Book 1: Chapter 32 - The Engagement [Part 3]
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Donahan lunged forward, Frest sidestepped and swung his mace- flail low. The flail head struck Donahan's ankle, causing him to be momentarily unbalanced. Sergeant Frest kicked out and hooked the Knight off his feet. Donahan hit the ground hard, the wind knocked out of him.
Before he could recover, Frest was upon him. He stomped on Donahan's sword hand, forcing the knight to release his grip. The longsword clattered away. Donahan tried to scramble back, but Frest pinned him with the edge of his shield.
"Yield!" Donahan gasped, pain etched across his face.
Frest glanced back at Seraphina. She met his gaze with icy resolve. "To the death," she reminded him coldly with a casual shrug.
"Sorry, Sir Knight," Frest said without a hint of remorse, mimicking Seraphina’s shrug. “I am supposed to play the part of evil-commoner.” He dropped his weapon and drew a long dagger at his side, the sharp blade gleaming ominously.
"Wait!" Prince Vellens shouted desperately, stepping forward. But it was too late.
With a swift, brutal motion, Frest brought the weapon down. The final blow silenced Sir Donahan forever.
An eerie silence settled over the scene, broken only by the distant cawing of crows. The Royal Guards stared in disbelief, hands hovering near their weapons but uncertain of their next move.
Sitting up gracefully, Seraphina broke the silence. "You had a chance to stop that, Your Highness, but you chose not to," she announced, her voice carrying authority beyond her years. "Let this serve as a lesson—a lesson I hope I will not have to teach more than once. The Sariens do not tolerate insults or threats. Sergeant Frest, collect his armor and horse."
She turned to Prince Vellens, who stood pale and speechless. "I trust this settles the matter, Your Highness."
The prince swallowed hard, his composure shaken. "Why, Seraphina... how could you?" he managed to reply. "What will I tell his family? You were never like this before..." he continued, completely aghast.
"Then we have nothing more to discuss. Safe travels, Your Highness," Seraphina said with a dismissive and curt nod. "Let this be a reminder of what happens when people insult the de Sariens—like, for instance, breaking a promise," she warned, her last words almost a drawl.
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She had come to realize that she needed the prince for the prestige of being known as the future queen-in-waiting. However, Seraphina did not desire Vellens himself as her lord husband, no matter how much her body yearned for him. Whatever had she seen in him?
"As for battle rights, I will let you keep your fallen men's equipment, save for the late Sir Donahan's harness and horse. The peasants will complain if you're forced to raise taxes again to buy replacements," she allowed. In her mind, largesse was a noble trait, and as the victor, she could be generous with it.
Having been thoroughly outmaneuvered, the Crown Prince found his only option was to hold his tongue. He wanted to swear vengeance against his fiancée, to curse her name to the heavens, but a deeper part of him stirred with unease. Until now, he had lived his life as if on a stage, playing the dutiful role of the good prince. Like all women before his charm, Seraphina should have been an easy mark. A memory from his youth about a girl beating him over the head with a stick rose to the surface for a moment before he forced it back down. But this Seraphina, this creature, was something else entirely.
Though he would never confess it, his gaze followed the sway of her hips as she strode away, head held high and unyielding. She was a monster, yes—but a beautiful one. Her defiance and poise awakened something primal within him, a desire that expensive courtesans with their painted faces and rehearsed charms could never hope to inspire.
It was not just lust, though that made a fair portion of it. No, it was the need to conquer, to claim what seemed unattainable, to prove himself worthy—not only to her if not to himself. The same reckless yearning that drove men to scale mountains or brave uncharted seas burned in his chest. She had called him bold, hadn’t she? Then Vellens the Bold he would be.
As he turned to mount the spare horse offered to him, the bitter taste of defeat lingered on his tongue like ashes. Yet, amid that bitterness came a realization so clear it was like steel drawn from its scabbard: he wanted her. Wanted to master her. Wanted her to acknowledge him.
The Lady Seraphina had already placed herself fifty paces away from the Royal Guard—a calculated distance, perfect for bringing her sling to bear should anyone dare make a move. Her entourage trailed after her, disciplined and sharp. Eloise cast a last glance back at Vellens and Sir Gallant before shaking her head.
Meanwhile, Frest lingered behind, rummaging through the spoils of their victory. With no regard for dignity, he stripped Sir Donahan down to his underclothes before casting a dismissive glance at the stunned Royal Guards, his expression daring them to further action. His old horse loaded with pilfered goods, he swung into the saddle of his new horse, the biggest smirk in the Kingdom of Aranthia tugging at his lips.
He had achieved what few dared even to dream of: he had bested a member of the Royal Guard in single combat no less. And this was no mere victory—it was a scandal, a stain on the Guard’s honor that would not be easily erased. No, they would bury this shame deep, silence it with clenched jaws and tightened oaths of secrecy.
Just as Seraphina had intended, the details of today’s events would be muddied and obscured.
As Crown Prince Vellens rode away, his pride lay battered, the weight of his defeat pressing down on him like an anvil. But beneath that weight, something new had begun to stir. The rules of the game had changed, and so had he. A fire now smoldered in his chest, fierce and unrelenting, with Seraphina’s name seared into its very core.