A week after the thugs and creatures invaded my home and Momma went all vengeful on them—still don't know what she did to those last two, and I'm kinda afraid to ask—I’m signing up to be a contestant. Momma was right. My heart knew what I had to do. Despite the horror of whatever that thing in the library was, he had ill intentions for the prince, and I would prefer to keep the current royalty than the evil that conspires against them.

I don’t have to like the royalty in order to protect them, right? Right.

The line slowly but surely moves toward the attendant getting prospective contestants aligned.

You should've brought both swords, Ran grumbles from where she's situated on a rooftop so she can watch.

Hush, I admonish. I'm not ready to admit that the closer I get the more I feel she may be right.

The attendant turns away a few kids only posturing their way through the line, moving me ever closer to my destiny.

I say they're kids. They're only about four years younger than me. But there's a form of skills gained only from fighting for your life. Those three haven't seen the glistening end of a sword and knew the desperation of fight or die. It's in the way they smile way too big, watching the surrounding men with a naivety and lack of keen observation.

The sad part? The knights think I'm the same as the three clueless kids. Which I want... most of the time. I've cultivated the ability to blend in. But now that I want to look the part of the warrior I am? I don't know how to turn off the nice, ordinary, don't-look-at-me girl persona.

I'm wearing my sword and my thickest cotton vest and pants to allow ease of movement. There is no way we could afford leathers, but this should be enough to get me in until I can get a sponsor. Hopefully.

If the rest of these men around me would just stop looking at me like I'm a ritzy noble on the wrong side of town I could die a happy girl. The commoners lining the streets and the maids watching the men through fans and giggles watch me as if I were a parakeet choosing to fly in a cavern of wildcats.

“Name.” The clerk doesn’t even glance up from the papers.

“Ria Rose.” My voice quavers. Momma's paranoid and made me promise to give a false name.

Can't say I blame her. It was a good idea.

“Say again?” he politely asks.

I cough and try to ignore the surrounding snickers. My cheeks flame.

“Ria Rose.” I’m proudly able to keep my voice mostly level, if a little low.

The clerk's gaze snaps up. “A girl?” His jaw drops, unable to comprehend a girl before him.

His wide eyes narrow after a moment of the perplexed stare. That's when I find myself at the end of a glare from a typical noble. The hazel eyes take in my small stature compared to those around me.

“Yes.” What clued you in... the hair? I bite my tongue to keep the voice that sounds suspiciously like Ran from escaping my mouth.

“Your skills will not be enough for our esteemed prince. Besides, women are not allowed. Move along.” He dismisses me with a flutter of his hand and moves to writing something on the parchment.

My nostrils flare. For once, my shy demeanor is overtaken by irritation. I slam my hands on the table, making the noble jump. I try not to take satisfaction in the long black line on the sheet of parchment.

He huffs an annoyed breath. “What now? Don't make me call the knights.”

A few knights in shining armor around me shuffle uncomfortably, but a few look positively ecstatic at the thought of throwing me from the line.

I put as much fire in my gaze as possible when I look back at the clerk. “The flyer said anyone. Not any boy. Not any royal. Not any knight. Anyone. Won't I be allowed to prove myself?”

He thinks, his eyes narrowing at me. But then a grin lightens his pointy face.

Uh-oh.

He points to a group of knights. “See the big guy in the middle? The one with the stag on his chest? Beat him sword to sword, and you will have a place in these ranks.”

The blood drains from my face when I take in the giant. He weighs twice or even three times as much as I soaking wet. He’s thick around as a tree trunk and tall as a draft horse.

“Come now, Henry. Are there no better things for you to accomplish than Sir Garreth's job?” The cultured, almost musical voice interrupts my stare at the man I'm supposed to fight.

I turn from my assessment of the giant to find bright blue eyes—almost ice like in their analytical calculations—trained on my face from beside the noble.

Take that gaze elsewhere, please. I'm no one.

My internal grumbling does absolutely zilch. His gaze remains.

His eyes remind me of a lapis lazuli gem I once saw when I was in the market hunting for bread. The stunning stone was a deep blue, the color of a fall sky. I gulp. His eyes are just the beginning. The face is much as I imagine a statue of some impervious warrior, hard as granite—but boy howdy, is it pretty. High cheekbones and arching eyebrows are impervious and commanding. His chin is slightly square, but just enough to add prestige instead of being blocky. Dirty blonde hair sweeps over his forehead and just touches his eyebrows.

It's annoying how good looking he is. He's probably a jerk.

Ran snickers in my mind. Biased much? she says.

You try having some of my experiences with such beautiful men and women, especially nobles, and then tell me I'm biased.

Not everything pretty is mean.

You're an exception to the rule... most of the time.

She huffs in indignation, even though humor coats our bond.

The annoying noble quickly rises and tries to bow. "Your—"

“Enough of that, Henry. We’re all friends here.” He throws a glance at Henry that's frosty enough to freeze the North Wind.

I wonder who this man is, to make a noble such as Henry scrape and bow. Henry is an important noble if you take in his fancy doublet and the gold coins dangling from his neck that would each feed a family for a full season.

This man is likely either a duke or royalty. The key? He’s much too young to be a duke unless he offed his father.

I take a gamble and curtsy. Not the most elegant thing in trousers with a sword strapped to my hip. Not to mention I've never curtsied a day in my life.

“Your Highness,” I say, trying to keep up my dignity even as my face flames with the surrounding twitters and gasps from the women in the square.

Their fans flutter faster as they take in the prince coming to join this little show.

The prince breathes out in annoyance, and for a horrible moment I’m afraid I guessed wrong. “Henry, this is exactly what I’m trying to avoid.” He gestures at me.

"But, Your Highness—" Henry goes to defend himself, his golden-ringed fingers flailing.

The Prince cuts him off with a wave of his hand. “Enough. I believe this girl has yet to gain entrance to the trials.”

I raise a brow at that, wanting to remind him I'm right here and if he wants to talk about me, he might as well acknowledge me.

See? Jerk.

I reserve judgment as of yet. He's trying to get you into the competition.

That's... true. But I don't want to change my opinion. It's all nice and comfy knowing where I stand and how all high nobles and royals are self-absorbed pains in the behind.

You're going to have to get past this if you want to be a prince protector.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

I'm not going to be Prince Protector, you overgrown rabbit. I'm just—

Just finding the assassin trying to kill the prince. I know. Her voice holds a hint of laughter, as if she knows something I don't.

My mind is jolted back to the present when Henry speaks again. “I’ve given her a way in, Your Highness. What comes next is now beholden to the... girl." The pesky noble takes a breath, eyes darting over to me before narrowing. His gaze returns to the prince, giving a faux apologetic bow. "The Queen put me in this position of deep trust. I only wish her to prove worthy of you.”

I have no intention of causing a family rift between royalty. Better steer clear of that, or else risk my head along with my country's sanity. You don't want to get on the bad side of the Queen. Promise.

“Your Highness, thank you. It was a pleasure. I am very glad to know there are still honorable,” I emphasize my point with a look at Henry, “royals and nobles among the courts. Good day.”

I might not like the pretty prince, but he's better than some.

A sputter erupts from the noble Henry. “Why, of all the indignities—”

“Careful, my lord. You might be mistaken for a tomato and thrown at someone’s head,” I say with an innocent flutter of my eyes.

I turn on my heel and stride away as I feel twin pricks of heat on the back of my head. If looks could kill... thank goodness that's not a Gift.

A quiet chuckle comes from the direction of the prince. My head snaps around to stare at him, as straight faced and eyes as icey as ever. Not even a twitch of his lips. I'm left wondering if I imagined the humor from the enigmatic royal.

I turn on my heel, marching directly to the giant.

“Sir.” He turns to look at me with cruel dark eyes in a blocky face, causing a cold rush of fear to prickle over my skin. He must be part ogre. I force saliva down my throat. “I challenge you to a duel.”

He booms out a laugh, sounding like the bellows of a dragon. “You? A little runt wants to challenge the great Wolfsbane? How 'bout that, boys?”

The men in armor and leathers and plenty of scars, one is even missing an eye, turn to glance at the little runt in their midst.

I gulp again. Wolfsbane? That’s who crazy noble Henry sent me to?

Wolfsbane has killed more Timber Wolves and more tame regular wolves and big cats in his time than any known man. A part of me understands. The rumor is Wolfsbane's father and brother were killed in a hunt when Wolfsbane was but a child.

If Ran hadn't saved me, would my hatred of Timber's run as deep as this giant of a man before me? I would like to think I wouldn't allow one instance to set me against a magical and sentient creature... but do I really know that?

And yet, it makes something crawl in my stomach to know how many he has killed after avenging his family. This man has hunted Timber's for sport and made a fortune selling the saber tooth alone.

Ran’s not a murderer. I understand not all are Ran, but surely they aren’t so bad to be hunted down for pelts and parts as this man has done. Most stay to the mountains in packs, avoiding human settlements.

“I’ll give you one chance to back out, runt,” he says, hacking up a glob to spit in the dirt at my feet.

I jut my chin and glare. I’m quaking in my boots, yet... I have no intention of backing down. I’m either crazy or foolhardy or extremely stupid—I’m leaning towards all of the above.

Wolfsbane draws his broadsword with practiced precision, leaving me to jump back to avoid being impaled.

The knights and commoners in the area join a growing ring around the two of us, creating a makeshift arena.

“I’ll judge,” the prince announces from two feet behind me, making me jump. I didn't see the man move. He's silent as a cat.

Unlike me, most there recognize their prince on sight and bow with mumblings of ‘Your Highness.’

He glances at me and I read he thinks much the same as me—I’m crazy and this is going to be bad. But I suspect he respects my courage, if not my wisdom.

I tune him out as I draw my blade. Gasps from the crowd punctuate the growing bets. Mumbles of the fine design and the tiny Timber Wolves etched into the sunlit blade produce an enfolding drama. A girl represents the Timber Wolves against the man who has killed an untold number of the majestic creatures. Not what I set out to do today, but oh well. Come What May, I suppose.

“Just a typical duel, ladies and gentlemen. Whoever draws blood three times shall be the victor. Yield is a loss. No excess force, no maiming, no killing. Bow to me and each other.” The Prince speaks with the practiced air of a bard.

Wolfsbane slightly inclines his head, a mockery of his opponent. I shall not do the same. I sketch a deep bow with a flourish, coming up with a smirk. His face flames. He knows I just made him a laughingstock by highlighting his questionable respects.

Then I bow deeply to the prince in such a way that no one can question my respect for the man, even if I still think he's a jerk. He's still my prince, after all.

I set my feet, breathe in and out, calming my nerves, heightening my senses, and not letting myself give into the fear wishing to wash cold through my veins.

I judge the man before me as time seems to slow. I shall have to be quick. Quicker than quick. This is a man used to cleaving large beasts in two. One wrong move on my part and I’ll be the next casualty.

“Begin.” The Prince drops his hand and steps back.

I circle once. Wolfsbane hides a faux yawn behind his hand, gesturing for me to attack first. I won’t allow the man to bait me into a reckless and foolhardy move. Well, I suppose reckless and foolhardy is all I’ve been so far. I shall endeavor to be a bit more wise than I have been. If I survive.

I take an experimental swipe to test. Quick as a viper, he uses brute strength in a massive swing, meant to cleave my sword in two with his larger broadsword. A lesser sword would have shattered. Mine just gets knocked out of my grasp as my hand rings from the force of the blow.

Gasps sound from the crowd. A curse escapes my lips. Sorry, Mother.

If she hears of that, she’ll be washing my mouth with soap, no matter how old I am.

I duck and roll under his next swing. The sword whistles just above my head. If I had been a split second slower, that would’ve taken my head from my shoulders. An unladylike growl comes from my lips as I come back up with my sword once again in my grasp. I will not underestimate his speed again.

I circle once more. There. He has a slight limp on his left leg. And going by his sword, he’s right-handed. I circle to left, slashing at his ribs. But it’s only a feint as I get in beneath his guard to kick his knee with all the force I can muster. He grunts in pain and I use the distraction to run a thin trail of blood around his bicep. He yells and I jump. That was louder than a trumpet. He grabs the back of my jerkin before I can move out of range, pulling me to his chest and bringing his enormous sword to my throat.

I barely bring my sword up in time to block the metal before it separates my head from my shoulders. My hand presses against the flat of my blade, a struggle ensues as I fight to keep the blade from my neck. I jerk my head back, and it crunches into his sternum, giving me a headache. I forgot how tall he is. I’ll have to get creative to get out of this bind.

He yells when I duck and deflect his sword over my head, almost making him impale himself. I strike his sword hand with the flat of my blade, making him drop the blade in a spasm of pain as one of the small bones crack.

With a snarl on his face, he snakes his other arm around my neck. I put my chin down as daddy always taught, but I still see stars. It'll be seconds before I'm out... or worse.

I stomp down hard with my heel and grind it into his instep in a desperate move. He grunts, loosening his grip just a hair. It's enough. I relax the whole of my body, and he's not expecting to take my dead weight. I'm closer to the ground than to his head at this point as he has to sag with me to keep from loosing the noodle in his grasp.

I drive my elbow into his groin. A gasp of pain comes from him and I’m just happy to breathe again.

I spin from his grasp, hopping a few extra steps before turning to watch him warily.

“You’re going to pay for that, runt,” he spits out between clinched teeth and a stormy brow.

Dread races through me at the glint in his cold, dark eyes as he bends to grasp the hilt of his sword with his left hand.

He strikes faster than I have time to react, but instinct saves me. I lean back, one hand grazing the ground for balance, kicking out with a round kick that hits his hand with my hard boot, snapping his arm and sword away from me. His sword still trails a line of fire along my neck, just missing anything important.

He overextends, giving me the perfect opportunity to get at that knee again. He goes down as I pound his knee for a second time. I go for the kill—metaphorically, of course.

I snap my sword to his throat, but he recovers. A stout knee to my ribs throws me a horse's width as something cracks. The sword clatters out of my hand on impact. I wheeze for breath. Through tears in my eyes, I see the glint as the sword descends for my head. That blow would cleave me in two.

I roll, leaping towards my sword, and a yelp of pain escapes my lips as my ribs grind together. My sword hand flexes on my blade as I stand. I blearily blink away the moisture in my eyes to find the prince in front of me, his back to the monster.

He grips my blade with his bare hand. I hold it steady so as not to cut him by accident, even as my narrowed eyes diligently follow the monster pacing like a caged tiger behind the prince.

“Yield.” One word. One small word that cuts to the quick.

“Your Highness...” I murmur. In my surprise, my eyes cut to the prince.

“You are done. Yield,” he says, his voice a deep command and eyes that were as pretty as gemstones are now icy tundras with flecks of another color I can't quite define within their depths.

I can’t help but gawk at him. He was cordial, almost kind, earlier, even if I called him a jerk. Where’d that go? Or perhaps he was only waiting to see the girl make a fool of herself.

Despite that, I see the wisdom of his words. I glare at his hand, but I’m not so foolhardy as to know what he's saying. This fight is over. Perhaps he saved my life in order to better laugh at me another day.

“Yield,” he repeats.

Only as I give a jerk of my chin does he drop his hand from my sword. He steps back and I return my gaze to the giant.

“I yield,” I grind out between my teeth.

The giant laughs, a loud boom that grates on my ears. “What, not man enough to finish what you started?” he jeers.

Laughter erupts from the crowd gathered round.

I wipe my sword on a cloth cut from a burlap sack, then slide it back into its sheath with a practiced hand. That done, I turn on my heel and stride away.

It’s better to fight another day. The pang in my heart at the loss says something quite different. The laughter at my back causes my cheeks to heat, but otherwise I ignore them.

I come past the knights at the table. Some smirk, some have pity in their eyes, but most just ignore me.

The noble glances at me with a hint of remorse. “Thought you wouldn’t have the guts to try,” he says, slightly apologetic. Huh. Didn’t think he had a heart.

“Only men are supposed to be brave, huh?”

He shakes his head. “Women are plenty brave, even if fighting is no place for them.” He truly believes that.

And for many... I know women who battle harder battles than physical fights. Same thing with men. Not everything is about being able to tote a sword or throw a punch... that is just something I have been Gifted in and my father cultivated it.

I cock my head. “Sometimes things are different than you might believe. And sometimes people will surprise you. Have a good day.”

His eyes widen at that, but I step away before he can speak another word. Time to go home and lick my wounds.

You didn’t think it’d be that easy, did you? Ran asks.

I sigh. No. I suppose I didn’t. But I didn’t think it would be this hard, either. In my heart, I swear to work thrice as hard.

And to never let pride and what the ‘famed crowd’ is doing stop me from carrying both my swords. That was dumb.

I told—

"Ran, I swear, you better not complete that sentence," I hiss.

Yes, we had a full conversation on pride and how me trying to fit in would lead to folly. I thought I could prove her wrong. Jokes on me this time. Now how am I to get in and protect the pretty prince?