Chapter 18: The Duel

(Content Warning: This chapter is heavy on non-sexual violence.)

Scene 87

Val burst out onto the balcony, blinking in the sunlight. It made her itch to abandon the familiar safety of stealth, but that would have favoured Pita far more. Here in public—

She found the entire party staring at the two princesses, facing off with their swords drawn.

Shit.

Valerie tucked in and kept running along the balcony, trying to keep distance from Pita while she thought. If the confrontation was already that overt, there was no way their pursuer would stop just because she saw daylight.

The balcony’s end came into view. Her mind kept racing. She didn’t have anywhere to stow her new sword, and having one hand full would get in the way of running, leaping, stealing herself away. She could just leave the sword behind, or—

In one smooth motion, she dropped the squealing Cynthia, spun around, and raised her sword.

Just in time to block Pita’s blades, a double stab that caught on Val’s sword instead of sinking into her back. Val hadn’t even heard her getting close, she’d just reacted on raw instinct.

No more running. She’d just get a knife in her back. It was time to stand up and fight.

She dug in and let all her frustration out in a geyser, strengthening her arms as she shoved Pita back.

Zofia led with the fastest lunge she could.

Monique sidestepped, slapping it away. She didn’t even bother to counter. “Honestly, Zofia, why did you ever think they’d side with you? I give them what they want, I give them fun—”

Zofia whirled, trying several more slashes. “There are more important things than fun!”

“—while you make demands and cast judgement.” Monique parried every one, then locked her blade against Zofia’s to hold her in place. “Look at them. Do you think any of them would choose your crusade over what I can offer?”

She did glance outwards — not long enough to fall into a trap, but just to take it in.

Elys, still bearing her tray of wine, looked away from her. Another guest tried to get the musicians playing again, as if the fight was just a spectacle for them.

Sir Jorge broke out into the garden. Even with the noise he made, even with his incongruous appearance, the guests paid him no mind. Following their gazes, he found Princesses Monique and Zofia in the middle of clashing.

And following the guards’ eyes, he found a wiry woman on an upper balcony, protecting a young woman from an assassin in a maid dress.

If you find them in trouble, help them.

He didn’t like Zofia’s chances in a one-on-one duel, but this wasn’t the time for him to charge in and demand a rematch.

Besides, he could help both at once.

With a roar, he leapt forward, sword crashing down on the first guard. The survivors jumped with surprise and shock, then three came at him at once.

Finally, he could cut loose.

He hammered his sword on one of them, over and over, creating a cacophony of steel on steel and forcing the man to stumble back with panic in his eyes. Another had the bright idea to creep up behind him. The old knight spun and took him across the ribs.

That man fell and three more took his place. They had him surrounded, swarming him such that he barely had time to blink.

So they were about even. He could keep their attention, keep all their attention off both Val and Princess Zofia.

“Why?” Val kept up the assault even as Pita skidded back. “Are you seriously doing all this just for kink?”

The silver-haired woman dodged every slash, just feeding Val’s anger further. “You don’t understand.” Even now, just a whisper.

“Then make me understand!” At least while she kept Pita dodging, she wasn’t getting her hands or knives on Cynthia. “Don’t try to show me, damn it, not if it means throwing me to the Owls. Talk to me.”

Pita leapt over a sweeping kick, landing perched on the railing. “It’s more than kink. It’s purpose. I know what I’m supposed to do, I know what’s expected of me. I know where I belong. Finally, somewhere I belong.” She kicked off the railing, then off the wall, confusing Val with her angles.

But Val didn’t need to know her path to know her target. She put herself in front of Cynthia and caught Pita’s attacks, parrying one and weaving away from the other. “You belonged with us!” Her voice came out as a growl now, fury bleeding forward. “You could have had everything you wanted, everything the Owls could give you. Better than the Owls.”

Pita grimaced, shaking her head, but didn’t say a word.

Val kept on her. “Because you wouldn’t have to be a slave. When the play was over, you could take that damn collar off and move on!” Finally, she got a solid hit in, knocking one knife from Pita’s grasp.

She barely winced from the cut, but finally, her voice raised. “I don’t want it to be over!”

The volume, the outburst, made Valerie flinch.

Pita fought in a frenzy. She just had one short knife, but her ferocity forced Val onto the defensive. “It’s not a game. It’s not something to start and stop at a whim. It’s not something to take off and hide in a box when it’s not convenient. It’s who I am.”

Even with Val’s greater reach, she couldn’t keep Pita away. A cut finally scratched across the edge of her palm.

Monique pressed in closer in the clash of blades, so close that Zofia could feel the heat of her breath. “I embrace a tradition that stood for centuries. You call it a sin.”

Zofia broke away from her, hopping hurriedly back. But Monique still didn’t actually attack her. “You’re talking about—” She knew Monique wouldn’t listen. She raised her voice for the onlookers, hoping she could get through to someone. “She’s talking about slavery!”

“I’m talking about honesty.” Monique twirled away from Zofia’s jabs like it was more a dance than a fight. “Your father might like to dress it up or ignore it, but it’s a fact. In this world, there are masters, and there are slaves.” She smiled viciously. “We both know which you are, my dearest niece.”

Zofia fumed. The only answer she could think of was to roar, lash out, swipe with all her strength.

Monique batted it aside and finally attacked, slashing across Zofia’s front.

Zofia froze, stunned. It hadn’t injured her. Monique’s swordwork was so precise it hadn’t even scratched her skin. But it had cut open a window in the front of her dress, exposing her skin to the morning air.

And the eyes of everyone around them.

Sir Jorge sidestepped, both dodging one guard’s slash and shoulder-charging another. He parried a stab from the third, elbowed the fourth in the throat, and stomped on the fifth’s foot, sending him howling and reeling.

If they could coordinate, he might have been in trouble. But he wasn’t fighting a dozen-strong squad. He was fighting a dozen individuals, each only thinking about his own fight.

He spared a glance to see how Princess Zofia fared—

Soft, rounded perfection.

Shock and distraction froze him for just a second, but it was a second too long. A cut to his hand ended his grip on his sword. A kick behind his knees forced him to kneel, and hands on his arms and in his hair held him in place.

It still took him another second to tear his eyes from the princess’ chest.

Why wasn’t he dead? He looked up—

“What’s wrong, old man?” The one holding his right arm smirked, still watching the princesses. “Never seen tits before?”

Princess Monique’s thugs were much more accustomed to such objectifying exposure, and Sir Jorge’s shock amused them. But to his humiliation ... he couldn’t claim to be any better. His eyes still tried to draw back to Zofia’s unwillingly-bared body. That unsatisfied heat still burned within him. He squeezed his eyes shut, the only way to control them.

He’d failed. Again, he’d failed.

“Behold!” Monique declared. “Princess Zofia Tourmaline, finally showing what you want to see!”

Zofia beheld in return. Several of the guests openly leered, snatching at the chance to see her. Even Sir Jorge spent an uncontrollable moment looking at her breasts, before closing his eyes, ashamed for them both. Others looked everywhere but her chest, only making her more conscious of her exposure.

Time, and Zofia, started moving again. Cheeks aflame, she covered her chest with her left arm, leaving herself only one hand to wield her sword. Her grip shook every time Monique checked Zofia’s blade with her own.

“She acts so shy now, but I’ve seen her do much more than this.” Monique’s attacks were almost lazy in their confidence, just enough to keep Zofia off-balance. “I’ve seen her strip in a lounge full of strangers, just because she was paid to.”

The clanging of steel on steel wasn’t enough to drown out the whispers. Zofia’s subjects looked at her and saw nothing but a bare-breasted slut, failing in the one place she was meant to excel.

“I’ve seen her flaunt her nudity on stage.”

It wasn’t like that, Zofia wanted to say. Shame made her want to shrink in on herself and disappear, want to hide from the entire kingdom that she was disappointing.

“I’ve seen her suck a man’s cock like she was nursing for mother’s milk!”

Those words stuck in Zofia’s head. She fought by reflex, letting her training take over her body while her mind sank into memory.

Pita held close to Val, right in her face, as the static feeling crept through her veins. “I am a slave.” Her voice was back to its familiar whisper, but her eyes — her eyes burned with tears at the corners. “It’s who I am. The Queen showed me who I am.”

Val strained, as if willpower alone could overcome the shutdown of her nervous system. The counter-agent in her system would free her in a few minutes. Minutes she didn’t have.

Pita’s eyes stayed on Val as she slumped to the floor again, the wood of the balcony floor cool against her cheek. “I hoped you’d understand. But you can’t, can you?” She softly shook her head. “There’s no place in your world, not for someone like me. I can only belong with the Owls.” She looked past Val, facing forward again. Toward Cynthia. “And they have demands.”

Damn, damn, damn it all. Val could still talk, hypothetically, but she couldn’t think of a single word. All she managed to do was groan.

She was out of tricks.

Pita gripped her knife and stepped over Val. “I’m sorry.”

Scene 88

Zofia remembered being on her knees, serving her master — in her guise as Damascus, but her master all the same. She remembered being swept up in the moment, until it seemed that nothing else existed. Or at least, that nothing else was worth notice.

Reminding her of that had been a mistake, maybe Monique’s first mistake in the whole duel. Because as Zofia remembered serving her master, she realised.

She wasn’t ashamed.

Monique was still talking among those showy strikes. “I am what royalty should be. I am a master, one who understands strength and how to use it. Her?” She sneered, gemstone eyes alight. “She wears that tiara. She calls herself princess.” She raised her sword high. “But in her heart, she is a slave.” Her sword came crashing down.