I found myself alone in the halls of the palace. The royal family was currently laying the Queen to rest in the royal tomb—a private affair reserved only for them. I wasn't allowed to attend, which I was oddly grateful for. Both princes set me on edge, especially the crown prince, whose gaze lingered far too long for comfort.
So, with time to kill and no one giving me direction, I wandered the grand halls of the palace, my footsteps muffled against the thick, richly woven carpet that ran the length of the corridor. The walls were adorned with intricately carved stone panels, depicting the kingdom's storied history—heroic battles, divine blessings, and the royal family triumphing over countless adversities. Each was gilded in gold, catching the soft glow of magical lanterns that floated above, casting a warm, golden light over everything.
The air was fragrant, faintly perfumed with something floral, and the faint hum of activity echoed in the distance. Servants passed me occasionally, wearing finely tailored uniforms—crisp white shirts with deep blue vests trimmed in silver, the royal insignia embroidered over their hearts. Even the servants looked like they belonged to a world far removed from mine. Their movements were quiet but purposeful, each task executed with precision, as if every gesture had been rehearsed a hundred times over.
I passed through an arched doorway and into a grand gallery lined with towering marble columns. The floor here was polished to a mirror shine, reflecting the enormous chandeliers that hung above, each one dripping with crystals that refracted light into delicate rainbows. Portraits of past kings and queens hung on the walls, their painted eyes following me as I walked.
One painting, in particular, caught my attention—a striking depiction of King Alden and Queen Serenya during their coronation. They looked impossibly regal, their faces serene yet commanding. I paused, staring at it for longer than I meant to, before the sound of soft footsteps broke my reverie.
The palace guards stationed at intervals along the walls eyed me curiously as I passed. Their armor gleamed like polished silver, every piece fitted perfectly to their frames. Each bore the crest of Valderin on their chestplates—a golden lion with emerald eyes—and carried weapons that looked more ceremonial than practical. Their expressions were stoic, but I could feel their eyes following me, assessing me as if I didn't quite belong here.
They weren't wrong.
I moved further down the hall, passing an open balcony where a breeze carried the scent of fresh roses from the palace gardens below. The sheer scale and grandeur of everything overwhelmed me. This wasn't just a home; it was a symbol of power, wealth, and a history that I couldn't begin to fathom.
I couldn't help but feel out of place, like a smudge on an otherwise flawless canvas. But no one stopped me, no one questioned why I was here, and I supposed that was the strangest part of all.
**
In my wanderings, I stumbled upon a peculiar area tucked away behind the grand palace walls—a sprawling training field where the royal soldiers honed their skills. The space was vast, bordered by tall stone walls lined with weapon racks, sparring dummies, and archery targets. A large arena lay at its center, its sandy ground marked with the scuffs and scars of countless battles fought in practice. The faint scent of sweat and oiled steel lingered in the air, but for the moment, the field was mostly quiet, bathed in the soft glow of the midday sun.
It was empty, save for one figure.
I froze in place as I caught sight of her. A woman with fiery red hair that gleamed like freshly drawn blood in the sunlight. Her every movement was precise, fluid, and deadly—an intoxicating blend of power and grace. She wielded a long sword with ease, her strikes carving arcs through the air as if the blade were an extension of her body. My resonance skill stirred faintly, feeding me the faint impression of danger radiating off her—controlled, but undeniable. It felt like standing on the edge of a cliff, knowing the slightest misstep would mean certain death.
She wasn't just skilled—she was breathtaking. Her crimson hair, tied back in a loose braid, swayed with each movement, accentuating her sharp, angular features. Her sun-kissed skin bore faint scars, marks of battles fought and won. Her piercing green eyes burned with fierce determination, focused entirely on the task at hand. She moved like a tempest, her every step and swing an elegant, calculated dance of destruction.
I stood there mesmerized, unable to tear my eyes away from her. There was a beauty to her deadliness, a raw, unrelenting force that set my heart pounding in my chest. Her movements weren't just combat—they were a performance, an art form crafted with precision and perfected over countless hours of practice. Each strike, each flourish of her blade, was executed with a lethal purpose that sent shivers down my spine.
The air around her almost seemed to shimmer with the heat of her intensity. My resonance skill caught faint glimpses of her energy—a fire burning within her, fierce and untamed, yet tightly controlled. I could feel it even from here, like standing too close to a roaring blaze.
I gulped, my mouth suddenly dry, and just watched her in awe. Her skill was mesmerizing, but there was something more to it. It wasn't just the physical prowess—it was the sheer presence she exuded, as if the field itself bent to her will. In her, I saw the embodiment of battle, the beauty and the terror of war personified.
It was both inspiring and terrifying. And though I was rooted to the spot, unable to look away, one thing was clear: this was a woman you'd want on your side in battle. Because facing her as an enemy? That would be a death sentence.
**
She stopped mid-strike, lowering her blade with a fluidity that spoke of effortless control. I noticed then that she wasn't even out of breath. Her piercing green eyes locked onto me, sharp and focused, and I felt a strange twist in my stomach—part nerves, part awe.
What the hell is wrong with me? I berated myself silently. She couldn't have been much older than twenty-five, yet she carried herself with the commanding presence of someone who had seen and endured far more than her years should allow. Her crimson hair, tied back in a loose braid, seemed to glow faintly in the sunlight, like fire given form.
"You just going to stand there and gape, or are you planning to pick up a sword?" she called out, her tone sharp but not unkind. "Because I've seen statues with more purpose than you right now."
"Huh?" I blinked, startled by her words. "Oh, um—sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt."
Her lips curved into a faint smirk. "Then stop staring and do something useful. Unless you're scared, of course."
"Scared?" I shot back, the words escaping before I could stop them. "Not at all. I was just admiring your skill."
"And?" she prompted, raising an eyebrow.
"And... how beautiful you look while practicing," I added honestly, my cheeks warming slightly.
She snorted, unimpressed. "Flattery will get you nowhere. Pick up a sword and show me what you've got."
I sighed, stepping forward to grab one of the practice swords from the rack nearby. "Fine, fine. But don't expect much—I'm self-taught."
Her smirk widened. "Perfect. This should be entertaining."
I tested the weight of the practice blade in my hand, adjusting my grip as I let my resonance skill flare. Her movements from earlier still lingered in my mind, and I focused on the subtle shifts in her stance, the way her body seemed to anticipate every possible movement. I wasn't trained, but years of protecting the woolhorns and defending my village from predators and bandits had honed my instincts. My resonance skill only sharpened those instincts further.
She moved first, testing me with a probing strike that I barely managed to deflect. My resonance skill flared again, and I could sense the subtle shift in her stance as she prepared a follow-up. I stepped to the side just in time to avoid her blade, countering with a quick, instinctive swing of my own.
She parried effortlessly, her eyes narrowing slightly as she assessed me. "Not bad. You've got good instincts."
"Thanks," I muttered, my focus narrowing as I adjusted my stance.
Her strikes came faster now, each one flowing seamlessly into the next. I barely kept up, my resonance skill warning me of the attacks just before they landed. It was like fighting a storm—relentless and impossible to predict. Still, I held my ground, dodging and countering where I could.
"You're quick," she admitted, her tone almost impressed. "But you're too reactive. You wait for me to make the first move instead of taking the initiative."
"Maybe," I grunted, deflecting another blow and stepping in closer. "Or maybe I just like giving my opponent a false sense of security."
Her smirk deepened. "Big words for someone barely keeping up."
I lunged, feinting to her left before pivoting to strike at her right. She parried again, but this time she had to step back, her balance shifting slightly. It wasn't much, but it was enough to give me a sliver of confidence.
"You've got potential," she said, her strikes growing sharper now, more precise. "But potential isn't enough in a real fight."
Her blade came down in a brutal arc, and my resonance skill screamed at me to move. I ducked, the sword grazing just above my head, and countered with a quick jab toward her side. She twisted away, her movements impossibly fast, and I barely had time to recover before her blade was at my throat.
"And that," she said, lowering her sword with a grin, "is why you'd be dead in a real fight."
I staggered back, my chest heaving as I tried to catch my breath. My arms ached from the effort, but I couldn't help the faint smile tugging at my lips. "Noted."
She stepped back, resting the tip of her sword on the ground. "You're rough, but you've got a natural sense for combat. That's rare."
I wiped the sweat from my brow, nodding. "Thanks, I guess."
"I would like to go again," I said, my grip tightening on the hilt of the practice sword. My voice was steady, though my body still ached from the beating she'd just handed me.
She quirked an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth lifting in faint amusement. "You're either stubborn or a glutton for punishment."
"Maybe both," I replied, shrugging. "But I'd like to think I'm determined."
That faint smile of hers widened just a little, like a flame catching a hint of wind. "Fair enough," she said, stepping into position with an easy confidence. "Let's see if you've learned anything."
I couldn't help but grin, despite the soreness radiating through my arms and shoulders. "Don't hold back."
"Oh, I won't," she said with a chuckle, twirling her blade with a practiced ease. Her green eyes narrowed, and for a moment, I caught the faintest glimmer of respect there—just before she lunged forward, faster than before.