Princess and Maid: Chapter 15: First Blood

Morning sunlight slanted through the chamber windows, painting golden stripes across Adrastia’s quarters. Roselle sat in her wheelchair, stomach twisted into knots. The princess stood before a polished mirror, examining her reflection with critical detachment.

“Hand me that blouse,” Adrastia instructed, gesturing toward clothing laid across her bed.

Roselle wheeled over, careful not to jostle her ribs, and picked up the garment. Unlike the practical military uniforms Adrastia typically wore, this was something else entirely—a fighting blouse of cream-colored silk with intricate embroidery along the collar and cuffs. The fabric felt impossibly light between Roselle’s calloused fingers.

“Shouldn’t you wear something heavier?” The question escaped before she could stop herself. “Sir Donald will be in armor, won’t he?”

Adrastia’s reflection caught Roselle’s eye in the mirror. “Dueling armor is prohibited for challenges of honor. We’ll fight as equals.”

“Equal?” Roselle couldn’t keep the disbelief from her voice. “He outweighs you by half!”

“Weight matters less than skill.” Adrastia turned, extending her arms to receive the blouse. “Besides, heavy opponents tire quickly.”

Roselle handed over the garment, watching as Adrastia shrugged it on over her thin undershirt. Despite what she’d seen of the princess’s fighting ability during training sessions, doubt gnawed at her. Knights trained their entire lives for combat. What if Adrastia lost? What would happen then?

As Roselle helped with the delicate mother-of-pearl buttons, her fingers trembled slightly.

“You’re worried,” Adrastia observed.

“Of course I’m worried! This is happening because of me,” Roselle muttered, fumbling with a particularly small button. “If you get hurt—”

“It’s not because of you, and I won’t.”

“You can’t know that! He’s a knight of the First Imperial Guard!”

Adrastia caught Roselle’s hand, stilling its movement. She leaned down until their faces were inches apart, close enough that Roselle could see flecks of darker blue in her gray-blue eyes.

“Are you doubting your princess’s abilities?” Adrastia whispered, her breath warm against Roselle’s cheek.

Heat flooded Roselle’s face. “N-no! I just—”

“Good.” Adrastia’s lips curved into a small smile. “Because I rather enjoy having you fuss over me.”

Roselle jerked back, nearly overbalancing her wheelchair. “I’m not fussing! I’m just—” She stopped, realizing Adrastia was teasing her. “That’s not funny.”

“Your blush suggests otherwise.” Adrastia straightened, releasing Roselle’s hand. “Finish the buttons. Lieutenant Castor will arrive soon.”

Roselle ducked her head, focusing intently on the remaining buttons while willing her face to cool. What was wrong with her? The princess was heading into a potentially deadly duel, and here she was blushing like some tavern girl receiving her first compliment from a handsome customer.

Well, she was a tavern girl. But still.

With the blouse properly fastened, Adrastia moved to a wooden chest, withdrawing a leather belt from which hung an elegant white sword sheath. The weapon inside gleamed as she partially drew it—not her usual training blade, but something finer, with a jeweled pommel bearing the imperial crest.

A sharp knock interrupted them.

“Enter,” Adrastia called, buckling the sword belt at her waist.

Lieutenant Castor stepped inside, his formal military uniform immaculate. He bowed precisely to Adrastia before his gaze shifted to Roselle.

“The dueling grounds are prepared, Captain,” he reported. “Sir Donald has selected Sir Haren as his second.”

“As expected.” Adrastia adjusted the hang of her sword. “Status of the audience?”

“Approximately fifty observers. Mostly mid-ranking nobility and knights.” Castor hesitated. “Neither the Emperor nor the Empress Consort will attend. Duke Orastian is also conspicuously absent.”

“Of course they are.” Adrastia’s mouth tightened. “They’ll maintain plausible deniability regardless of outcome.” She turned to Roselle. “Are you ready?”

Roselle gripped the wheels of her chair. “Does it matter if I’m not?”

“You could remain here if you prefer.”

“And miss seeing you put that arrogant knight in his place? Not a chance.”

Adrastia smiled—a brief, genuine expression that transformed her face before disappearing behind her usual composed mask.

“Then let us proceed.” She moved behind the wheelchair, waving off Castor when he stepped forward to take over. “I’ll handle this.”

The journey through palace corridors felt interminable. Servants flattened themselves against walls as they passed, whispering behind their hands. Adrastia pushed the wheelchair with steady purpose, Castor walking two paces behind.

“What happens if you win?” Roselle asked quietly.

“When I win,” Adrastia corrected, “The matter will be closed. I’m afraid we won’t get the puppeteer.”

“And if you lose?” The question emerged barely above a whisper.

Adrastia’s pace never faltered. “I won’t.”

Roselle’s hands tightened in her lap. Was that confidence or unwillingness to consider contingencies? Uncertainty plagued her insides.

They reached a courtyard in the palace’s western wing. Bright morning sunlight flooded a circular space ringed by stone columns. Between the columns stood spectators—nobles in fine clothing, knights in polished armor, and palace officials in formal robes. Their conversations died as Adrastia entered, pushing Roselle’s wheelchair.

At the center of the courtyard, a wide circle had been marked in white chalk. Sir Donald already waited beside it, his sword belted at his waist, his expression thunderous. Another knight in the colors of the First Imperial Guard stood at his shoulder—Sir Haren, presumably.

Roselle scanned the crowd, noting the conspicuous absence of the highest-ranking nobility. As Castor had reported, neither the Emperor, the Empress Consort, nor Duke Orastian were present.

“Remember,” Adrastia murmured, stopping the wheelchair at the edge of the spectators, “whatever happens, you are under my protection.” She unbuckled her sword belt and carefully laid the sheathed weapon across Roselle’s lap. “Hold this for me.”

Before Roselle could respond, Adrastia stepped forward to meet her opponent, the princess’s back straight and head held high. Lieutenant Castor took position behind Roselle’s wheelchair.

The whispers of the crowd washed over them:

“—fighting over a servant girl—”

“—unprecedented for a princess to duel—”

“—Third Division against First—”

“—heard she caught him conspiring—”

Roselle gripped the arms of her wheelchair, fear and anticipation churning into a queasy mess. The duel hadn’t even begun, but she could already taste the metallic tang of blood in her mouth.

A white-haired official stepped between the duelists, raising his ceremonial cane. His voice carried across the courtyard with practiced authority.

“By ruling of His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Marcus Cassian, this duel shall continue only until first blood is drawn. The victor will be satisfied by this sacrifice, and the matter will be considered resolved.”

A ripple of surprise moved through the gathered crowd. Whispers erupted immediately.

Lieutenant Castor stiffened behind Roselle’s wheelchair. “That’s unusual,” he murmured.

“First blood?” Roselle twisted to look up at him. “Isn’t that… good? Is the Emperor protecting Adrastia?”

Castor’s expression remained carefully neutral. “I don’t believe so.”

“Then what—”

“Honor duels typically continue until one party yields,” he explained quietly. “First blood significantly reduces the... definitiveness of the outcome.”

The marshal raised his hands for silence. “Before proceedings continue, I ask if this matter might be resolved without bloodshed. Sir Donald, as the challenged party, would you accept an alternative resolution?”

Sir Donald’s expression remained tense. “Yes. I would accept an alternative.”

The marshal turned. “Princess Adrastia, as challenger, would you withdraw your challenge?”

“No.” Adrastia’s voice cut through the air like a blade. “Unless Sir Donald publicly names who ordered him to arrange the assault?”

Sir Donald’s jaw tightened. “I cannot do that, Your Highness.”

“Then we proceed.” Adrastia’s tone left no room for negotiation.

“Very well.” The marshal gestured to several weapon stands positioned at the circle’s edge. “As the challenged party, Sir Donald may select the weapons.”

Roselle surveyed the arsenal displayed on ornate stands. Spears with leaf-shaped blades. Heavy maces with flanged heads. Wicked-looking flails. Curved blades. Straight blades of varying lengths—imposing longswords, practical short swords, and slender dueling weapons.

Sir Donald stepped forward without hesitation. “Longswords.”

A murmur passed through the crowd. Roselle frowned. Was that significant? She glanced at Castor, who watched with narrowed eyes.

Attendants brought heavy leather gauntlets to both duelists. Adrastia pulled hers on, flexing her fingers to test the fit. A squire approached each combatant, presenting the selected weapons on velvet cushions.

The longswords gleamed—plain but deadly, with simple crossguards and leather-wrapped hilts. The weapon's pommel reached Adrastia's armpit when pointed down into the sand.

Both duelists tested their weapons’ balance with identical motions—a small circle followed by a quick cut through the air.

The marshal stepped forward, raising a ceremonial staff adorned with the imperial eagle. “We gather here under the ancient laws of honor established by Saint Michael the Founder. Let all bear witness that this duel has been properly sanctioned by imperial decree.”

A court scribe stepped forward, unrolling a small scroll. “Let it be recorded that Sir Donald Terrick of the First Imperial Guard stands accused by Her Imperial Highness, Princess Adrastia Cassian Lysara, of orchestrating violence against a member of the royal household. The parties have agreed to settle this matter through trial by combat.”

The marshal struck his staff against the ground three times. “The duel shall continue until first blood is drawn. Both combatants will observe the boundaries of the circle. Any who step beyond its limits forfeit their honor and the contest.”

Two senior knights approached, one standing beside each duelist. They inspected the weapons one final time before bowing to the marshal and retreating.

“Salute your opponent,” the marshal commanded.

Adrastia and Sir Donald raised their swords vertically before their faces in the traditional gesture of respect, though neither’s expression suggested genuine deference.

They took positions at opposite sides of the chalk circle. Adrastia stood relaxed yet alert, sword point angled slightly downward. Sir Donald adopted a high guard, sword raised above his shoulder.

“Begin!” the marshal called, stepping quickly back.

Sir Donald attacked immediately, lunging forward with an overhead strike. Adrastia sidestepped, letting the blade whistle past her ear. She countered with a horizontal slash that Sir Donald barely blocked.

The clash of steel rang across the courtyard. The weapons separated with a metallic scrape, both duelists circling warily.

Sir Donald advanced again, launching a series of powerful cuts. Adrastia parried each, the impact vibrating visibly through her arms. She gave ground steadily, drawing her opponent forward.

“He’s using his strength advantage,” Castor observed quietly. “Trying to overpower her.”

When Sir Donald overextended on a thrust, Adrastia finally countered. She deflected his blade outward and stepped in close—too close for effective swings. Her gloved hands shifted position, one gripping the hilt, the other grasping halfway up her own blade.

“Half-swording,” Castor murmured with surprise. “That’s normally an armored technique.”

“Why?” Roselle asked, not taking her eyes from the fight.

“Without armor, reach is far more important, especially when first blood is the aim. Half-swording sacrifices reach for precision.”

Adrastia aimed a precise thrust at Sir Donald’s shoulder. He twisted away, barely avoiding the strike, momentarily thrown by the unorthodox approach.

When they separated, dust swirled around their feet. Both combatants breathed heavily, sweat already darkening their clothes despite the morning coolness.

Sir Donald adjusted his strategy, adopting a middle guard. He launched a feint toward Adrastia’s left side before switching to a lightning-fast strike at her right.

Adrastia parried, but the force pushed her off-balance. Sir Donald pressed forward, his blade flashing in a diagonal cut that would have caught her across the chest—

But Adrastia dropped to one knee, letting the blade pass overhead. From this lowered position, she thrust upward, her point skimming past Sir Donald’s throat as he jerked back.

Roselle drew in a sharp breath. That had been close—for both of them.

The duelists reset, circling again. Dust clung to their sweat-dampened clothes. Sir Donald’s formal tunic now bore a tear across one sleeve, though no blood showed. Adrastia’s braid had begun to unravel, strands of white hair falling across her forehead.

As they engaged again, Roselle watched more carefully. This time, she noticed something odd—Adrastia’s blade slipped past Sir Donald’s guard, the point angling toward his forearm… but then shifted course at the last moment, missing by a hair’s breadth.

Roselle frowned. That wasn’t a mistake. The princess had deliberately redirected what would have been a scoring hit.

In the next exchange, it happened again. Adrastia executed a perfect feint that drew Sir Donald’s guard high, opening his torso. Her counterstrike could have easily caught his side, but instead swept harmlessly past.

“Is she—?” Roselle began, but cut herself off.

Castor gave her a sidelong glance but said nothing.

The duelists separated yet again, both breathing hard. They circled one another, dust swirling around their boots, sweat glistening on their faces. Neither showed blood, though both had come close multiple times.

And Roselle was now certain—Adrastia had deliberately missed at least two clear opportunities to end the duel.

But why?

The duelists circled, neither willing to commit fully after the last exchange. Sweat darkened Sir Donald’s tunic beneath his arms and across his back. His breathing had grown ragged, chest heaving with each inhale.

Adrastia, by contrast, showed only a light sheen of perspiration on her forehead. Her breathing remained controlled and measured.

“He’s tiring,” Castor observed quietly.

Roselle squeezed Adrastia’s sheathed sword on her lap. That much was obvious! Why wasn’t it over?

Sir Donald lunged forward suddenly, his blade slicing in a diagonal arc. Adrastia parried and riposted with a thrust toward his shoulder, which he barely deflected.

They exchanged three more strikes, steel ringing against steel. Each clash, Sir Donald’s movements grew fractionally slower. His frustrated grunt carried clearly when Adrastia evaded a powerful overhead strike that left his sword buried momentarily in the packed earth.

The crowd had fallen eerily silent. Roselle leaned forward in her wheelchair, wincing as the movement pulled at her healing ribs.

Sir Donald attempted a sweeping cut at Adrastia’s legs. She jumped back, then immediately pressed forward into his recovery. Her shoulder slammed into his chest, throwing him off-balance.

As he stumbled backward, Adrastia dropped low and swept her leg in a wide arc, catching his ankle. Sir Donald crashed to the ground, momentarily stunned.

The princess pounced, driving her knee into his torso and pinning him with her weight.

“Why doesn’t the marshal stop it?” Roselle whispered. “He’s down.”

“Being disarmed or knocked down isn’t first blood,” Castor replied. “The conditions were specific.”

Sir Donald twisted beneath Adrastia, his face contorted with fury. His sword arm was partially pinned, but he brought the weapon’s hilt up, swinging the crossguard toward Adrastia’s temple.

The metal guard missed her by a hair’s breadth as she jerked her head sideways.

In a single fluid motion, the princess raised her sword in half-sword grip, one gloved hand clutching the blade itself. And then drove the weapon’s point directly into Sir Donald’s eye socket.

And shoved downward.

A woman in the crowd shrieked. Several spectators gasped audibly.

“The duel is concluded! First blood has been drawn!” the marshal shouted, rushing forward with his staff raised. “The matter is resolved by imperial decree!”

Adrastia stood, withdrawing her sword. Blood—so much blood—spurted from the horrific wound, pooling beneath Sir Donald’s head.

The knight’s body convulsed once, then went terrifyingly still.

A surgeon rushed forward with attendants, but Roselle already knew—as did everyone who had witnessed the strike. Sir Donald was dead before the surgeon reached him.

Adrastia turned away, walking unhurriedly toward Roselle and Castor. The front of her cream-colored blouse was spattered with crimson, blood dripping from her sword in a dotted trail across the dueling circle.

A young squire ran forward with a clean cloth, carefully taking the bloody weapon with a murmured, “Your Highness.”

Roselle swallowed hard. The princess had deliberately made that first strike fatal.

Adrastia stopped before them, her face composed despite the blood staining her clothes and hands.

“Ensure those five servants receive twenty lashes each and are exiled and gone before the sun sets,” she instructed, her voice perfectly steady. “No less, no more.”

“Yes, Captain,” Castor acknowledged with a bow.

Roselle looked down at the sword still resting across her lap. Returning it now would just get the white sheath dirty. She fished out a small napkin tucked in her apron pocket and extended it toward the princess.

“You’re covered in blood,” she said, surprised by the steadiness of her own voice.

Adrastia glanced down at herself. “Don’t worry. None of it is mine.”

Somehow, despite watching Adrastia deliberately kill a man, Roselle didn’t feel afraid. Instead of taking the napkin, Adrastia stepped closer and Roselle reached forward, dabbing ineffectually at the crimson spatters. The metallic scent of blood hung in the air between them.

“This isn’t going to help much,” Roselle said, her voice steadier than she expected. The fabric was already soaking through, warm and sticky against her fingers. “You should change before anyone important sees you like this.”

Around them, the courtyard buzzed with shocked whispers. Nobles huddled together, casting furtive glances at the princess. Several had already slipped away, no doubt rushing to spread news of what they’d witnessed.

Adrastia looked down at Roselle’s attempt to clean the blood, something unreadable flickering across her face. “You’re right. This requires more than a towel.” She took the cloth from Roselle’s hands, and then collected her sword. “Lieutenant Castor will escort you back to my chambers.”

“And you?” Roselle asked.

“I have matters to attend to first.” Adrastia wiped her hands methodically. “The Emperor will expect a report. He should be dining with the Empress right now and I want to make sure my message is clearly received.”

As Castor moved to take control of the wheelchair, Roselle caught one last glimpse of Sir Donald’s body being covered with a sheet. The surgeon stood over him, shaking his head at the futility of his summons.

A message, indeed. One written in blood that everyone would understand.