A knock sounded, a disturbance I longed to disregard. Yet Sainte’s hand squeezed my shoulder as I waited too long, the fleeting peace slipping through our fingers.
“Come in,” I called, voice thick with reluctance.
The door creaked open, revealing two maidservants, the same who helped dress me day after day. Alongside them was Floria, the master seamstress who had made every one of my exquisite gowns. She offered a sympathetic smile, then dipped into a curtsy as she entered.
“Shall we prepare you, Your Highness?” she asked.
With a steadying breath, I pushed to my feet. Sainte’s touch slipped away from my shoulder, leaving an ache in my chest that defied explanation. My heart urged me to turn back, to grasp his hand, to flee this fate and seek refuge anywhere but here. It demanded defiance, a refusal to accept what lay ahead—to forge my own path.
Yet, my mind countered with the inevitability of this moment. I was meant to confront my end, not evade it, only to be caught unaware later. No, I would face my fears head-on, embracing my fate like the princess I was.
“I’m ready.”
The attire surpassed all expectations, a true masterpiece. Though classified as a dress, it defied convention. Black trousers hugged my legs, while the full skirt danced between them with every stride. Its length, reaching mid-calf, featured elongated points at the hem, enhancing its fluidity and grace with each sway.
The snug top embraced my form, wrapping around my torso and chest, secured by laces that ascended to the neckline. Despite the high collar, its thinness made it feel more like a second skin than a constriction.
The ensemble was entirely black, adorned with peridots along the bodice that accentuated the hue of my irises. They braided and pinned my hair, ensuring no strays would disrupt my vision.
Not that the fight would be a prolonged affair.
With every step, I held my chin high, matching the confident stride of my black boots as they echoed through the corridor toward the training chambers.
Around me, servants bustled, adorning the throne room with flowers and tapestries, a flurry of preparation for the impending coronation. Their curious gazes brushed past me, likely etching the sight of the Lost Princess walking toward her fate into their memories. This would be the talk of Wynterborne for generations to come. The very least I could do was muster every ounce of pride to carry me forward, even as I approached what seemed like my doom.
My dagger hung from the thick belt around my hip, a sleek ebony blade suspended in a silver sheath. Engraved on its hilt was a scene of a wild cat’s hunt for a boar. It fit my palm perfectly, its weight and balance were everything I could wish for.
As we neared the guards’ wing, our pace slowed, and a chill crept over my palms, damp with cold sweat.
This was it.
Sainte strode ahead, bracing his arms against the massive wooden doors, straining as he pushed them inward with a low groan, throwing them wide open.
The room teemed with people. A vast expanse of polished floorboards encircled by tier upon tier of seats ascending higher to ensure an unobstructed view for every spectator. Not a single seat remained unoccupied.
Dread hit me like a hammer to my chest as Sainte moved aside, unveiling Adastrus, awaiting my entrance.
My brother stood tall, clad in a sleek black overcoat and matching trousers adorned with sparkling garnets that shimmered under the soft overcast light seeping through the windows. I approached despite the trembling in my knees, knowing there was no escape now.
Adastrus sported a thin, menacing shortsword at his hip, its gleaming blade exposed and secured only by a strap of black leather tethered to his belt. It was a lethal weapon, poised to strike at the slightest provocation. His hair cascaded in its usual style, long down the center and closely shaved at the sides, framinghis face like a wild stallion’s mane, a blend of majesty and menace. His piercing eyes locked onto mine, a malevolent grin stretching across his cheeks, baring his white, predatory teeth.
Beside him stood a priest adorned in red and black robes, bearing a symbol of a dragon, one I didn’t recognize. Was that the god who answered the regent? A deity who thought me weak and unworthy to rule?
I strode into the middle of the arena, my posture tall but unable to conceal the quivers that raced through me. His grin seemed to widen, fueled by my visible fear.
Sainte, my loyal Valahant, didn’t follow. I gritted my teeth against the blow that landed on my battered heart.
“Sister,” Adastrus called in a sing-song voice.
“Adastrus.”
I refused to acknowledge him as my blood. Not anymore. He represented my death, and kin would never hurt each other. Lyana and Ethyan were my true family.
Sainte was my family.
Solitude stabbed like a knife, realizing none of them could stand with me at my end. With my Valahant lost in the throng, poised to journey past the Veil after me, I had to face this alone.
“I’ve challenged you to the Rite of Combat, and you have answered.”
