CHAPTER 9 - The Tragedy of a Pampered Princess
If I ever become queen and that remains tragically possible I will outlaw morning sword practice.I am flat on my back in the center of the eastern training yard, limbs sprawled inelegantly, hair fanned around my head like I have fainted in a painting that will someday be titled The Princess Who Tried.
The sky above me is aggressively blue. Birds chirp in a way that feels deeply insensitive to my current condition.
"I'm dying," I wheeze.
"You are not," Elias replies calmly.
He is standing over me, arms crossed behind his back, posture immaculate, not even slightly winded. His boots are planted firmly in the grass as if he has been carved into the earth itself.
"I can see my ancestors," I continue, one arm flung dramatically across my forehead. "They are ashamed."
"They are embarrassed," he corrects.
I open one eye and glare at him. "This is cruelty."
"This," he says, "is training."
The training yard sits tucked behind the eastern wall of the palace, shielded by high stone and a ring of tall hedges that smell faintly of rosemary when crushed underfoot.
The grass is worn thin in patches from constant use.
Wooden dummies stand in a neat row like silent witnesses to my humiliation.
Racks of practice swords gleam in the morning light.
And in the center of all this discipline
Me.
Collapsed.
Breathing as though I have just run across three provinces rather than tripped over my own feet twice in under ten minutes. "Look," I say suddenly, thrusting my hand into the air without lifting my head. "Calluses."
Elias glances down.
"You have one," he says.
"It is evolving."
"It is not."
"It has friends."
"It does not."
"It is the beginning of my warrior arc."
He pinches the bridge of his nose, a gesture I have come to understand means he is reconsidering every decision that led him to become captain of the queen's guard.
"Get up."
"No."
"You are not done."
"My body hurts."
"You are dramatic."
"I am decorative."
"You are horizontal."
I roll onto my side, propping my chin on my palm like a bored noblewoman at a ball.
"I was not raised for this," I declare. "I was raised for tea and meaningful glances."
"You volunteered to marry a war king," he reminds me.
"That was political," I argue. "This is manual labor."
He stares at me.
"If you do not stand," he says calmly, "I will drag you upright." I gasp. "You wouldn't."
"I would."
I squint at him, assessing the threat.
He does not blink.With the dignity of someone forced against her will by circumstances and gravity, I sit up. "Fine," I mutter. "But I am protesting internally."
He tosses me the wooden practice sword.
It hits my shoulder before I catch it.
"See?" I snap. "Assault."
"Your reflexes are slow."
"My reflexes are refined."
"Stand."
I wobble upright, legs trembling slightly. My palms sting from repeated impact against wood.
He circles me slowly. It makes me feel like a small animal being evaluated for competence. "I do not understand," I say, raising my sword halfheartedly, "why I must learn to fight when you are already here to protect me."
"I cannot be everywhere at once."
"That sounds like a design flaw."
"I will inform the king you believe I am insufficient."
I straighten instantly. "You will do no such thing."
His mouth twitches faintly.
I narrow my eyes. "You are enjoying this."
"I am enduring this."
I lunge.
Badly.
He sidesteps easily.
I spin too far and nearly collide with him. He catches my elbow before I topple forward entirely. I huff and try again.This time I swing too wide. He taps my wrist with his wooden blade.
I swing again, faster.
He blocks.
I try to pivot dramatically.
My foot slips slightly on the grass.
I flail.
He steadies me again.
"I am graceful," I insist.
"You are theatrical."
"I am layered."
"You are exhausting."
"I am a princess."
"You are currently losing."
I gasp in offense.
We circle again.
"Drop your shoulders," he instructs.
"They are attached."
"Relax your grip."
"If I relax, I will drop it."
"Then pick it up."
"You are unreasonable."
"I am practical."
I swing again.
He blocks and gently knocks my sword aside.
"Dead."
"I resent this narrative."
"It is accurate."
I attempt something that feels strategic.
He steps to the side and taps my shoulder.
"Dead."
I glare at him. "You are not even trying."
"I am."
"Try more."
He groans.
"You are too old to act like this," he mutters.
"I am youthful."
"You are rolling in dirt."
"I am grounding myself."
"You are collapsing."
"I am conserving energy."
"For what?"
"For tea."
He stares at me as though deeply regretting teaching me how to speak. I finally manage to block one of his strikes properly.The wood connects with a solid crack. I blink in shock. "Did you see that?" I demand.
"Yes."
"I did it."
"You did."
"I am unstoppable."
"You are improving."
"Unstoppable."
"Improving."
I grin triumphantly.He disarms me again within seconds.The sword lands in the grass. I stare at it like a traitor.
"I retire," I announce.
"You do not."
I drop dramatically back into the grass.
"This is rebellion."
"This is embarrassing."
The humor fades just a fraction.I swallow. Then I stand. We resume. This time I try harder. Less dramatics. More listening. He adjusts my stance with a firm hand at my elbow. He shifts my foot back slightly. He corrects my grip.
"Again," he says.
I swing.
He blocks.
I swing lower.
He blocks.
I pivot.
He blocks.
I am sweating now. My arms tremble.
He disarms me one last time.
"Enough," he says.
I collapse immediately.
"I knew you would see reason."
"You still have your dress fitting," he informs me.
I groan loudly.
"And your etiquette review."
"I already memorized the oath," I protest.
"Recite it."
"Now?"
"Yes."
I sit up reluctantly, brushing grass from my sleeves.
I straighten my back automatically.
I begin reciting the coronation oath.
Halfway through, he interrupts.
"Again."
"I didn't miss a word."
"You rushed the third line."
"I was enthusiastic."
"You were sloppy."
I glare at him.
He waits.
I start again, slower, clearer.
When I finish, he nods once.
"Better."
I flop backward again.
"I deserve tea."
"You deserve discipline."
"I am fragile."
"You are resilient."
"You are insufferable."
I grin.
"You love me."
"I tolerate you."
"Semantics."
He shakes his head and collects the wooden swords.
"You are too old to act like this," he mutters again.
"You are too grumpy ."
"I am not grumpy."
"You are."
He snorts despite himself.
We walk toward the palace together.
My legs ache. My palms sting. My hair is escaping its neat braid. My clothes is grass-stained.