Princess Rosslyn swung her practice sword down with such force that two of the figures standing on the sidelines visibly shuddered.

One of them tried, but failed, to cover her voice, whispering, “Suppose the Princess is in a bad mood today?”

“No, you think?” replied the other in a much subtler whisper that Rosslyn’s superior senses barely caught.

Sir Jaren, the opponent standing across from Rosslyn, barely managed to parry the strike, and it left his hands shaking. Visibly weary, he failed to block the next blow, which knocked the sword from his hands.

“Pick-it-up,” Rosslyn grumbled impatiently, pronouncing the words like they were a single word.

“Would, ah, would you, um, suppose we could take a break, Highness?” the man-at-arms asked breathlessly.

Rosslyn tried to contain her frustration. It wasn’t his fault. Every human had only a limited amount of potential, after all. For common-born people like Sir Jaren, it was remarkable that he could trade blows with her at all. If she was using magic, the differences would only be more obvious. But he should be proud of all that he had accomplished by effort alone. A knighthood was rarely given without being earned.

It was well known that nobles were more physically powerful and likely to have magical talent than commoners, and royalty were supposed to be above them. Which was more true of the King than of Rosslyn herself, but still—no commoner would ever be a match for her in a fight. The only way any commoner ever showed magical promise, as far as Rosslyn had heard, was when they were a bastard descendant of some nobleman.

“That is fine, of course,” she said with a forced smile. “Undoubtedly another will volunteer.”

The two onlookers who had been whispering swallowed in unison. Rosslyn’s smile turned slightly twisted.

“You have trained with a sword, have you not?” She inclined her head at the person who had raised the question of her mood.

“Um, yes, Your Highness.” The woman offered a clumsy curtsy. “What would you have of me?”

“Well, I would have you change into practice gear,” Rosslyn replied. “I believe we have a set in your size.” She turned to Sir Jaren. “Is that correct, Sir?”

“Um, yes, Princess.”

“Splendid.”

A few minutes later, the unfortunate courtier was fully armed and armored. Perhaps excessively armored. The Princess’s eyes detected extra padding underneath the gear.

Very good, she thought. I will have no need to hold back.

Precisely twenty-three seconds later, the courtier’s body thudded into the wall behind her, thrown those last few feet by Rosslyn’s sword thrust. It was a duller thud that the Princess had expected. Probably all that padding affected the sound.

“Thank you for your effort, my lady,” Rosslyn said. She couldn’t remember the woman’s name. Lady S-something, second daughter of some baron or other. No one of any great significance. This would teach courtiers to come and watch the Princess at her training, like she was a jester employed for their amusement. She turned back to the other unfortunate spectators. “Who else would like to volunteer to sharpen my technique?”

The other whisperer raised a hand almost at once. Maybe he knew she was going to ‘volunteer’ him next. Still brave of you to put up that hand, she thought. I must try not to injure you too badly. In the corner of her vision, Rosslyn saw the woman she had been sparring with rise shakily to her feet and stagger toward the sidelines.

The Princess threw her defeated opponent a brief sword salute, then turned back to her next victim. He was standing there, just waiting. She realized he expected some response.

“I will accept your gracious challenge,” she said, curtsying slightly.

“Then I will endeavor to meet Your Highness’s expectations,” the young man said. He rushed into the next room to change.

Sir Jaren immediately slid over to the Princess. “Your Highness, you know that courtier is Count MacGregor’s son, do you not?”

“Well, if I did not, you have cured me of my ignorance,” she said sweetly.

He dipped his head as if embarrassed by her false praise. “I mention this only because he is, as I understand it, Count MacGregor’s only son. And I am also given to understand that Count MacGregor is a great supporter of your father, and that his territory borders on the Demon Empire…”

She understood exactly what he was driving at, but for a moment, she considered playing coy. No, this conversation is tortured enough already.

“I think I take your meaning, Sir Jaren,” she said, trying to be reassuring. “I will not damage him permanently.” Not just because she was a sane and rational human being who didn’t seriously injure her sparring partners in the normal course of activity. But also so that Claustria’s border defense would remain strong and steady, with no squabbling over who would next inherit the office of count.

When young MacGregor emerged a few minutes later, dressed in his practice gear, Rosslyn bore Sir Jaren’s advice in mind. She faced the nobleman in the combat circle, but she only gave him a few love taps with her sword, not the thrashing she had given the last fighter.

Then he spoke up. “No need to hold back on my account, Your Highness,” MacGregor said. “These are strong arms.” He raised his arms in the air as if she could see his muscle through the armor and padding.

“Very well,” she said quietly, almost under her breath. Her lips twisted into the smallest smile her face could make, hidden under the shadow of her hair.

The Princess exchanged several attacks with young MacGregor without holding very much back at all.

She was fairly certain he was still conscious when one of his companions helped him out of the ring. Perhaps lightly concussed, but conscious.

“Thank you for volunteering to spar with me!” Rosslyn called brightly after him. She really was grateful. The MacGregor heir was no weakling. And Sir Jaren seemed to have caught his breath, so now she could go a few more rounds with him. If the others had not spontaneously decided to spectate on her practice, she would have been bored all through his recovery.

With the departure of McGregor, his lady co-whisperer, and their companions, only servants remained ringside. And Sir Jaren, of course.

“Are you rested, Sir Jaren?” the Princess asked brightly. As for her, she felt that she could go on for hours more.

“Y-yes, Your Highness.”

The obvious fatigue that infused his voice made her shake her head immediately.

“Actually, perhaps it would be best if we broke off for today,” she said. “I am growing a bit weary, and I would hate to embarrass myself with some clumsy move contrived when I am not at full capacity. Even if our audience is gone.”

She had known Sir Jaren since she was a child. Even if he annoyed her sometimes, she liked him and respected his competency. He was a proud man, and Rosslyn figured that this was the best way to spare that pride.

Already, he was nodding eagerly. “Yes, Princess. That sounds responsible. You have already displayed your prowess for the benefit of anyone worthy of note.”

Rosslyn found Sir Jaren’s phrasing slightly annoying. It sounded as if he thought she was just showing off for the benefit of those silly nobles she’d just trounced. In fact, the audience was just a nuisance, fun though it was to pound on them with her sword.

She was hoping to meaningfully improve. Looking for some scrap of potential she had yet to unlock. But if such power still existed somewhere within her, Sir Jaren was no longer capable of pushing her to the edge of her capabilities, as he had when she was younger. She needed new opponents.

“Your Highness, forgive my presumption.” The Princess turned to look as one of the servants spoke and swiftly melted into an elegant curtsy. Actually, no—Rosslyn had to do a double-take—the curtsying woman wasn’t a servant. Not exactly. She was in service, but the woman wore the magical black collar that designated a slave. That was a bit strange.

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To begin with, Claustria didn’t have slavery, broadly speaking. It was used as a punishment by the courts, for circumstances where mere life imprisonment was deemed insufficient, but the death penalty was inappropriate. Such as where the criminal was of elevated status. An important foreign war criminal, one of the King’s own councilors, or a member of Claustria’s high nobility. The kingdom had severe taboos around the execution of high nobility.

Who is this woman?

Rosslyn dimly recalled seeing her over the years, working in the household alongside the other servants. But she had never heard the slave speak before.

Then she realized the woman was waiting to be acknowledged, eyes pointed at the ground.

“Please feel free to speak, er—” She wouldn’t call the woman “girl,” because she was old enough to be Rosslyn’s mother.

And of course, Rosslyn didn’t know the name of this woman who had never spoken to her before. She usually knew the names of servants, but the slave had flown under her radar—for years, apparently.

Fortunately, the woman recognized the Princess was referring to her.

“Thank you, Your Highness.” The curtsy deepened. “Your Highness, if the royal person is not too tired, I might be so bold as to offer myself as a sparring partner.”

This woman has court manners. Which means she is definitely here in that collar because she was high nobility once. What could she have done? Who was she?

Even as her mind was working on cracking the slave’s identity, Rosslyn was preparing to reject the overture. It really was bold of the woman to offer herself as a sparring partner. Too bold. Whoever she was, she must have an incredibly high opinion of her fighting abilities. She still thought she had something to offer in that vein after years out of practice.

Even the sharpest sword needs a whetstone to hone it. The greatest fencer in the world would not remain so through years of inactivity.

As the Princess was opening her mouth to decline, Sir Jaren began to speak, “Your Highness, as you are probably aware, slaves are forbidden from taking up arms by the magic that operates their collars. Slaves within Claustria are also universally serious criminals.” He spoke the words in a tone as if he was remarking upon the weather.

Yes, I was well aware of that, she thought. But now she was annoyed at the man-at-arms for lecturing her about facts which she’d known since childhood.

“Slaves are generally forbidden from taking up arms via the binding magic that infuses their collars,” Rosslyn replied, “unless the slave’s owner permits or orders them otherwise. Judging from the fact that this woman works in the palace, I would guess that she is property of the royal family. Of which I am a member.” She paused for a moment, then turned back to the woman. “Why not? Take up a sword, and put on some armor, and we will spar for a little while.”

The woman smiled brightly and disappeared into the next room—moving quickly to prepare herself, before the Princess could change her mind, Rosslyn imagined.

Sir Jaren rushed to her side during the interlude. “Your Highness, are you sure this is advisable? This woman—”

“Sir Jaren, do you think me an ignorant child?” Rosslyn interrupted in a voice calculated so as to be audible only to him.

He looked instantly cowed. “No. No, not at all, Princess.”

“Then please do not lecture me about topics on which I am already informed in front of other people,” she replied, in the same quiet tone. “You know I studied the Claustrian legal code for several years.”

“Yes.” He seemed to forget his manners for a moment, his face slightly flushed, overcome with regret. “Yes, Your Highness,” he corrected himself.

“Thank you, Sir,” she said, giving him a little smile. Despite her slight pique, she could never stay annoyed with Sir Jaren. He was a bit like a big, clumsy uncle. He had taught her almost everything she knew about fighting with swords. And perhaps that closeness had prevented him from recognizing that she was now a grown woman. Not the little girl who liked to skip lessons and run off to play in the palace garden.

Maybe I should call the spar off, she thought. Sir Jaren had seemed quite worried for a moment, for some reason.

As she considered that thought, the slave emerged from the other room. She looked more herself wearing practice armor than she had in the drab clothing of a servant, Rosslyn noticed. As if she had been a soldier in a previous life, perhaps. Though the woman had appeared to be around the King’s age, and that impression was still fixed in Rosslyn’s mind, somehow the armor made her look younger than her years.

Well, I should at least assess her technique, Rosslyn thought. In the unlikely event that the palace was infiltrated by a dangerous intruder one day, it would be useful to know which of the household staff could hold their own with a sword. She should probably assess all of the servants’ abilities at some point. An idea to implement in the future.

And there was a rising excitement surging through Rosslyn’s body. Perhaps this would be someone she could truly benefit from sparring with. Stranger things had happened.

“Let us have a nice, clean spar,” Princess Rosslyn said. “We will refrain from striking vital points. If either of us is hurt, we stop immediately.” Just in case the slave had some thought of harming her, she wanted to lay down some ground rules immediately. The collar would normally prevent a slave from harming her owners, but in this case, Rosslyn had authorized the woman to spar with her. So she would use the collar’s other major function, compelling obedience, to at least limit any possible harm.

“It will be my honor to entertain Your Highness,” the woman said. There was an obvious eagerness in her voice that made Rosslyn wonder what she was getting herself into.

Then the Princess assumed a fighting stance, and that feeling melted away.

The women exchanged their first blows. The slave’s attack was heavier than Rosslyn would have expected, had the woman not evinced that obvious enthusiasm for fighting. Clearly, she had kept in shape, and tried to keep in some form of practice, over the years of her sentence.

For what? Rosslyn wondered. Why keep practicing? Did she think there was some chance she would ever be allowed to fight again? Or did she love swordsmanship that much? There was a part of the Princess’s mind always working to unravel the mysteries of this woman’s origins as they traded blows.

As the minutes wore on, it became clear the slave’s fighting style was very refined. Her movements resembled a dance. Graceful. Smooth. Blocking the Princess’s sword with only an inch to spare. Attacking so that Rosslyn only had a tiny fraction of an instant to react. Always anticipating the next defense or the next attack. Rosslyn was able to keep up with her throughout the spar, but she doubted very much that Sir Jaren would have been able to do the same.

Minutes turned into hours, as Princess Rosslyn entered a state of flow. Despite her near-total focus on the fight, she maintained enough awareness of the others present to recognize their reactions. The servants present seemed to be in awe. They clearly had not realized what either their fellow worker or their Princess were capable of. Sir Jaren’s posture was slumped, defeated. Rosslyn realized she might have embarrassed him. By saying she was tired and then fighting for some interminable length of time for someone else, she had made it obvious that trying to call it quits earlier was only for his benefit.

At least I only embarrassed him in front of a couple of servants, she thought, ducking under a big overhead swing. Then again, Sir Jaren had been born a commoner. It was possible he thought of the servants of the royal household as his peers. She would have to find some way to make it right.

And I must stop compounding the embarrassment by continuing this fight when I am meant to be tired, she thought. Perhaps this woman and I can spar again, when it will not shame Sir Jaren.

Rosslyn stepped back, too far for it to be a play for distance. The woman cocked an eyebrow, as if uncertain what the Princess was doing.

“Thank you for the spar,” Rosslyn said. Her long hair had partly escaped the tie that kept it out of her eyes. A fistful of dirty blonde was plastered to her forehead with sweat, while the rest stuck to the back of her neck, she realized as she saluted with her sword.

The slave was sweaty, too, but Rosslyn did not think it was to the same degree.

Is she a better fighter than me? It was hard to believe, but almost undeniable. True, the Princess had held back some of her techniques during the fight—as she virtually always did, except on the rare occasion that she sparred with the King. There were many abilities with sword and magic that she did not feel comfortable showing off in front of others outside of actual combat. Some of them were the exclusive property of the royal family.

Still… Would those have really made the difference if it had been a real fight to the death?

“It was my honor, of course, Your Highness,” the woman replied. She sounded barely short of breath.

“You are incredible,” Rosslyn added, realizing she was slightly breathless.

“When I was your age, we were in a minor war,” the slave said. Ah, so she is a Claustrian then! “It was essential that I be incredible. Your technique is quite impressive, of course—considering that you have never seen true battle before. Your Highness.”

This was the most the woman had said in the two hours they sparred, and Rosslyn felt the slight ring of condescension in the comment. Even a little disrespect in the delayed addition of “Your Highness.” But she didn’t mind it. Not from one who might be more skilled than herself. She’d had worse from the soldiers she led in her term in the army. She won all their respect eventually. But who was this woman?

“I wish I could have seen you in your prime,” the Princess replied.

“Touché,” the slave said, allowing her lips to curl up slightly. She approached closer to where the Princess stood and lowered her voice conspiratorially. “You know, you could see a lot more of what I could do—if you removed this collar.” She gave Rosslyn a full, challenging smile. “I was once a great warrior, Your Highness.”

Rosslyn considered this for a long moment. “Perhaps another time,” she said. “I will see you again tomorrow.”

She began to turn away, but the woman caught her with her voice, quiet but audible. A stage whisper aimed only at her. “You should take care how you treat your courtiers,” she said.

Rosslyn spun and regarded her between narrowed eyes. Then she drew closer so that she could better control her own voice as she responded.

“What do you mean by that?” she finally asked.

“Just as I said, Your Highness. I believe it is a wise rule to take care how you treat the little people. It does not do to make unnecessary enemies, no matter how insignificant they may seem in your eyes.” The woman tried to keep her voice light, but Rosslyn could tell she was slightly uncomfortable being in such close proximity. Perhaps she thought the Princess would strike her for her presumption. Rosslyn didn’t know much about how the few unfortunates who fell to slave status were treated.

“Very good,” Rosslyn finally said, her tone carefully neutral as her face burned slightly. “Thank you for the advice.”