During the period that Goldie and Adon were waiting for Samson to wake up, Rosslyn continued life as normal.

She continued to see the Dessian lords regularly around the palace, but the interactions were slightly awkward.

“Rosslyn, I hope you slept well,” William said at breakfast, the morning after the young spider had entered his coma-like state.

The Princess, feeling sleep-deprived and moody from the events of the previous night, took an extra moment to respond.

Then she blinked and shook her head.

“I am afraid I did not sleep much,” she admitted. “I hope the two of you slept well.”

“It was a quiet night,” said Frederick.

Before Rosslyn could feel a sense of relief that the brothers had not noticed anything, William spoke up.

“I thought I heard men marching around at some point,” he said. “When I went to look around, though, I did not see anything.”

“Ah.” Rosslyn turned away from the brothers, trying not to give anything away with her expression—but her eyes fell on her father’s chair, which sat empty. She had to look away again.

“Is your father well, Rosslyn?” William asked.

She smiled and tried to think of a good lie.

We are in a desperate place when I need to lie about my father’s condition to our allies, she thought.

But the truth was too terrible to share.

Her latest news of her father’s health, received on the way to breakfast that morning, was bad. The healers had begun work on him, and his body had responded badly to their efforts, twisting and convulsing like an epileptic undergoing a seizure. The only conclusion they could come to was that the poison was rooted deep now and had spread its grip throughout his body, so that any attempt to treat his condition risked sharp short term decline.

With the King’s consent and Rosslyn’s concerned approval, the healers administered sleeping draughts and cooling agents to try to minimize the deleterious effects of their magic and resumed their work. Rosslyn did not worry about these men’s loyalty. She had tested them the previous night, in her long march through the palace with Adon.

“Father is a bit under the weather lately,” Rosslyn said, still faking a smile but giving it a slightly sad tint. “He had suggested he might go to Tema and take the waters if he continues to feel ill. We are to continue having fun without him, if he decides to take his leave from us.”

“Well, I would hope he would at least say goodbye first,” said Frederick. “He—”

A sharp elbow in his side from William cut the younger brother off.

“What my brother means to say,” said William, “is that we would love to express our gratitude to the King for his hospitality throughout our stay thus far. We hope we will have the chance to speak to him again before he goes.”

“I feel certain that will be possible,” Rosslyn lied. “I have not seen him this morning, so I do not know if he has departed yet, but it would be unlike father to leave our guests and then not return in time to say goodbye.”

“If he takes a while, that is just an excuse for us to extend our stay,” William said, smiling wolfishly at Rosslyn. “We cannot leave his Princess here, alone and undefended, in a time where war lurks around the next corner.”

Rosslyn made herself return the lord’s smile, though she felt more unsettled than flirtatious. After the previous night’s events, even if their previous outing together had gone well, she would not have been in the right frame of mind to contemplate romance with anyone.

They passed through the rest of breakfast engaging in small talk.

All of the rest of the day was spent alternately worrying over Samson or thinking about her father.

The next two days were full of frustration for the Princess.

She visited her father’s side. He had slipped into a healing coma, which the men responsible for his care took to be a good sign.

She trusted their judgment, as the palace’s healers had studied healing magic in greater depth and practiced it to a much greater degree of proficiency than Rosslyn. They even had specialized knowledge of poisons. If anyone could help her father get better, it was them.

But it was painful, knowing that Rosslyn herself could do nothing to hasten his recovery.

She slipped from the room and returned to the arthropods, but Goldie stood beside Samson, unmoving, and that told Rosslyn that nothing had changed there.

Adon had left the room entirely, probably off hunting or training, though Rosslyn did not ask where he had gone.

She felt a tension inside her like a tightly coiled spring, ready to break loose at any given moment and shatter whatever was nearby.

Rosslyn changed Samson’s saucer out for a fresh one and went for a walk, pacing down the palace’s long halls without seeing anything.

She slept deeply that night, exhausted from the previous days’ and night’s activity.

On the second day, her father’s condition was unchanged. Adon was back, but he simply stood beside Goldie, watching his brother and waiting for recovery.

Rather than enter the room and disturb the arthropods, Rosslyn stepped back from the doorway and kept walking.

The halls began to blur again, and Rosslyn felt her emotions tighten her chest until it was hard to breathe.

It was unfair that this should happen to her family. Her father was a good man and a kind ruler. He had a gentle hand. These were running themes in her inner monologue. Samson’s plight featured as well, but it was less prominent. He was not as close to Rosslyn’s heart, of course—and his problem was much less serious, she felt certain.

The Princess had no one to talk about her worries with over those days, since Adon and Goldie were already dealing with Samson’s condition, and the brothers could not be brought in on the secret.

Finally, Rosslyn sought out an emotional release of a different kind.

—

“Would you like to spar?”

Matilda looked up from her work. She was assigned to the garden that day. Her jailers occasionally shifted her tasks to outdoor work so that she could not catch some illness that afflicted those who did not get sufficient sunlight. It was theoretically meant for Matilda’s benefit, but of course, its primary purpose was to prolong the duration of her life sentence.

Still, she made sure to enjoy her time out in the soil. Today, she had been in a particularly good mood. She had overheard two of the maids discussing their worry for the King. He had sweated through his bedsheets in the night. It was impossible for royal illness to be hidden indefinitely, but it was gratifying to know that the word was already beginning to spread beyond the Royal Family itself.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

Matilda had wondered how the scrawny princess and her wretched stepmother would handle it, if poor dear Alistair finally croaked. She wondered, and she ran her hands through the warm, slightly moist soil, and she smiled and felt alive—more alive than her old rival, distant cousin, and the man she might have married, at least. She did not want him killed by any hand but her own, still, but she did enjoy knowing that those who loved Alistair were suffering discomfort.

Then Princess Rosslyn was speaking to Matilda. The Princess stood, staring down at the slave, trying to keep her expression neutral—but Matilda could see her face flickering through conflicting emotions. There was eagerness, passionate dislike, frustration, solitude—so much expressed on the canvas of the young woman’s skin.

“Oh, I wish I could paint your face this afternoon, Princess,” Matilda murmured.

You are exquisite when you look so distraught, she thought. Matilda had always been a great appreciator of beauty.

The Princess wrinkled her nose. “Is that a yes or a no?”

“That is a compliment, Princess,” Matilda replied. She smiled wickedly. “Of course, if you would rather receive bruises than compliments, that can be arranged.”

The two women passed into Sir Jaren’s space, where the knight made certain that both wore adequate protective gear. He seemed nervous to see Rosslyn here, sparring with Matilda yet again.

“—you certain about this?” Matilda heard Sir Jaren ask as the slave came out of the changing room.

“I am,” Rosslyn said. She sounded as if she was annoyed but trying hard to contain it. Matilda thought that today’s spar would be very entertaining.

The knight seemed to notice Matilda was there—she saw his eyes dart in her general direction, and he lowered his voice afterward.

“Do you want me to act as referee?” Sir Jaren asked quietly.

“No,” Rosslyn said. “I want us to fight without restraint.” Her voice softened. “I know that would probably be difficult for you to watch quietly. Would you give us an hour alone in here?”

The Princess is volunteering to let me ruin her pretty face the rest of the way, Matilda thought. She must be very upset about daddy.

Sir Jaren agreed more quickly than Matilda expected. Perhaps he simply had too much respect for his former pupil, now all grown up, to disagree with her. That was a problem that nobles and royals often suffered, Matilda knew. She had experienced how loyal retainers could come to share their leader’s vision—and encourage it beyond the point of prudence.

And now all my closest supporters are dead, and my brother rules in my fief. How well listening to loyal advisors worked out for me…

Sir Jaren left them, although not before shooting a pointed look Matilda’s way.

Do not hurt her, it seemed to say.

Matilda wanted to laugh. She held it in until Sir Jaren was gone and she had given him plenty of time to get some distance from the room.

Then the slave let the amusement roll through her stomach and out between her lips, until her mirth echoed through the air. It lasted until her sides hurt.

When Matilda came back to herself, the Princess was glaring at her.

Rosslyn raised her practice sword silently, ready to fight, and waited for Matilda to take up her own stance.

If I hated someone as much as this girl hates me, and I did not wear this collar around my neck, I would not glare at them, Matilda thought. I would attack them and not wait for them to put their hands up to defend themselves. She is too naive.

The two women began to spar.

At first, as usual, the Princess began tentatively, as if she was preserving her strength or trying to feel Matilda’s intent out.

Then, quickly tiring of the cat and mouse, Matilda began to pull out the stops. She poured Mana throughout her body—she knew hers were deeper than Rosslyn’s by now—and she unleashed a barrage of attacks.

The Princess was driven back, forced to circle to avoid being pushed into a wall—but with every step she took, she had less room to retreat.

You are no match for me unless you lose your temper, girl, Matilda thought.

And then, much faster than Matilda might have imagined, Rosslyn did.

With a piercing cry, the Princess raised her sword and charged at Matilda.

At first, Matilda let two of the strikes hit her, so she could get her own licks in, but the Princess’s blows stung far more than Matilda had expected. Every touch raised a welt that Matilda knew would bruise in the evening.

“What is up with you?” Matilda murmured, countering with a savage blow at Rosslyn’s shoulder.

The Princess did not seem to react to Matilda’s words, only to her movements.

Rosslyn twisted and turned with Matilda’s attack, turning it to a glancing blow that barely impacted her. Then she lunged and plunged the tip of her practice weapon into Matilda’s chest. Even on a blunted sword, even through sparring gear, a metal point ached when slammed with the attacker’s full, Mana-enhanced body weight.

And Rosslyn did not let up. She unleashed a burst of little blows that should not have been very powerful but could be felt through the armor.

Matilda parried some of the Princess’s attack and landed a few blows of her own in this time. Rosslyn ignored Matilda’s strikes, though each was heavier than one of hers. She did not even bother pivoting to avoid the full impact anymore. None of the hits hampered the Princess’s energy.

She is keeping nothing back for defense, Matilda thought. What, do you think I am your training dummy?

Rosslyn showed a larger opening than previously, and Matilda took the chance to swing a heavy, two-handed, hammer-like blow into the gap. She did not bother with defense this time either.

There was a loud crack as Matilda’s practice weapon struck Rosslyn in the side. The Princess flew across the room and slammed hard into a wall. Her body bounced off, struck the ground, and rolled a few feet.

Matilda had to force herself to stay put for a moment rather than running in to try and finish Rosslyn off. As Matilda stood in place, her body quivering with anticipation, she realized that she was smiling.

The two women spent the next hour slashing, stabbing, kicking, punching, and swearing at each other. It was the most honest exchange they had ever had, made possible only because there were no witnesses—and because Rosslyn seemed to be unusually frustrated and angry, enough to dispense with any formalities.

By the end of the hour, both of them were dripping sweat.

I think she actually improved since last time, Matilda thought grudgingly. It was very difficult for a human fighter or mage who had been trained from a young age, as Rosslyn had, to continue improving over the years. Typically, they reached their potential and then plateaued forever.

The Princess appeared tireless, despite being drenched in perspiration.

Then again, perhaps it is just that wild temper of hers.

As Matilda had that thought, Rosslyn locked blades with Matilda again, and then the Princess punched her in the face.

Matilda staggered backward while quickly raising her guard again, but then Rosslyn opened her mouth to speak. A thin trickle of blood ran from a cut in Matilda’s lip as she listened.

“Last time I was here, you called me a broken doll,” Rosslyn said, grinding her teeth as she spoke. “You suggested that my father would be wise to disinherit me and that you would do the same in his position—that I am an inadequate inheritor. Well, I thought I would come down here and beat the attitude out of you and see if you dared to repeat those words. But I realized I do not care if you think I am broken. My eye is not coming back. Yet I am the heir, and you are one of the few people who know how much danger my father has been in recently. So, instead of talking about my missing eye, I will simply ask: what would you do if you were me, right now?”

Matilda thought quickly, searching for an answer to Rosslyn’s question that would be both true and harmful in some way. As usual, her mind was more than up to the task.

“You have to find a way to prove you are strong enough to inherit the throne,” Matilda said. “Naturally, some task that you can accomplish that your father could not would do the trick. There is little need to worry, if that is what you want. The coming war will give you every opportunity possible, especially if your father remains in poor condition. If you can show that you are strong, the succession becomes more secure.”

Matilda knew that was at least part of what Rosslyn was worrying about—whether or not the King’s death would unleash chaos, right at the moment that the Kingdom needed stability and strength.

It was admirable, the slave had to admit, when she was by herself later—admirable that the Princess who hated her was willing to ask her advice and seemingly took it seriously.

Matilda liked to think it was what she would have done in Rosslyn’s place.

In response to Matilda’s words, the Princess merely nodded.

“You agree, then?” Matilda asked.

Rosslyn did not answer her question.

“That is enough for one day, I think,” Rosslyn said.