Princess Rosslyn swung her practice sword in a wide arc, then made a little loop to avoid a parry—and just fell short of landing her blow.

The slave—the woman who Rosslyn now knew was called Tilly—had pulled her body back slightly, so the tip of the weapon just barely failed to touch her armor. Then she was counter attacking, forcing Rosslyn onto the back foot.

The duel continued as it had for the last hour, the only spectators present Sir Jaren and a couple of bodyguards. Rosslyn had asked the man at arms about this, and he had informed her—in a slightly cooler tone than she was used to from him—that the King had now forbidden anyone from spending time in the training room unless they were actually training.

Reading between the lines, Rosslyn understood that her father had learned about her policy pronouncement before her spar with Sir Carol the other day. He had not yet confronted her about it, but he was taking some actions behind the scenes. It made her slightly queasy to think of it. The conversation was bound to be uncomfortable when it happened.

Fortunately, her opponent was not giving Rosslyn much room for idle thoughts.

Rosslyn ducked under a sword stroke aimed at her head and danced to the side.

“I heard you were here sparring again the other day, Your Highness,” the other woman said. “Sadly, I missed you at the time.”

Tilly seemed to be taking the absence of noble spectators as a grant of permission to speak much more freely than she had at their last encounter, though she still kept her voice to a low volume that only Rosslyn could hear without straining her ears.

“You did not miss much,” Rosslyn said, carefully controlling her breathing. She did not want to give the other woman the satisfaction of hearing her panting.

Blades clashed again, and there was a brief contest of strength before Rosslyn sidestepped and managed a quick lunge at Tilly’s chest.

“If you wanted a challenge, you could have asked for me. Any of the palace staff would have been able to find me. I have found myself looking forward to future spars with you, though we have only crossed blades the once.” There was a teasing edge to her voice as she parried Rosslyn’s lunge.

“I was not here merely for my own gratification,” Rosslyn replied with a hint of heat in her tone. “I was dealing with—ugh—important matters of state.”

The slave managed to attack while continuing to talk, throwing a chop aimed at the shoulder that Rosslyn barely deflected with the flat of her sword.

“Matters of marriage and reproduction, you mean?” Matilda asked. “That being all the men in this country think women are good for.”

Rosslyn replied without missing a beat or changing expression. “Bold for someone who has committed your crimes to criticize the society that chose to keep her alive, is it not, Matilda?”

The woman froze completely for a moment, and Rosslyn almost landed a strike on her throat before stopping herself only inches away. Even with blunted practice swords, an attack landed in such a delicate and vital area could still be deadly.

“Did you ask your father who I was, then?” Matilda’s voice was deceptively even as she spoke. But as soon as the words were out of her mouth, she lunged. When Rosslyn threw herself to the side to get out of the way, Matilda pulled herself back to her coiled position at incredible speed and launched herself into another lunge. The same thing happened again. And again.

At no point did she pause or give Rosslyn any opening to be able to answer her.

It raised questions Rosslyn had been wondering about since their last encounter. Where does she get all this energy? She has been a slave for years, working with dusty old books. Who was she before that? And how is she still in this kind of shape?! She had hoped that poking at the woman’s past would get her to reveal something. Rosslyn did not read Matilda as the sort of person who would give information up easily.

Now Matilda was clearly having an emotional reaction, and Rosslyn wanted to press her while she was vulnerable, try to get answers about who she was and where she had learned to fight.

But in the midst of Matilda’s fury, the Princess could find no room to speak. And the clashing sounds of blades gave no answers.

Something in the air had changed. The duel continued and became steadily rougher. Matilda’s sword seemed to weigh more than it had before. As if she had been holding back her strength, and now she was fueled by a fury that she had kept contained before.

Rosslyn took a hit on her left arm guard that she felt certain would have fractured bone if she had not been wearing protective gear. Or if the chop had landed two inches above where it did. Her eyes instantly narrowed.

She is taking this much more seriously. It was not to a point that Rosslyn was unable to handle, but Matilda was clearly angry.

Rosslyn’s mind flashed between different options to deal with this. The spar felt increasingly dangerous. She considered escalating her own use of force, calling an end to the session, and simply asking Matilda what was going through her mind.

Her pride pulled her toward the first option.

I can disarm her and then ask what the sudden ferocity was about. That would show Matilda who was in charge. There must be something about what I said that disturbed her. I mentioned her crimes after she complained about the role of women in Claustria. One of those two things has to be the sore spot for her. Or both of them together.

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Rosslyn dodged a swing from Matilda and raised her practice weapon above her head in a well-trained pose. Mana flowed through her core and into her arms. Some of it entered the weapon, too. Not so much that she would break it. Just enough to make it that little bit more destructive.

Divine Sword, Sixth Form—

“That is quite enough!” Sir Jaren called out, stepping into the fighting space, almost between the two women. “This match is over!”

“Are you going to let him stop you, Princess?” Matilda’s voice was breathless, eager—ready for conflict with someone, anyone. The wild tone in her voice reminded Rosslyn that she had no reason to act as recklessly as Matilda was apparently prepared to.

“It is his practice room,” Rosslyn replied quietly, almost under her breath. “What Sir Jaren says in here goes.”

The fury and the pride that had possessed the two women began to die down, and Sir Jaren stepped back and gave them a little more room as the man at arms seemed to sense they were genuinely done fighting.

Rosslyn threw a sharp salute Matilda’s way—crisp, energetic, and precise. Rosslyn did not want the older woman to think that she was flagging in any way.

Matilda looked distinctly disappointed as she returned the salute and stepped closer to Rosslyn.

“A pity we had to stop here, Your Highness. I know there was more we had to show each other.” She lowered her voice until it was almost a whisper. “You know, if I did not wear this collar, there is much that I could teach you.”

“I appreciate the thought, Matilda… but I do not believe that it is appropriate,” Rosslyn said slowly. Carefully. Almost chewing over the words. A part of her wished things could be different. The other woman was a sterling warrior, whatever her crimes. “No, we both know that it is not.”

“Do you know what I actually did to deserve this?” Matilda asked, staring Rosslyn straight in the eyes.

And Rosslyn thought she gave away the answer to the slave in that moment, in the change of expression on her face.

“You do not,” Matilda said, her own voice and face inscrutable. “Well, ask your father if you want to know what I did to deserve this treatment. King Alastair’s mercy.”

It had been so long since Rosslyn had heard anyone use her father’s given name that it took her aback for a moment. The shock was doubled by hearing it spoken with such venom.

“Keep my father’s name out of your mouth!” she found herself hissing.

The other woman’s face was as still as a snake’s for a moment. Expressionless.

“You are very much like your father,” Matilda whispered. “All the same, you should understand already, that I have said nothing untrue. The collar forbids it. Here is another truth that you should be aware of: if you lack sufficient individual power, your father will never let you rule. Nor will the Kingdom. Not alone. Not without some man who will want to control you.”

Rosslyn was already turning away as those last words were spoken, but Matilda continued to speak.

“You are still like an unhoned blade. I could help you reach your true potential—prove to everyone that you are capable of wielding the strength of a ruler—if you truly have it in you. And provided that you let me.”

Then Rosslyn was striding into the changing room next door. She all but slammed the door behind her, locked it, and began tearing her gear off and throwing it down.

Then she took several deep breaths, collected herself, and began cleaning and putting away her training gear properly, the way Sir Jaren had taught her over the decade he had spent training her.

Her heart rate was just about under control when a knock came at the door.

Another couple of deep breaths to steady herself and restrain her residual annoyance.

“Who is it?” she called, in a voice that was almost charming.

“Jaren, Your Highness.” Sir Jaren’s voice rang out through the small room. “Matilda is gone, off to have a bath and then return to her normal duties. I did not hear much of the words the two of you exchanged, but I thought you and I might have a word. Once you are done changing, of course. If you wish, we could do it another time—or I could forget about it. I know you are an adult now, and you have little need of my counsel—”

“Thank you, Sir Jaren,” she interrupted. “I will be with you very shortly.”

She finished cleaning and putting away her gear.

After she had dabbed at herself with a wet towel a bit and dried off, just to feel slightly cleaner, she put on the most casual clothing she owned, a parchment-colored silk tunic embroidered with her family’s butterfly crest and a pair of matching silk breeches. It was what she always wore when she anticipated getting sweaty.

Then she stepped out of the changing room. It was just Sir Jaren and, at a distance that put them out of unintended hearing range, the guards.

“May I speak, Your Highness?” Sir Jaren asked.

“Of course,” she replied. “Thank you for waiting until after she was gone.”

“You know, then, what I wanted to discuss?”

“I think so,” she said.

“I could tell you were about to use one of your family’s techniques in your bout with that woman. I wanted to warn you against doing so.”

She bowed her head, slightly chagrined. “You are right, Sir. It was inappropriate. They are secret techniques passed down through the generations. Matilda should never even witness their use outside of a genuine emergency, let alone having the opportunity to observe them in a sparring match, where I would not even be aiming to kill.”

Sir Jaren nodded. “Yes. Exactly. All of the above. What were you thinking, Princess? If you pardon the phrasing. It is unlike you to lose your judgment that way. Ever since you survived puberty, you have been level-headed.”

They shared a laugh at that.

“I seemed to be having a bit of trouble in the bout,” Rosslyn admitted. “Something I said enraged her, and her swordsmanship became terribly effective and genuinely dangerous.”

“You know you do not have to spar with her, Your Highness. If you need someone of greater skill than me, the word can be quietly floated to qualified persons. There are some I have encountered who might be able to assist you in your practice. I know you are a dedicated swordswoman, but—well, frankly, it was inappropriate that such a lowly person should clash swords with royalty in the first place. Even if it helps you, the appearance—”

“That seems to be just it,” Rosslyn said. “How is she—how could someone with her technique and power be—a lowly person? You yourself know that we tend to promote skilled warriors, not imprison them. Who was she—is she? What happened to her? What did she do?”

Sir Jaren looked slightly uncomfortable. “That, I do not know, Your Highness. Every country holds its secrets. I only recently met the woman for the first time, despite my long association with the palace. Slavery is a rare enough penalty here that it is normal for one to remark upon it if someone is sentenced to that form of punishment. A slave held by the palace, kept generally out of view of visitors for years—for at least the years your father has deigned to keep me—that is a puzzle. Perhaps a secret of national security importance. Not something meant for an upjumped commoner like me to poke his nose into. I could lose the nose.” He chuckled for a moment. “Of course, your father is too good a man for that. But if you want to know who that woman is, I would suggest you ask him.”