Book 1: Chapter 31 - The Prince [Part 1]

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“Never attempt to win by force what can be won by deception.”

- The Prince by Niccolò Machiavelli.

What followed was less a battle and more a grim chore of mopping up. The bandits' backbone had been shattered, their will to fight crumbling into pockets of feeble resistance. Yet, it could not be denied—they fought with a tenacity uncommon to mere desperate highwaymen.

Sergeant Frest had proven so industrious with his crossbow that he exhausted his supply of bolts. Drawing his mace-flail, he dismounted and plunged into the fray. Mounted combat was not his forte; after all, the men-at-arms in her father's employ were primarily foot soldiers. Still, Frest acquitted himself admirably. He had snatched up a battered heater shield from a fallen knight and was methodically crushing skulls, his expression one of cold detachment. The former bandit wielded his weapon mostly as mace, using its flanged head to bludgeon people to death. The spiked ball at the end of the iron chain was just a bonus, adding a touch of chaotic menace to each swing.

Eloise and the brothers, with the formidable warrior at their side, became a bulwark against the new wave of attackers. The doll-like girl conjured earthen walls and gaping chasms, her magic turning the very ground into a weapon that blunted the enemy's advance. She wielded her newfound powers with an ease that was almost frightening; it seemed only yesterday she struggled to move mere clods of Earth.

Seraphina herself had grown immeasurably during the clash. The sudden surge of her personal power only heightened her suspicion that she was but an actor in a play directed by unseen hands—a play whose script she was beginning to resent. She was being tested, she could feel it.

As the tide of battle turned in their favor, her confidence swelled. She swung her halberd with newfound assurance, each strike rewarded by the game system that governed her abilities. The harsh lessons from Kellan were applicable even with this unfamiliar weapon: footwork, positioning, the judicious use of space. Her delicate frame belied a ridiculous strength, allowing her to wield the halberd with lethal efficiency. Normally, the weapon was deadly around the head, but in her hands, even the haft became deadly.

Her Critical Hit Mastery skill had risen a level, and her proficiency with Polearms increased by two. Perhaps as a result, her Dexterity naturally improved by a point. The amalgamation of these enhancements made her both stronger and swifter, but fatigue was setting in. No matter how formidable, a person could not fight at peak performance indefinitely. She made a mental note to pace herself better in future battles.

The mighty warrior atop his black steed had finished scattering his foes and thundered back to aid his fellow Royal Guards. His arrival was like a hammer blow, shattering the remnants of the bandits' resolve. Panic overtook them, and they broke ranks, fleeing into the shadowed sanctuary of the trees.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Seraphina whistled sharply. Kicker, her borrowed warhorse, trotted over after finishing the gruesome work of trampling an unfortunate soul beneath iron-shod hooves. Thanks to her Improved Riding Skill, she mounted him smoothly, her body tired but her spirit was thirsting for more blood and the promise of more experience.

She spurred Kicker forward, urging him to chase down the fleeing enemies. The command was unnecessary; the warhorse was as eager as she, his muscles coiled like springs ready to release. Together they barreled after the bandits, Kicker's massive form plowing through underbrush and men alike, while her halberd speared them through.

"Seraphina! Lady Seraphina! Further pursuit would not be wise!" Sergeant Frest's voice rang out behind her, a note of warning threading through the chaos.

It was sound advice, but Seraphina was nothing if not stubborn. Her blood was up, and her ears were deaf to caution. She was a tempest on horseback, singular in purpose. Bandits fell before her like wheat to a scythe, their cries lost in the thunder of hooves and the roar of blood in her ears.

So consumed was she in the chase that she failed to heed the looming grasp of the forest. A low-hanging branch from an ancient, unyielding oak hidden by its own shadows caught her unawares. Despite her ogre-like strength, the immutable laws of physics took precedence. The branch struck her squarely, tearing her from the saddle. She crashed to the dark, leaf-strewn forest floor, the world spinning as the canopy above blurred into a tapestry of shadows and light.

*****

Seraphina found herself lost in the strangest of dreams. She was lounging on a sun-drenched tropical beach, the gentle crash of waves harmonizing with the rustling palms. A frozen margarita rested in her perfectly manicured hand, condensation dripping languidly down the glass. In her lap lay a glossy magazine, its pages devoted to effusive praise of one of her most recent ventures—a triumph she deserved, of course.

The ocean stretched endlessly before her, a shade of blue so vivid it seemed stolen from the whimsical illustrations of a children’s storybook. She gazed out at the horizon, her lips curling into a satisfied smile. Naturally, she was chic as ever, draped in a designer beach ensemble that was effortlessly elegant.

Yet something odd lingered in the corners of her dream. The photograph accompanying the magazine article—a glowing profile of her success—showed her with long, jet-black hair. That couldn’t be right, could it? Seraphina’s signature golden tresses were her trademark. A brief flicker of indignation arose before she brushed it aside. Perhaps the shoot had been on a particularly whimsical day. Still, her discerning eye caught another offense: the angle of the photo did her no justice. Her figure, always the epitome of perfection, especially around the chest, had been minimized.

That simply would not do.

As she mulled over how best to chastise the magazine for their failure to capture her true essence, she glanced around for a member of the serving staff. She had half a mind to issue a frivolous complaint, merely to test the famed 'heart of service' the hotel so proudly touted. Testing people kept them sharp, she reasoned. Management should be thanking her for such impromptu performance evaluations. Surely, it was a form of training.

She trailed her fingers idly through the fine, white sand, the grains warm and soft against her flawless skin. For a moment, she indulged in the tactile pleasure, savoring the contrast of texture. The sun was, as always, a treacherous adversary to her perfect complexion, but for now, she allowed herself to bask in this fleeting tranquility. Alone on the beach, if only in her half-lucid dream, she was a queen in her own serene dominion.

Now there was an incessant voice trying to bring her back to the stupid waking world. Why couldn’t it simply shut up and leave her to her dream?