lacked confidence. "This is reckless, Princess." Ivelle smiled. "Then you should be cautious." Guard Two felt sweat bead beneath his helm. "How can someone so composed smile like that? Gods, she's not even trying to intimidate us. She just...is".
Guard Three gripped his staff tighter. "I've trained under a general, bled in skirmishes at the border—and still I feel like a page before a dragon". "Begin," Ivelle said. They moved. Flame and light surged first. The illusionist cast shifting silhouettes while the fire-weaver encircled the ring with flame. Ivelle spun her staff once and surged forward. Her movement was a blur. A single strike cracked the air as Mage Two recoiled, his illusion flickering out as her staff brushed his sleeve. "Out," she said. Frost blossomed beneath her boots, but she twisted mid-step, balancing on the shaft of her weapon as the ice snapped. "Keep your footwork tight," she warned the third mage, who flinched just as she struck near his shoulder. He fell. "Out." The orbs darted toward her. She leapt between them, moving with unnatural grace. One grazed her cheek, leaving a ripple of mana.
Guard One watched, awestruck. She's faster than anyone I've trained with. Not even the Harmonium drills would prepare me for this. The remaining two guards circled her. Guard Four stepped in, staff raised. She parried once, then twice, then disarmed him with a flick. The Lead Guard stepped in. He met her head-on. Their staffs collided, wood ringing like temple bells. Blow after blow. His breathing quickened. Her expression did not change. He faked high—then swept low. She leapt over the strike and landed behind him. Her staff tapped his shoulder. He dropped his weapon. She exhaled, steady. Eight opponents lay winded, outmaneuvered, or bowed. Ivelle planted the staff gently against the floor. "You can go tell my mother," she said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, "that I'm not attending any gathering where my path is decided for me." None dared argue.