King Derek Drale sat in his chambers, the heavy scent of spiced ale and perfume filling the air.
His robes were loose, his dark hair slightly disheveled, and his boots discarded beside the bed. Across from him, two young women draped in silk whispered amongst themselves, giggling as they filled his cup. The king leaned back against the cushions, half-drunk, his mind slipping between the pleasures of the night and the troubles of his kingdom.
Then, he heard it.
The sharp crack of wood against wood.
He paused mid-drink, brow furrowing. Another loud clash followed, and then another.
The women at his side took no notice, but Derek's ears sharpened. The rhythmic, unrelenting sound was unlike the laughter of squires or the casual play of noble boys in the courtyard. This was fighting.
A knock came at the door, followed by a breathless young lordling.
"Your Grace," the boy stammered, his face pale, "It's your daughter—Princess Thalia. She's in the courtyard... fighting."
Derek's grip tightened around his cup. "Fighting?" he echoed.
The boy hesitated, then nodded. "With wooden swords, against the other boys... and she's winning."
For a moment, the king stared, his mind struggling to process the words. Then, in one swift motion, he set his cup down with a hard thunk, rose to his feet, and strode out of the chamber.
The Courtyard
The royal courtyard was alive with spectators. Lords and ladies had gathered, their silks and velvets a stark contrast to the dust-covered children circling the center of attention.
In the middle of it all stood Thalia Drale.
She was fifteen, her red hair damp with sweat, strands sticking to her forehead. Her chest rose and fell steadily, her wooden sword gripped tight in both hands. Across from her stood boys her age and older, each armed and panting, their faces twisted with both exertion and frustration.
From a high stone veranda, King Derek stood still, watching.
His daughter's stance was perfect—feet planted firmly, shoulders squared, her sharp green eyes tracking every movement of her opponents. He could see it in her posture, the control of her breath, the way she watched for openings like a predator studying its prey.
And in that moment—for the briefest flicker of time—he saw himself.
Not as he was now.
But as a boy, young and wild, gripping a wooden sword with the same intensity in his eyes. He saw the day his own father had taught him to fight, the weight of a sword in his hands for the first time.
Derek felt his fury dissolve into something else entirely.
Pride.
Pure. Unshakable. Pride.
Down below, a larger boy stepped forward.
He was nearly a head taller than Thalia, broad-chested, gripping a morning star—a weapon that, even dulled for training, was still dangerous. The crowd murmured, some whispering about whether he should be fighting a princess at all.
But Thalia?
She did not falter.
The boy swung first, his morning star whistling through the air. Thalia ducked low, the weapon missing her by inches as it smashed into the dirt, kicking up dust.
She twisted on her heel, moving like fluid fire, and struck—her wooden sword slamming into the back of his knee.
The boy staggered but didn't fall.
He growled, bringing his weapon up for another heavy downward swing, aiming to crush her.
Thalia sidestepped, fast as lightning, her movements calculated and precise.
And then she saw it.
His opening.
Without hesitation, she drove the tip of her wooden blade into his ribs, the impact hard enough to knock the air from his lungs.
The boy's eyes widened, his grip on the morning star loosening.
His weapon dropped to the ground with a thud.
The courtyard was silent.
The nobles, the other children, the servants—all eyes were on Thalia.
Breathless but victorious, she straightened her back, raised her sword, and spoke with the confidence of a queen.
"Drop thy sword and yield to me, for I have bested you, boy."
A hush fell over the crowd.
And then—a slow, deliberate clap.
Thalia turned toward the sound.
Up on the veranda, her father was clapping, his expression unreadable at first. But then, his lips curled into something she never expected.
A chuckle.
And then, his booming voice carried across the courtyard:
"Gentlemen and Ladies, my daughter—Thalia Drale, heir to the throne of Yainna!"
A roar of applause followed. Nobles stood, shouting, clapping, calling out her name.
Thalia felt something ignite in her chest.
The feeling was unfamiliar, yet exhilarating.
This—this was what victory felt like.
For the first time, she wasn't just a girl with a sword.
She was a warrior.
Lifting her wooden sword high, she called out in a voice that carried across the court:
"Long live the Drales!"
And with one voice, the crowd echoed her cry.
"LONG LIVE THE DRALES!"