6 months had crawled by since the night I fled the castle, six month since I had met Lyra Skyblade, the red-haired, white-streaked, sharp-fanged girl who had become, to my increasing dismay, the primary obstacle to my freedom.
Twenty-four times. That was how often I had tried to run away. Twenty-four failed attempts in so much days.
Each time, my escape had ended the same way: Lyra found me sometimes within minutes, sometimes after a tense, breathless hour.
She always tracked me with an ease that made me want to scream. If I slipped out a window, she was waiting on the roof. If I bribed a maid to look the other way, Lyra simply appeared, arms crossed, fangs glinting, gaze flat with that infuriating calmness.
Once, I even disguised myself as a stableboy, rubbing dirt on my cheeks and stuffing my hair beneath a cap.
I had made it all the way to the edge of the orchard before Lyra dropped out of an apple tree, dangling upside down, and announced in a bored voice, "Going somewhere, princess?"
It had become a dreadful ritual: I would make my plans, execute them with desperate, practiced care and Lyra would catch me.
At first, I had raged. Then sulked. Then plotted revenge. Now, I simmered in a slow, grinding loathing, my resentment curling inside me like a coiled serpent. Lyra seemed perfectly content to let me hate her; she never scolded, never mocked, never even seemed angry.
She simply did her duty, returning me to the castle every time, her hold gentle but unyielding, as if she were carrying a troublesome but beloved kitten.
So it was no surprise that today, as I sat on the stone bench overlooking the knights' practice yard, my gaze kept drifting like a moth to a flame toward the girl I now considered my sworn nemesis.
The sun was fierce, drawing diamonds of sweat on the backs of the armored men and women who circled each other on the sandy earth.
I should have been studying. Instead, I sat beside Seraphina, our picnic lunch spread between us, scowling at the world and at Lyra in particular.
Seraphina picked at a wedge of cheese, her sleeves rolled up, her hair twisted into a plait. She looked every bit the future queen she refused to be.
Every so often, her eyes flickered to me, lips twitching in silent amusement.
Lyra was down in the training yard, her red and white hair streaming behind her as she spun to avoid a blow. She wore borrowed armor, the breastplate a bit too large.
The knight she faced was twice her size and at least three times as old, yet Lyra darted in and out of reach, her wooden practice sword snapping against the older knight's shield in a sharp staccato.
"She's getting good, isn't she?" Seraphina nudged me, her tone light.
I picked up a strawberry and bit into it savagely. "She's a show-off."
Seraphina laughed, that low, musical sound that made everyone else want to laugh too. "Or maybe she's just talented."
"She's not even a real knight yet," I muttered.
Seraphina arched one elegant eyebrow. "She will be, if she keeps at it. I've never seen anyone pick up swordwork so quickly. Not even you, little sister."
I bristled. "She's half-demon. Maybe that's cheating."
"Or maybe you're jealous."
I shot her a look that would have withered a lesser sibling. Seraphina only grinned and popped a grape into her mouth.
"What's it like, having a someone who could toss you over her shoulder and carry you to breakfast?"
"She's my jailer," I snapped, slamming my cup down.
Seraphina shook her head, but there was affection in her gaze. "You could always just stop trying to escape. Save yourself the trouble."
"That would mean giving up," I said. "I don't give up."
"No, you certainly don't." She nudged me again, and her voice softened. "You know, Mama and Papa worry when you disappear. Even if Lyra always brings you back."
Guilt prickled at me, hot and unwelcome. I shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "They worry too much."
"Maybe." She looked out over the yard, her gaze going distant for a moment.
"But it's only because they love you, Isolde. And if I may say so you do make it rather easy to love you, even when you're impossible."
I rolled my eyes, but a reluctant smile tugged at my lips. I tried to hide it by staring more intently at Lyra.
She was fighting another knight now—a younger woman.
The match was fast and brutal, both fighters exchanging quick, vicious blows. Lyra parried a high strike, dropped to one knee, and swept the woman's legs out from under her in a blur of motion.
The knight hit the ground with a thud, then lay there laughing as Lyra offered her a hand up.
The watching squires applauded. The master, a grizzled man with a nose that looked as though it had been broken more times than I could count, grunted in approval.
I stared, something hot and sharp twisting inside me. It wasn't fair. Lyra had only been here 6 months, and already she was making friends—being praised, admired.
I was the princess, but all anyone seemed to talk about was the mysterious girl who had saved my life and now kept me prisoner in my own home.
I couldn't stand her.
I stood abruptly, dusting crumbs from my skirts. "I'm going to fight her."
Seraphina choked on her water. "Excuse me?"
"I want to spar with her." I was already halfway down the steps before Seraphina could protest, my pulse beating in my throat like a war drum. "Let's see how special she really is."
I marched across the sand, skirts lifted in one hand, my face set in determination. Lyra turned, wiping sweat from her brow, and saw me coming.
Her expression was unreadable—somewhere between curiosity and mild irritation, as if she'd been interrupted from something important.
"I want to spar," I announced, loud enough for everyone to hear. "You and me. Right now."
The master-at-arms gave me a skeptical look. "Princess, are you sure—?"
"I'm quite sure," I said, fixing Lyra with my coldest glare. "Unless you're afraid to fight me."
Lyra shrugged, rolling her shoulders. "Your funeral, princess."
Someone handed me a practice sword—lighter than my usual one, but I barely noticed. My hands shook a little, but I gripped the hilt tightly, refusing to let my nerves show.
I squared off against Lyra, who took her place with effortless poise, sword resting lightly in one hand.
The rest of the knights formed a loose circle around us, some muttering, others watching with open interest.
Seraphina hovered at the edge, her arms folded, an expression of wary amusement on her face.
"Ready?" Lyra asked.
"Always," I spat.
The master-at-arms barked, "Begin!"
I lunged forward, channeling all the anger and frustration of the past month into my swing.
Lyra sidestepped, barely seeming to move, and my blade sliced through empty air. I pivoted, trying to recover, but Lyra was already behind me. I spun, aiming a backhanded blow at her shoulder.
She blocked it with a flick of her wrist and stepped inside my guard, close enough that I could see the flecks of white in her red hair.
"Too slow," she murmured.
I swung again, harder this time, desperate to land a hit. Lyra deflected the blow, her movements almost lazy.
I tried a feint, then jabbed at her unguarded side, but she twisted away, her body flowing like water. Every move I made, she was already there—anticipating, countering, evading.
The circle of knights began to cheer, some for me, more for Lyra. I could feel my face flushing with humiliation.
I tried a risky overhead strike, hoping to catch her off guard, but she caught my wrist mid-swing and twisted, sending my practice sword flying from my grip.
Before I could react, she swept my feet out from under me. I hit the ground with a thud that rattled my bones.
The world spun. When I blinked up, Lyra was standing over me, sword resting lightly on her shoulder, expression cool and unreadable.
"Do you yield?" she asked.
I bit my tongue, struggling to sit up. My pride screamed at me to refuse, but my body ached and my heart hammered with humiliation.
"I yield," I whispered, the words tasting like poison.
Lyra offered me her hand. I stared at it for a long moment, then took it—reluctantly, my fingers trembling.
She pulled me to my feet with an ease that made me want to slap her.
The watching knights applauded, a few even calling out praise. "Well fought, Princess!" "Good effort!" But most of their attention was on Lyra, who simply nodded.
She glanced at me, and for a fleeting instant, I thought I saw something like regret—or was it understanding?
Seraphina hurried to my side, helping me brush dust from my skirts. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine," I muttered, staring at the ground. The humiliation burned, hot and raw. I had lost—in front of everyone. Lost to Lyra.
Seraphina squeezed my shoulder. "You were brave. She's just… very good."
"She's impossible," I muttered, casting a final glare at Lyra, who was already walking away, surrounded by admiring squires.