My blood says I was born to rule.
Wrong.
I was not born to sit still, to smile on command, to memorise treaties written by men who never once had to live with their consequences. I was not born to become a symbol polished by expectation and fear. In Halleya, disappointment from one's parents carried consequences.
And by gods, my mother and father, also known as the king and queen of this shithole, tried everything.
Instructors from the southern academies with their terrifyingly straight posture and dead eyes. Etiquette masters from the east who corrected the angle of my chin. Even a mage from the north once attempted to cleanse my temperament with crystals, chants, and a lecture about destiny.
I bit him.
They called me wild. Undisciplined. Broken.
I was just…alive.
Anya understood that.
My big sister embodied everything I was meant to be: graceful, composed, and incredibly brilliant. She could end a war with a single word and never raise her voice doing it. I adored her and everyone else did. However, unlike the others, she never saw me as a problem to be solved.
She saw the restless loud and sharp-edged mess that is Claudemund and yet she loved me. I think. Hmmm…
When I was whipped for skipping lessons or sneaking into a restricted wing to play with the silly mechs, she would find me later. She held ice to my skin. Hid bruises beneath powder. Told me stories so ridiculous I laughed, even when it hurt to breathe.
She never asked me to be different. She only asked me to be myself, her adorable little sister.
So I built my way out.
I enjoy destroying and creating things. Inventing nonsensical contraptions kept me sane. I scavenged constantly, finding broken gears in junk rooms, metal from storage and discarded optics from observatories no one bothered locking. Occasionally a friend would give me a few gifts from the Royal Guard's workshop because they get all the interesting bits and pieces. They confiscated my "workshop" three times but I rebuilt it four times.
At some point, I simply relocated everything into my bedroom, because apparently that was the hill we were all prepared to die on.
In my defence, I strongly believe every young woman deserves a private space in which to pursue her interests. Mine just happened to involve high heat, unstable pressure, and the occasional miscalculations, by which I mean explosions.
A princess is, after all, entitled to her pursuits.
And gods forbid a woman have hobbies in this day and age.
Spitfire didn't begin as a deliberate plan; it originated from a dream I'd been having since my teenage years. More precisely, it was a dreadful recurring dream that kept me awake and furious at the ceiling.
In the dream, I stood perfectly still while people discussed my future around me as if I weren't present. They'd smile, nod, and agree on my behalf.
I hated those dreams for their timing as much as their content.
One morning I was so fed up with them that by breakfast I'd already decided I needed a project.
The sketch emerged later during another mandatory yet ceremonious meeting where my presence was obligatory and my participation entirely perfunctory. A room full of elderly men saying things I might have comprehended had I not been half-asleep from my nightly activities. So instead, I doodled.
It was a mechanical llama, because if I was going to be symbolic, I might as well be ridiculous about it.
Initially, it was a joke.
Then I added pistons.
Trial one exploded. Along with my first workshop.
Trial two melted. My parents were less than thrilled that I was more captivated by what they deemed "nonsense" than by the grand destiny of this rather unfortunate kingdom. In their infinite wisdom, they decided to redirect my focus to my royal duties by dismantling my second workshop.
My third trial was so intense it threw me into a support column and bruised my left shoulder. The shoulder never quite forgave me after that as it kept reminding me of the pain as I got older. And also, the column eventually cracked. Anyway, despite this setback, my third workshop was alive.
Keyword: was.
Somewhere between rebuilding the pressure valves and reinforcing the spine, it stopped being funny. If this was going to be my escape, I needed to get serious.
The third workshop did not fail because of engineering.
It failed because of a man.
At the time, I was unaware of this. I simply knew someone had developed a sudden and very specific interest in my whereabouts. Just some minor noble with ambitions larger than his personality. This person took my disinterest personally and my indifference as an insult. I rejected him without realising it was what I was doing. Unfortunately for him, he was never interesting to begin with.
To make matters worse, he reported the workshop to my steward. Chivalry, it seemed, had died long before I ever met him.
I discovered this before the steward could inform my parents by sheer coincidence. A servant who perhaps took pity on me had warned me rather than follow protocol.
I had one night.
So I triaged.
Anything I couldn't carry, I left. Anything that might identify the project outright, I dismantled. By the following afternoon, the third workshop was gone. So was the evidence for Spitfire. After that, my workshop became migratory.
The essentials lived under my bed: quick-access components and things I might reach for half-asleep. Tools, of course, a woman needs her tools, plus a detonator housing. The essentials.
My desk reverted to its usual state: ink, ledgers and correspondence. A closer look revealed stress notes and blueprints that only made sense to me.
The toy box was emptied and moved to the closet. My childhood disappeared behind winter cloaks and ceremonial gowns. In its place: more components!
The welding, shaping and pieces beyond a princess's eccentricity were crafted at the Royal Guard's workshop. Conveniently located within the palace grounds, the barracks is connected by service corridors and inner passages no one had ever successfully managed to keep me out of.
The work hall was vast, boisterous and perpetually bustling. Sparks were commonplace and noise simply a background hum. No one questioned a curious princess lingering too long; doing so would have meant challenging their superior and no one was keen to find out where that line actually lay. Technically, I was not authorised to be in that wing, but I found that confidence often achieved what permission could not. Occasionally my parents would discover this and try to pry answers from me.
However, no one really stopped me. Perhaps it helped that a friend was there and I constantly pestered him. Whenever I was unsure or even nearly knew enough to be dangerous, I dragged him over and demanded explanations. He showed me proper handling techniques and prevented me from doing something catastrophically stupid more than once.
He occasionally brought food, usually fruit or something overly healthy. I ate it out of spite which only encouraged him further.
We frequently argued about the absurdity of my ideas. His infuriating habit of being right just often enough to make it unbearable added to the frustration. However, it was thanks to him that I began to understand where structures failed under repeated stress. That single lesson revealed more about the outer wall than any official report could ever have.
He had no idea what I intended to do with that information. The morning Spitfire finally worked marked the day I stopped pretending this escape plan was a theory. I had not slept properly in three days, but the pressure ratios were exquisite, so I felt I was prioritising correctly.
The final prototype lay scattered across my bed, floor and desk – any flat surface in my room was fair game. I carefully transported each piece inside like a criminal smuggling contraband. The logistics were incredible, especially when I finally had to steal the welder. I had to give myself a pat on the back for this plan.
By noon my room resembled a battlefield. The air was thick with the smell of hot metal and oil and soot clung to the curtains. My bed was unusable unless you enjoyed sleeping on a half-assembled mechanical llama with a penchant for explosions.
This was the point of no return so I had to do my utmost to keep anyone out of my room. I sent servants away with excuses like a tantrum they simply couldn't witness. I locked the doors though I doubt it mattered. I even tried wedging furniture where locks felt inadequate. Anyone persistent enough to knock would get a shriek of a difficult princess having a meltdown.
By evening Spitfire stood upright. Ugly yet utterly magnificent.
The chambers were designed to contain noise. Fortunately for me, explosions were still noise. Privacy is paramount when it safeguards the crown. No one wants to hear the royal children's screams when a new servant fumbles with how things should be done. Instead, visitors used the mechanical signal mounted outside the door. A brass light above the inner frame flashed, followed by a discreet little chime. Protocol forbade servants from touching the royal door directly.
A small brass light above the inner frame dinged.
Then again.
Then again.
I stared at it. This was not the polite single pulse of a servant requesting entry... I tried to ignore it but the light continued.
"Persistent," I hissed.
It didn't stop. I swore under my breath and shifted the wardrobe enough to free the latch without dismantling the entire barricade. The door swung open for a fraction, barely wide enough for me to squeeze between it and the frame, hoping the state of my room would remain hidden. Standing tall with a chin held high, I composed myself.
"I shall not say this one more time. I said leave me be," I declared. "I am occupied with matters of importance—"
A familiar hand pressed against the door's outer edge and it creaked open. Anya's face peeked into the narrow crevice.
"You're not allowed," I hissed, "this is a restricted zone, sister."
She raised an eyebrow and said, "Open the door."
"No."
"Claudemund."
"Absolutely not!"
Behind her, I could see the corridor—two patrol guards at a distance, pretending not to hear. Servants further down, equally committed to minding their own business. I angled my body further into the gap.
"Go away."
Lowering her voice, she warned, "If I escalate this to Papá, this will become quite inconvenient for you."
I froze instantly. That was incredibly low. Well done, sis.
"You wouldn't."
Anya kept her gaze.
"Open the door."
The mechanical signal light flickered again as Anya pressed her finger on the switch, maintaining eye contact. I closed my eyes briefly and sighed. Then I widened the gap enough for her to slip inside. She moved with efficiency, her cloak brushing the frame, and I promptly closed the door. Hopefully, no one in the corridor saw a thing.
Anya had just discovered the full extent of my treason, noting the dismantled furniture, scorch marks and the mechanical llama poised in the centre, ready to launch. All I could think about was that she had stepped directly over the calibrated valve assembly without kicking it. Which, to be honest, was impressive.
"Well," she finally declared, cupping her hands together. "I knew this day would eventually come. I suppose my timing is impeccable because I get to see you before you leave."
She walked a slow circle around Spitfire, inspecting the weld lines like she knew what she was evaluating. Then she stopped.
"So," she said calmly, "what is your plan once you're out?"
I blinked. "No idea. Never thought I'd get this far."
"Claudemund."
I shrugged. "I'll figure it out."
"You don't build something like this without considering the consequences beyond the wall," she said. "Claudemund, a treasury discrepancy crossed my desk this morning. I was coming here to ask you about it but after seeing this room, the rest was not difficult to piece together."
Oops, I forgot I took a little bit from there. But then again, I own a percentage, right? I'll need to participate in a healthy amount of corruption for this plan to succeed.
"Potato tomato," I frowned.
"Claudemund," she said, "I assume you won't be entering the world empty-handed."
A faint smile played on my lips as I replied, "That would be terrifying."
She held my gaze for a moment longer. "Do you realise the irresponsibility of this? I will not stand in your way if this is what you truly desire, but at least consider the consequences beyond the walls."
"I know I won't be inside it," I replied, "that feels like a solid starting point."
She studied me for a long moment. I leaned against Spitfire's flank, fingers idly tracing a seam in the metal.
"The longer I stay," I murmured, "the worse I fear I'm becoming."
That piqued her interest.
"I can feel it," I continued, still fixated on Spitfire rather than her. "I don't think I can endure much more, dear sister. Eventually there won't be enough left to escape. I'd rather try and fail than wake up one morning and realise I no longer want to try at all."
"That is not how this ends," she said quietly as her jaw tightened.
"It is if I stay."
She exhaled slowly.
"They will not welcome you back," she warned. "Not after this. Considering all the damage you're about to cause Mamá, Papá, and Halleya."
"Good," I smiled, "that's all I needed to hear."
Anya stepped closer. "You're impossible."
"I've been told."
Anya wrapped her arms around me but I stiffened straight away. Physical affection has always felt like being pinned by a well-meaning predator. I endured it for approximately two seconds before patting her back in what I hoped passed for reciprocation.
"There," I muttered. "You've met your yearly affection from Claudemund quota."
She laughed quietly against my shoulder.
"Take care of yourself."
"Perhaps."
She pulled back.
"Be fast."
"Always."
As I turned to Spitfire, she stepped away. The fuel pressure was steady and the release levers were primed. Bomb housings secured. Exhaust vents calibrated. I pulled my gloves on and goggles down. The room felt smaller now.
I swung a leg over the frame and settled into position. The metal was still warm from earlier adjustments.
"See you later, Anya," I smiled as I looked at my big sister one last time. "Stand back. It's going to be loud."
Anya understood and smiled before leaving. I needed to ensure she is not around the blast zone before starting the process.
When everything seemed clear, I engaged the ignition sequence. For half a second nothing happened. Then the boilers caught fire. A low violent hum filled the chamber and steam hissed. The frame shuddered beneath me as if it had been waiting its entire life for this very moment.
"Let's make this educational," I whispered.
The explosion arrived before the sound.
For a brief, suspended moment, the air in my room seemed to collapse inward. Then the world exploded.
Stone, glass, and the final remains of my dignity blasted outward through the east wall of my bedchamber in a spectacular display of engineering confidence and questionable life decisions. The sound followed a heartbeat later.
BOOM
The force shoved the air out of my lungs and rattled every bone in my body. Heat surged through my back as Spitfire's engines roared to life beneath me. The boilers roared and the turbines screamed as they fed steam into the lift vents, which were now directed towards the shattered floor.
My room and by extension, the east wing of the palace, did not appreciate the experience. I glanced over my shoulder as we burst through the expanding hole where my wall used to be.
Acceptable collateral.
Spitfire lurched forward, its metal frame rattling furiously like a kettle as the lift vents caught the air below. For a moment the machine hovered uncertainly over the smoking wreckage of my bedroom—no more than a meter above the ground—before the thrust stabilised and the mechanical llama surged forward.
The courtyard opened before me. Moonlight flashed across polished stone and startled guards who just realised that their evening had become significantly more complicated.
I laughed.
Perhaps a little bit too loud which might have confirmed several long-held suspicions about my mental stability.
"Let's go, you absolute bastard," I muttered, leaning over the controls and cranking the throttle. Spitfire answered with a violent metallic growl and the engines revved with all their might.
The courtyard gates rushed toward me as I flipped the first switch. The brass housing mounted beneath Spitfire's neck snapped open with a sharp mechanical clack. A small cylindrical charge slid forward along a guide rail and launched ahead of us, skidding violently across the courtyard stones. I leaned low over the controls.
"Fucking out of my way," I muttered.
The charge detonated against the gatehouse. Stone erupted outward like a fist had punched through the castle itself. The wooden reinforcement beams splintered instantly, iron brackets snapping loose as the blast tore open a jagged breach in the gate structure. Debris rained across the courtyard.
I grinned.
"Right," I said, satisfied. "That should get Halleya's attention."
Behind me the alarm horns began to howl. The sound rolled across Halleya's upper district. I could already imagine the scene unfolding in the barracks: armour being dragged on half-fastened, officers shouting orders, half the Royal Guard sprinting toward the source of the disturbance.
Which, regrettably, was me.
"Ah," I said softly. "There it is."
Spitfire surged up the rising stone road that wound toward the higher terraces of the capital. Behind me started the sound of pursuit.
Boots! Steel striking stone... The Royal Guard were many things. Slow was not one of them. I reached down and pulled another lever. Two canisters dropped from the rear compartment and burst against the stone a moment later, releasing thick coils of grey smoke that swallowed the road behind me.
"Apologies, gentlemen!" I called over my shoulder. "Visibility is terrible tonight." I pressed another switch but this time for the incendiaries.
Fire erupted across the roadway in violent bursts of orange light, forcing the pursuing riders to veer and slow as flames licked up the sides of the narrow passage.
Not long after, the enormous wall rose ahead. It stood as a monument to Halleya's confidence and centuries of engineering meant to remind the world that the capital of the kingdom was not easily threatened.
Except, perhaps, one very, VERY irritated princess.
Spitfire rattled beneath me as we climbed the last incline toward the fortification. The engines were beginning to sound angry, a deep mechanical howl vibrating through the metal frame and up into my bones. I was being pursued by the consequences of my own actions, and yet part of me was still offended by the sound Spitfire was making. That was not a healthy sound. I know unhealthy sounds. I make most of them.
Anyway, behind me, the pursuit had grown louder. Lots of shouting. Multiple boots. Steps of horses.
And beneath all of it— the heavier rhythm of iron feet striking stone.
I twisted in the saddle to confirm my suspicion. Ah there it is. The Armoured Division. A line of mechanical war machines rounded the curve of the road, their towering frames catching the light as they thundered forward. Each step of those mechs landed like a hammer blow against the street.
"Oh dear me," I muttered. "They brought the big boys."
Spitfire hissed sharply as I leaned forward over the controls, eyes flicking between the wall ahead and the launcher housing mounted underneath.
This was the moment!
This was the largest charge I'd ever assembled and it rested in the final chamber. I'd carefully constructed it two nights earlier, paying the same attention to detail reserved for incredibly delicate pastries. If this failed I am definitely heading straight for the dungeons.
"Please work. Please work," I prayed, steadying my hands on the release lever. The launcher finally snapped open and the charge shot forward along the brass rail striking the stone just beneath the weakened seam. For a moment nothing happened. Then yet another explosion, because one in the palace wasn't enough. The blast tore into the wall with a deafening roar, shaking the road beneath Spitfire. Stone shattered outwards in a violent spray of dust and debris as the outer masonry cracked open.
But the wall did not fall. It only fractured. It stubbornly remained exactly where it was.
Dear gods, I am so fucked and I forgot to write my last will.
I stared at the damage as Spitfire carried me closer.
"You have got to be fucking joking."
Behind me the mechs were closing in. I could hear the gears louder. The grinding of pistons and the hiss of steam as the machines pushed themselves within the narrow streets of the lower district. One more minute and they would be within striking distance. Possibly less.
"Fine," I snapped. "If diplomacy doesn't work..."
I grabbed what was left – weaker charges intended for my defence – and rammed them into the launcher. The second bomb slammed into the fractured section of the wall and detonated with a violent crack that rattled the nearby watchtower. More stone collapsed, widening the wound in the fortification. Still not enough. The inner reinforcement held firm, iron braces groaning under the pressure but refusing to surrender.
I felt the first flicker of real panic claw up my throat.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Another charge. Another blast.
Dust poured down the wall but still wasn't enough. It was too late.
I fired the last of my smaller charges toward the fractured seam in quick succession. Explosions cracked across the stone like lightning strikes, each one tearing away more of the wall.
But the inner frame held. My heart was hammering violently it felt like it might punch its way out of my ribs.
"Gods," I said breathlessly. "This may have been optimistic."
A second explosion followed.
It wasn't mine; I couldn't recall detonating anything at this point except perhaps a delayed charge.
The blast struck the wall from the side, ripping directly into one of the hidden iron support braces beneath the stone. Instantly, the structure buckled and a jagged fracture tore through the weakened section. Stone collapsed inward as the reinforcement gave way.
For a moment I simply blinked at the sudden hole opening before me.
"Uhh… Alright then."
I elected not to question my good fortune. I slid one more bomb into the launcher and fired it straight into the fractured edge of the breach. The explosion widened the opening enough for me to fit through. Behind me something enormous slammed into the ground that would've knocked me out. One of the mechs had lunged forward, its metal hand crashing down toward the road where I had been a second earlier.
"Fuck you!" I shouted.
With everything Spitfire had left, I shoved the throttle forward. Steam blasted downwards as the engines roared to their final limit. We shot towards the breach. Stone scraped past my boots and clothes as the wall collapsed around us, dust and shattered masonry exploding outward in every direction.
For a fleeting moment, the world dissolved into smoke.
Then—
Open air.
Cold wind struck my face as Spitfire burst through the collapsing wall and out into the dark countryside beyond Halleya. The horns could not stop howling in outrage.
I started laughing again. "FUCK YOU!" I shouted towards the wall. "FUCK ALL OF YOU!"
I throttled Spitfire forward into the night as the wind tore past my ears and the lights of Halleya shrank behind me.
I hate how cold this is. Halleya's air was always thick with the breath of so many people living so close together.
Spitfire did not seem to care about the scenery. For a few seconds I simply rode then I frowned as I looked behind.
The breach in the wall glowed in the distance, light spilling through it as riders poured out onto the road behind me. Even from this distance I recognised the rhythm of the Armoured Division deciding my evening deserved their full attention.
"Right, the it's not over yet," I muttered to the wind. "But I suppose this grand escape won't be complete without the chase outside the kingdom." Lowering my head over the controls, I went faster before I could relax.
Beyond the capital's outer districts, the road descended, cutting through farmland that stretched towards the hills. Low fences blurred past on either side while silver irrigation channels gleamed under the moonlight. Behind me the riders were still coming.
I had planned for the wall.
I had planned for speed.
I had not, admittedly, planned this far beyond success.
I could still hear the pounding rhythm of hooves striking the road as the cavalry pushed their mounts harder. The mechs followed more slowly, but their footsteps carried across the open land.
"Ahhh! Leave me alone!"
I kept hammering the throttle to its limit. The turbines protested while the entire frame vibrated as Spitfire skimmed over the uneven road.
The ground has started to become rough, carved with deep wagon ruts and scattered stones from decades of trade caravans travelling to and from the capital. I took a quick look to my left.
The fields stretched into uneven darkness, interrupted only by irrigation channels and low stone fences dividing the farmland into long narrow strips. If nothing else, it might buy me seconds.
"Get some dirt, idiots."
I kicked the stabilisers wider and wrenched the controls sideways. Spitfire leapt off the road and hit the farmland with a violent jolt that nearly threw me from the saddle as the lift vents struggled to stabilise. Clods of dirt and broken stalks exploded behind us as the mechanical llama ran across the fields.
The horns sounded again behind me this time a long low note followed by three sharp notes. I had heard it before, watching training drills from the palace balcony while pretending to pay attention to whatever diplomatic lecture was happening beside me. The signal rolled across the countryside and echoed faintly off the distant hills as the recall horns repeated.
The torches finally slowed. The riders seemed to hesitate at first, their lights bunching together along the road as the horses slowed to uncertain steps. Further back the mechs stopped entirely. I stared at them for a moment.
"Huh," I said to the wind. "That's it then?"
I kept going just in case someone decided the horn had been a terrible mistake. Spitfire roared onward into the darkness, carrying me further and further from the lights of Halleya.
I did not stop, but I eased the throttle to let my brain catch up. I had no intention of stopping. Doing so within sight of Halleya felt like an insult to the amount of property damage I had just caused. Ahead lay the long black spine of the provincial road cutting through farmland and low hills.
For the first time in my life, there was nothing scheduled at the end of it. My face really hated the cold wind out here. After a while, my brain finally caught up with the rest of my body.
I had successfully escaped the capital, destroyed important structures including my chambers, and humiliated the von Halleya lineage. Unfortunately, I had not planned where to sleep.
Right. I need to stop somewhere eventually preferably somewhere with a roof, food, and no portraits of my family hanging above the fireplace.
That final requirement significantly narrowed my options. Every provincial town and most villages within this massive kingdom would have them. My parents enjoyed reminding the Halleya what we looked like. I frowned into the wind.
Hmmm... If I remembered correctly, the Royal Relay took three days to reach the western border. If my calculations are correct, it would be five or six by horse. But then again, I haven't been paying much attention to my maths. In fact, I am horrible at mathematics, so go figure. But I know very well that Spitfire is considerably faster than either. If this doesn't explode I could theoretically reach a town beyond the border within two and three-quarter days. Again, maths aren't my greatest strength but that was encouraging, at least.
Unfortunately, I didn't know where the nearest town was or which provinces were closest. I also couldn't remember which direction I'd chosen initially. I squinted up at the sky.
Fuck you, sky.
Well... This seems like an oversight. To be fair, my original plan had ended roughly at blowing up the wall and leaving. The details beyond that point had been… aspirational. I had studied maps! I knew trade routes, supply corridors, tax yields, and which provinces complained most loudly during winter council meetings.
What I did not know, laughably, was where a woman could find a bed in the middle of the night while fleeing her own kingdom. Privilege is educational in many ways. This is not one of them.
"Fine," I chuckled, "I'll learn!"
Hands-on has always been my preferred method, anyway. I lowered myself over the controls and twisted the throttle once again to go faster. Spitfire roared in agreement, surging forward across the empty road.
Spitfire carried me onward away from Halleya, finally allowing me to see the world beyond my previous limitations.