TO&FQ: Book 1 - Chapter 32 (RAW)

Chapter 32 - The Engagement

“Whatever you vividly imagine, ardently desire, sincerely believe, and enthusiastically act upon... must inevitably come to pass!” 

- Paul J. Meyer.

The Crown Prince's face was etched with worry as he gazed back at his Royal Guard, the shattered remains of his once-grand carriage, and the grim statement of lifeless bodies strewn across the field. Above them, a murder of crows gathered on the branches, their beady eyes gleaming with anticipation, waiting to see what the humans below would do next.

“Sir Donahan, what say you to the Sarien's offer?” the Crown Prince inquired, his voice tight with unease. Though he addressed his guard, his eyes remained fixed on Seraphina, scrutinizing her every move for any hint of treachery.

“Would the hare accept an invitation into the wolf's den?” retorted Sir Donahan, a portly man with a stuffy demeanor and a round face flushed with indignation. He tugged off his gloves with deliberate disdain. “Who knows what other perils we might encounter along the way?”

Seraphina's lips parted, a sharp retort poised on the tip of her tongue, but before she could speak, Milly stepped forward, her eyes blazing.

“How dare you insult the Sariens! Donahan, is it? Were I a man, I'd challenge you this instant,” Milly snapped, her voice dripping with contempt. Her eyes blazed like embers, her cheeks flushed with anger, and she seemed on the verge of an apoplexy. Beside her, Miriam's hand drifted menacingly toward the cudgel at her hip.

“Ha! Will someone restrain this rabid dog?” Sir Donahan scoffed, his eyes narrowing with disdain. “This is what happens when you give common filth too long a leash!”

Sir Gallant, the tall knight, remained silent, his eyes sweeping over the tense gathering, though his gaze lingered on Eloise more often than not. He appeared relaxed, his hand resting casually away from his weapon, simply observing the unfolding drama. Seraphina appreciated a man like that—a strong, silent type. She now noticed a faint scar tracing his left jawline; rather than marring his features, it added to his rugged allure, lending him an aspect of martial fierceness. Beside him stood his squire, a young man whose eyes burned with barely concealed hatred as he glared at Sir Donahan for his disdainful remark about the common people.

Seraphina also noticed that Vellens's hand was trembling—was it fear, anger, or perhaps a blend of both? she wondered. With a fixed, polite smile, she gripped Milly's arm firmly in a grip of iron, restraining her fiery maid. “Ah, Milly, let us not give the dear Prince any further cause for worry,” she said sweetly. “After all this fighting, they must be unsteady, still reeling from the shock of battle. My father always said that even the bravest hearts can grow cowardly, seeing enemies lurking in every shadow after such bloodshed. Some have the stomach for it... others cannot even lift a sword afterwards... or before.”

To underscore her point, Seraphina strode over to a bandit's corpse, her eyes glinting with a dangerous light. With a swift, brutal kick, she sent the severed head hurtling through the air. It crashed into a tree trunk with a sickening splat, a gruesome explosion of blood and bone fragments. It felt good to finally be able to vent. 

The Royal Guards immediately tensed, their hands dropping to the hilts of their swords. They all looked comically worried to Seraphina who just working off a little stress.

“I see now why the so-called finest in the kingdom struggle against mere bandits,” Seraphina remarked with feigned innocence, speaking to nobody in particular. She spoke as if discussing the weather. “Needing a mere girl to rescue them. Quite shameful, really. Standards have certainly fallen.”

At this casual insult, the Royal Guard tensed, their confusion evident. By treating Seraphina as a legitimate threat, they were inadvertently validating the girl's point.

She knew she was playing a dangerous game. Earlier, she had let slip that it was her mother's power that brought her here. A lie of course. Still, perhaps it was better to let Vellens think she was unaware of future events. The sight was not something that always passed from generation to generation.

As for the future in general, a few details might change, but surely the broad strokes of fate would remain the same? It intrigued her to consider how much the butterfly effect could alter the world she found herself in.

Besides, letting them leave now would only postpone her engagement—a union she might have found repugnant if not for several reasons. First, it was the customary practice of the times. Second, mentally, she was at least in her mid-twenties. And finally, Vellens was much like her in many ways, making the arrangement vaguely palatable. Not to mention that he was undoubtedly handsome, indeed almost custom-built to suit her physical preferences. 

However, for now, it suited her purposes; it gave her options. Yet she intended to extract as much advantage from the situation as possible.

Even if that meant nothing more than simple satisfaction. After all, she had already achieved her primary objective and it would take a good long while for the witch to sink her claws in him.

“Who am I to command the great Crown Prince of the realm, Vellens the Bold?” she laughed haughtily, bestowing upon him the moniker by which he would be known as in the game’s story in front of all of his men—but now under very, very different circumstance. She truly relished the thought of poisoning his glorious future with her words, savoring the echo of her own voice as it rang clearly for all to hear.

Seraphina strode up to the Prince, ignoring the guards whose hands still hovered over their weapons. She slowly removed her gloves, her fingers pale and delicate against the backdrop of the blood-stained scene. Gazing deeply into his eyes, she momentarily lost herself in their stormy depths. She was close enough that Vellens could inhale the clean, earthy scent of her chypre perfume, mingled with the metallic tang of old blood. Gently, she traced the line of his jaw, watching as desire flickered across his features and his breath hitched. Even clad in armor, Seraphina radiated raw femininity and mastered womanly allure—from the tilt of her head to the subtle curve of her lips. Her own body betrayed her with a familiar warmth, but she refused to fight it. She acknowledged it for what it was—he was an attractive boy, but nothing more. A boy.

With an enigmatic smile, she turned her back on the Crown Prince and his entourage, dismissing them entirely. “You may go now. When next you pay court to me, you will do so properly. Do not think that because our fathers have arranged this union, it is set in stone, my dear Prince.”

*****

Seraphina stopped in midstride, a deliciously vicious thought coming to mind. The bones of a plan was formed.

She turned back to face the Crown Prince. "Oh, and if that is the attitude you wish to take, Your Highness, then I will be forced to assert my battle rights," Seraphina said offhandedly. "This is Sariens land, and we have acted in defense of the peace of the realm. I will see to it that the bodies of those less accomplished knights are sent back to their families, but their arms and equipment belong to the Sariens as spoils."

Sir Donahan looked as though he was about to burst. "Why, you cursed fox! How dare you try to twist the laws!" he shouted, then hesitated, his eyes flickering with uncertainty.

Now it was the Prince's turn to restrain his man. "Now then, Seraphina..." Prince Vellens began placatingly, his voice almost weedy.

"It is Lady Seraphina now, Your Highness," she corrected him disdainfully. "I also believe I have grounds for a duel, as Sir Donahan has besmirched my honor with his unfounded words. I am not amused. Not amused at all. Let the Goddess decide who is in the right," the young noblewoman declared, her eyes flashing with fire.

"Are you insane? This slip of a girl..." blustered Sir Donahan. "I am a Knight of the Realm and member of the Royal Guard!"

Sir Gallant watched Seraphina, his blue eyes silently judging her response. Behind the blonde girl, Eloise peeked out nervously.

"You are a future employee who needs chastising. Accept my challenge or admit that you are in the wrong. Those are the terms I offer," the heir to the Sariens goaded.

He looked at her almost cross-eyed. "I will not lower myself to fight a woman!" he objected and in his pride forgot the latter option offered to him. Just as Seraphina wished.

"Very well, then I will have my father the Lord Duke defend my honor," Seraphina offered, delighting in the way Donahan almost deflated at his mention. It was then that she realized she could wield her father's powerful name to bludgeon people into submission; after all, he had a most fearsome reputation. "But of course, he is not here now. Sergeant Frest will instead carry my honor!" she declared with a dazzling smile.

"I will?" the Sergeant remarked, a tad put out by how things were unfolding..

Sir Donahan drew himself up to his full height, looking nothing more than a troubled peacock. "Very well then, I will enjoy putting both you and that evil-looking commoner in his place. As the challenged party, I demand that we fight to first bl—"

"To the death, of course," Seraphina interjected dryly.

"His armor and horse will be yours, along with ten gold from my allowance," she whispered sideways to the Sergeant.

"Very well, I accept this duel! I will fight on behalf of the Lady Seraphina to prove her claims in the eyes of the Goddess!" her man-at-arms declared, completely overriding Sir Donahan's protests.

Seraphina knew full well that Frest was more than capable of defeating the pompous Royal Guard. His background in common banditry had endowed him with a plethora of ruthless combat skills. Even if he failed, it would be a simple matter to eliminate the rest of the Royal Guards from a distance with her sling, even the Crown Prince Vellens if she had to. However, she was reluctant to tread that dark path.

She maintained her dazzling smile. "Very well, as the heir to the Sariens Duchy, I will bear witness to this duel." She paused for a moment, taking the time to sit on a nearby log the forest had kindly provided for her. The crows in the trees cawed their applause as if sensing an impending event. "You may begin!"

Frest did not need to be told twice. Unlike Donahan, who held notions of chivalry and honor in high regard, Frest was interested in one thing only: winning—and the prizes that victory would bring—a fine horse worth about ten years' pay, and arms and armor worth about the same.

He charged at Sir Donahan, who had barely enough time to draw his longsword. At first glance, Frest seemed at a disadvantage. In terms of equipment, his armor although of good quality was not the equal of a Royal Guard's. He made up for it with the cold ferocity of his attack.

Sir Donahan steadied himself, raising his longsword in a defensive stance. His eyes narrowed as he assessed Frest's approach. The Royal Guard was a competent fighter, trained in the art of swordsmanship and battlefield tactics. He anticipated a straightforward clash, but Frest had other plans.

Closing the distance swiftly, Frest swung his mace-flail, its solid head aiming for Donahan's ribs. Donahan sidestepped, parrying the blow with his sword. The clash of metal echoed through the clearing, as the chain wrapped about the blade. Frest thought to wrest it from him, but the Knight was skilled enough to push forward, shoulder-charging Frest and disentangling his weapon. Seizing the moment, Donahan followed up with a diagonal slash aimed at Frest's shoulder.

Frest raised his purloined heater shield just in time, the longsword’s blade glancing off its reinforced surface. Without missing a beat, he counterattacked with his own weapon. The spiked head whipped around Donahan’s guard, landing a glancing blow across his helm.

Donahan pressed forward, launching a series of precise thrusts and slashes. His technique was impeccable, each movement a testament to his training. Frest, however, was unpredictable. He switched between using his weapon as a mace and a flail, keeping Donahan off balance. He fought dirty—showering the Knight with taunts to distract him, kicking up dirt to blind him or trying to grapple or trip the Knight to the ground.

"Fight honorably!" Donahan spat, frustration creeping into his voice.

"Honor doesn't win fights," Frest retorted with a wicked grin.

Prince Vellens looked as if he wanted to say something to Sir Gallant, to command the pillar of martial might to intercede. Yet, even the inexperienced Vellens recognized the somber sanctity of the moment unfolding before them—a sacred offering to the gods, an act inviolable. A death promise between two men.

It was doubtful at this point that Gallant would even obey his charge. His was a duty to protect the Prince, not his fellow Knight in a duel of honor.

Donahan lunged forward, Frest sidestepped and swung his mace- flail low. The flail head struck Donahan's ankle, causing him to be momentarily unbalanced. Sergeant Frest kicked out and hooked the Knight off his feet. Donahan hit the ground hard, the wind knocked out of him.

Before he could recover, Frest was upon him. He stomped on Donahan's sword hand, forcing the knight to release his grip. The longsword clattered away. Donahan tried to scramble back, but Frest pinned him with the edge of his shield.

"Yield!" Donahan gasped, pain etched across his face.

Frest glanced back at Seraphina. She met his gaze with icy resolve. "To the death," she reminded him coldly with a casual shrug.

"Sorry, Sir Knight," Frest said without a hint of remorse, mimicking Seraphina’s shrug. “I am supposed to play the part of evil-commoner.” He dropped his weapon and drew a long dagger at his side, the sharp blade gleaming ominously.

"Wait!" Prince Vellens shouted desperately, stepping forward. But it was too late.

With a swift, brutal motion, Frest brought the weapon down. The final blow silenced Sir Donahan forever.

An eerie silence settled over the scene, broken only by the distant cawing of crows. The Royal Guards stared in disbelief, hands hovering near their weapons but uncertain of their next move.

Sitting up gracefully, Seraphina broke the silence. "You had a chance to stop that, Your Highness, but you chose not to," she announced, her voice carrying authority beyond her years. "Let this serve as a lesson—a lesson I hope I will not have to teach more than once. The Sariens do not tolerate insults or threats. Sergeant Frest, collect his armor and horse."

She turned to Prince Vellens, who stood pale and speechless. "I trust this settles the matter, Your Highness."

The prince swallowed hard, his composure shaken. "Why, Seraphina... how could you?" he managed to reply. "What will I tell his family? You were never like this before..." he continued, completely aghast.

"Then we have nothing more to discuss. Safe travels, Your Highness," Seraphina said with a dismissive and curt nod. "Let this be a reminder of what happens when people insult the de Sariens—like, for instance, breaking a promise," she warned, her last words almost a drawl.

She had come to realize that she needed the prince for the prestige of being known as the future queen-in-waiting. However, Seraphina did not desire Vellens himself as her lord husband, no matter how much her body yearned for him. Whatever had she seen in him?

"As for battle rights, I will let you keep your fallen men's equipment, save for the late Sir Donahan's harness and horse. The peasants will complain if you're forced to raise taxes again to buy replacements," she allowed. In her mind, largesse was a noble trait, and as the victor, she could be generous with it.

Having been thoroughly outmaneuvered, the Crown Prince found his only option was to hold his tongue. He wanted to swear vengeance against his fiancée, to curse her name to the heavens, but a deeper part of him stirred with unease. Until now, he had lived his life as if on a stage, playing the dutiful role of the good prince. Like all women before his charm, Seraphina should have been an easy mark. A memory from his youth about a girl beating him over the head with a stick rose to the surface for a moment before he forced it back down. But this Seraphina, this creature, was something else entirely.

Though he would never confess it, his gaze followed the sway of her hips as she strode away, head held high and unyielding. She was a monster, yes—but a beautiful one. Her defiance and poise awakened something primal within him, a desire that expensive courtesans with their painted faces and rehearsed charms could never hope to inspire.

It was not just lust, though that made a fair portion of it. No, it was the need to conquer, to claim what seemed unattainable, to prove himself worthy—not only to her but to himself. The same reckless yearning that drove men to scale mountains or brave uncharted seas burned in his chest. She had called him bold, hadn’t she? Then Vellens the Bold he would be.

As he turned to mount the spare horse offered to him, the bitter taste of defeat lingered on his tongue like ashes. Yet, amid that bitterness came a realization so clear it was like steel drawn from its scabbard: he wanted her. Wanted to master her. Wanted her to acknowledge him.

The Lady Seraphina had already placed herself fifty paces away from the Royal Guard—a calculated distance, perfect for bringing her sling to bear should anyone dare make a move. Her entourage trailed after her, disciplined and sharp. Eloise cast a last glance back at Vellens and Sir Gallant before shaking her head.

Meanwhile, Frest lingered behind, rummaging through the spoils of their victory. With no regard for dignity, he stripped Sir Donahan down to his underclothes before casting a dismissive glance at the stunned Royal Guards, his expression daring them to further action. His old horse loaded with pilfered goods, he swung into the saddle of his new horse, the biggest smirk in the Kingdom of Aranthia tugging at his lips.

He had achieved what few dared even to dream of: he had bested a member of the Royal Guard in single combat no less. And this was no mere victory—it was a scandal, a stain on the Guard’s honor that would not be easily erased. No, they would bury this shame deep, silence it with clenched jaws and tightened oaths of secrecy.

Just as Seraphina had intended, the details of today’s events would be muddied and obscured.

As Crown Prince Vellens rode away, his pride lay battered, the weight of his defeat pressing down on him like an anvil. But beneath that weight, something new had begun to stir. The rules of the game had changed, and so had he. A fire now smoldered in his chest, fierce and unrelenting, with Seraphina’s name seared into its very core.