A clash of steel echoed within the enclosed courtyard, and Aylar Eldormer grunted at the impact against her blade. The princess’ long, flowing blonde hair bounced while she jumped back, and her thick warplate clinked with the rattle of chainmail when she dove back in to bring her blade to bear against her opponent.

The opponent in question, one of the golden-armored members of the royal guard, took her responding blow upon the wide surface of his winged shield—and threw the princess back a moment later.

“Your stance is too wide, your highness,” he said from beneath the features-obscuring greathelm. “You need to compact your arms to better ward with your shield, and retain your balance.”

“I am wielding a blade and a shield, Mernyn. I was told to—”

“You were told to ensure you had room to move and block, yes, but not at the expense of your ability to fight—and certainly not while diminishing your strength output.”

“My brother—”

“Your brother is male, and you are female, Princess.” Mernyn responded mercilessly. “Until you have managed to pass level twenty, you must adhere to the restrictions of your gender. Cultivation is only the great equalizer when you manage to make it such.”

Aylar scowled at him, but didn’t argue. She could hardly deny the truth of his words, no matter how vexing they were.

Biological disparity cared nothing for personal desires.

Only Cultivation could truly erode the differences.

“If I had been able to start training earlier—”

“If you had been able to, then yes, things might be different,” her instructor and protector said calmly, “but you were not able to, and so they are not. Dwelling on hypotheticals will only serve to frustrate you further.”

“I know that,” Aylar groused with frustration and scowled down at her longsword, “but I cannot help how much it aggravates me.” She looked back up Mernyn, and felt her pale cheeks flush further with heat at her anger. “Having to wait until my twenty-fifth year to learn to fight, while my brother was able to begin at his age of majority? It’s ridiculous.”

“It’s only a five year gap, your highness.”

“Yet Braedon is already at his third tier!”

“Your brother had many advantages,” Mernyn pointed out. “The Dawn-Lord was his instructor even before coming to Terra. Your father was grooming Braedon to command this transmigration. It was you that threw in the wild card and elected to come as well.”

“Better to be here where I can define my future,” Aylar responded fiercely, “than on Altera, where I’d just be married off to some distant prince.”

“Understanding your motivations does not change the fact that you, technically, are the intruder within the intended design of Dawnhaven’s prospective monarchy.” Mernyn stepped back while he spoke, and assumed a calm ready stance. “We know your temperament, your highness, and that is why the Reds favor you for the Throne of Dawnhaven—but there is little we can do if you cannot pass the Rite of Ascension first, or at least quickly enough to challenge your brother.”

Aylar sighed when Mernyn spoke, and felt the power of her Light Affinity suffusing her mana channels with radiant heat. She mirrored his stance when it did, and lifted her kite shield—tucked in closer this time—and extended her longsword to the right in preparation.

“All of this feels wrong, Mernyn. I am standing in the way of my brother’s lawful claim, and I understand that well—but to do otherwise…”

“You have shared your feelings on this matter before, your highness, and now as it was then; my opinion, and that of your Reds, remain the same: there is nothing to be ashamed of.”

Aylar attacked when Mernyn spoke, and funneled her anger and impassioned frustration into the strikes of her blade. The forms she used were taught to her by the Guard after reaching Terra, and only because she had both reached her twenty-fifth summer and because they were irrevocably cut off from Altera.

Her father had never wanted her to be involved in war, despite all her objections. Her mother had been a Swordmaiden of peerless ferocity, and that same aspiration burned within Aylar as well.

“If only Braedon was more reasonable,” Aylar said with frustration amid clanging exchanges with Mernyn’s blade, “it would have made everything so much easier.”

“Your brother was born to his Fire Affinity and Warrior Archetype, your highness. He is as hot-headed and impulsive as both choices would suggest. He will make a fine Bannerlord, with time, but he would make a terrible King.”

“My father’s insistence on my weakness only gave credence to his claims of my incapability, too!”

“Your father was scarred by your mother’s death, princess.” Mernyn said while smoothly parrying away a particularly vicious strike she’d sent for his gorget. “He was quite afraid of losing you in kind.”

She’d heard that before, and yet her response was the same, and every bit as frustrated each time.

“He crippled my ability to defend myself!”

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She knew what the follow-up would be as well.

“He ensured you would never have to, had you stayed on Altera.”

Aylar growled and attacked Mernyn with renewed fury, channeling the power of her awakened Duelist aspect and leaning into her [Battle Rhythm] to flow faster into each blow. The more strikes she made in sequence, the greater her attack speed and coordination grew, and unless Mernyn broke her rhythm; it would escalate for as long as her Stamina could fuel it.

That, of course, was when the distraction that broke her focus arrived.

“The Dusk-Lord has announced that she is on her way, your highness.”

Aylar glanced to her right at the words instinctively, staggered, and cursed when she overbalanced during a sword-swing. Mernyn’s shield came up in merciless punishment, and her world turned black, and then white when the metal cracked against her face.

The world returned to her when she hit the ground, and Aylar groaned up at the sunlight streaming through into her private courtyard from the open sky above.

“System damn it, Leona. Your timing is awful.”

“My apologies, your highness.” The newly arrived guardswoman said with a hint of amusement. “Though I assumed you’d want to hear this news immediately.”

“You were right,” Aylar admitted while reaching up to settle her hand over her face, and layer a warm benediction of [Mending Touch] against her cut lip and damaged nose, “and I do. For what purpose is the Dusk-Lord coming, Leona?”

“The Duchess Latherian declined to specify the reason, your royal highness, but I should note that she very specifically ensured the message only reached the Reds.”

Aylar’s lips curled into lamenting disapproval at the iteration of the term, but she didn’t reprimand the woman for using it. She might have despised the split in loyalty caused by her brother and her fighting over the succession, but she also acknowledged that the support she received as a result was invaluable.

If Dawnhaven were to be embroiled in a civil war despite her best efforts to the contrary, then high elves like Leona would be the ones to fight and die on her behalf. She couldn’t disrespect that willing sacrifice by deriding their choice of overt support, no matter how much she knew it would have infuriated her father to see it.

“I have no idea what game the Dusk-Lord is playing at,” Aylar said while rising to her rump and setting aside her shield with a sigh, “but the Duchess has been defending our people longer than any of us have been alive.” She felt her vernacular automatically slipping from the ‘heroine’ to the ‘princess’ while she spoke. “I suppose it would be prudent to assume the matter to be of significant importance.”

“That would be my assumption as well, princess.” Leona agreed. “I have already contacted your Seneschal to inform him of the development, and pulled some favors to place Reds along the paths needed to spirit the Duchess to your apartments absent unwanted attention.”

“If Duchess Latherian wanted to see me without anyone knowing, she’d simply appear before me.” Aylar said with mild distraction, and focused on removing her steel gauntlets with a wince. Her hands were sore from the hours of training she’d been doing with Mernyn, but she hoped her Tier One healing factor would ease the pain quickly.

“You believe, then, that she wants to be seen visiting you?” Mernyn asked curiously.

“I believe that attempting to discern the mind of Ceruviel Latherian is like trying to comprehend the vastness of the great dark between the stars, Mernyn.” Aylar said while forcing herself to her feet—neither guard made the mistake of offering her help—and wincing while stretching her back. “I learned long ago to simply accept whatever the Dusk-Lord offered, when she offered it.”

Once she was done stretching, she turned back to the guards properly.

“What I know, however, is that the Duchess does nothing without specific calculation, and if she is coming to see me, then she is making some sort of statement or powerplay. The question is what the nature of that power play is, and why now.”

“I would assume that to be a simple answer, your highness.” Mernyn said in his usual tone of unruffled calm.

“Because of the tension between you and the prince,” Leona agreed simply.

Aylar nodded at them both and handed her gauntlets to Mernyn silently.

“Yes,” the princess said with a sigh after the guard accepted the gauntlets. “This will incense my brother, especially after her public and blatant repudiation of his advances, and will only serve to increase the tension between our factions.”

“Then logically, she either has a very good reason for what she’s doing, or has another plan in place.” Leona said thoughtfully.

“Or both, and a third element we won’t know until she deigns to reveal it,” Mernyn said with a tone of consideration. “Ceruviel is certainly mercurial, but she is also a strategic genius. I have no doubt that whatever she is doing, your highness, will be to your benefit.”

“Gaining her loyalty was a great boon,” Leona agreed again.

“I didn’t gain her loyalty, as much as I was forced to accept it,” Aylar responded wryly. “I was not given much choice in the matter, truth be told. I felt as if declining to accept her offer of aid would result in a thorough beating, royal title be damned.”

Both guards shifted at that, and Leona sighed under her helmet.

“Truthfully, your highness; it’s not as if we could stop her.”

“And that, Leona, is what makes her simultaneously wonderful and terrifying at the same time.” Aylar said while flexing her abused fingers, and lamenting the multitude of times Mernyn had parried her longsword. Her instructor’s parries were worse to deal with than his blocks in a way if only because he put counter-active force into the use of his blade, whereas his shield merely absorbed her hits.

“I need a shower,” the princess continued with a sigh, “and a change of clothes. If Ceruviel sees me like this, she might even offer to teach me herself, and I don’t feel like being bedridden for a week.” She turned to Leona after smirking at her own jest. “How long do I have until she arrives?”

“No more than two hours, your highness. She said it would be any moment after that, however.”

“Enough time for a bath, then, and to make myself presentable. Will you alert me when she arrives?”

“Of course,” Leona said with a bow of her head.

“Good. I’m going to go see to my post-torture routine, then. When she arrives, send her directly to my apartments. I’ll meet her in my study.”

“Yes, your highness.” Leona said dutifully.

“Good luck,” Mernyn said after his extended silence. “I fear you’ll need it.”

“Oh Mernyn,” Aylar said with a wry laugh. “If Ceruviel is coming to the palace outside of a scheduled event, we will all need it.”

And to that, she heard both of them agree.

image [https://i.imgur.com/b0SV3UA.png]

Aylar Eldormer Rough Concept Art