The princess stood on the balcony, from where she had a clear view of the courtyard below. Any moment now, the three princes were to arrive. She was restless—nervous, even. Though the meeting was meant to be nothing more than a formal greeting, not a proposal, the weight of expectations pressed down on her shoulders like armor too heavy for its wearer. Since the tournament had been her idea, many believed it only natural for her to choose an ally—and possibly a future husband—by its end.

  Belara turned to glance at her parents. They looked calm, composed. But that was just the surface. Inside, both of them churned with worry and doubt.

  Suddenly, she heard hoofbeats—just one horse. That was odd. Each prince had been sent a grand carriage pulled by a four-horse team. The clatter of a single horse was unmistakably different.

  Before she could ponder it further, the mystery solved itself. A mighty warhorse rode into the courtyard—its coat milky white, its body clad in plated armor. The prince, it seemed, had rejected the offered carriage. He had chosen to arrive on his own terms.

  Seated upon the steed was a tall, broad-shouldered man, encased in iron armor that gleamed under the sun. The knight circled the courtyard once, clearly displaying the craftsmanship of his armor, before guiding his horse beneath the balcony and gazing up at the princess.

  Then, with a flourish, he raised his visor and spoke.

  “Prince Malgorn, at your service, Princess.” His voice was deep, strained with the effort of speaking through metal and bravado. “It is a great honor—” (he paused for breath) “—to be in the presence of such radiance. You are young, yet steady. I feel… serenity from you.” Another breath. “And strength. And dignity. Like a soldier returning from battle, catching sight of a distant light on the mountains.” Another breath. “Not sunlight, but something more constant—like you.”

  (The prince from Zerboras hesitated for a moment, as if trying to remember his next line.)

  “In my kingdom, we say that strength without direction is like an axe without a handle. It may have a blade that cuts through any path, but without the grip, no hand can wield it.” (Deep breath.) “And I… I have searched for that grip—for that direction. And since I arrived, I believe—I know—that you—” (another breath) “—that you are it.”

  Before he could finish, the sound of an approaching carriage interrupted him. The second contender had arrived.

  A grand coach thundered into the courtyard, led by four matched horses. The fanfare that followed was unmistakable: a trumpeter, a drummer, and a flutist, all playing a spirited tune as the carriage came to a halt. Prince Qelmar of Tassas had made his entrance.

  Before the wheels had fully stopped turning, the musicians silenced, and the prince rose to his feet. Without so much as a glance at Malgorn—who was still standing beneath the balcony—Qelmar took the stage.

  “Radiant Princess, your beauty blinds me more than any sun. Not even all of Tassas holds a gem to match you. Yet, still, I dared to bring you a gift—though now that I see you, I fear it’s unworthy.” He gestured grandly. “Perhaps I should toss it aside. No seamstress in my land could craft garments worthy of your grace.”

  At his signal, two attendants opened a trunk on the carriage and pulled forth a gown so dazzling that the crowd gasped. Even the princess whispered, “Such beauty…”

  It was too much for Prince Malgorn. He had just been interrupted and, now, publicly upstaged. He muttered loud enough for Qelmar to hear, but not the princess.

  “Tassas—masters of silk and bootlicking. Gifts and glitter. Is that how you win a lady’s heart? Baubles and perfume? Your fingers were made for rings, not swords. Fight like a knight? Hah. Tassas breeds soft princes, not warriors.”

  Qelmar didn’t miss a beat. His voice carried, clear enough for the princess to hear.

  “Malgorn,” he said with an icy smile, “your straightforwardness is as subtle as a warhammer. Has your healer prescribed anything for clumsiness? I imagine it works—so long as you stay perfectly still. Your insults arrive so slowly, my sharp mind can barely slow down enough to receive them. I’m swift. You are not. The fool strikes the wise man who refuses to stoop.”

  He paused, just long enough to breathe, but not long enough for Malgorn to interrupt.

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  “And what troubles you so, that I bring the princess a gift? Did you bring her nothing? Surely, even in your iron-wrapped kingdom, good manners still exist. One brings a gift to one’s host. Even if it’s just that polished helmet of yours—so she might plant flowers in it.”

  Malgorn’s jaw clenched. He gripped the hilt of his sword. Though the laughter had faded, the sting of humiliation still burned. He itched to regain control—as he would on the battlefield. But he held back. Instead, he struck with words.

  “Keep your barbs in your silken kerchief, Qelmar,” he growled. “Your dainty kingdom might swoon for your flattery, but here you’re just another soft-bellied princeling who’s never seen blood under his fingernails.”

  Qelmar casually brushed off his sleeve, as though wiping away dust.

  “Blood under your nails isn’t a sign of honor. It’s a sign of poor hygiene,” he replied evenly. “And before you speak of courage again—remember: shouting isn’t fighting.”

  Malgorn stepped forward—hard and sudden. His armored boots clanged across the stone, and in an instant, he was inches from his rival.

  “Then fight me,” he snarled. “Show me what your silken fingers know of honor.”

  Qelmar didn’t flinch. His face stiffened, but he didn’t retreat. Instead, with a move so quick it caught everyone off guard, he struck Malgorn’s chest plate—not to hurt, but to prove he wasn’t afraid.

  A hollow clang rang out. Malgorn stepped back, not in pain, but in surprise.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Qelmar said through clenched teeth. “If you want a fight, not here. Not in front of the princess.”

  “You interrupted me before everyone. Made a mockery of my words!” Malgorn snapped—and with a swipe, tore the brooch from Qelmar’s coat and tossed it aside. A small act, but meant to insult.

  The guards looked to the king, who subtly shook his head: Do not intervene.

  The princess’s parents rose. So did Belara—not out of fear, but because the tension had passed the point of control. She needed to act before she lost authority.

  King Velen III leaned in and whispered, “Try to take control yourself. Show strength, and they’ll fall in line.”

  “Enough!” Belara’s voice rang out like a bell, crisp and commanding.

  Both princes froze mid-motion. Her voice alone had stopped them. And in that silence, Belara felt the thunder of her own heartbeat. Authority came naturally to her—but learning to wield it was another matter.

  Her father laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. A squeeze. A message:I’m here. You can handle them.

  She inhaled deeply.

  “This is not a marketplace,” she said, her tone now calmer—but sharp as a drawn blade. “And it’s certainly not a training ground. If you wish to compete, it will be bymyrules. Not like squabbling children—but like men.”

  A pause. Then Malgorn looked up, meeting her gaze.

  “And what are your rules, Princess?”

  Her eyes didn’t waver.

  “The ones I set. And if you don’t like them… you know where the gate is.”

  Malgorn lowered his gaze—just for a moment. An admission of guilt. Qelmar, in contrast, bent down, picked up his brooch, and slowly reattached it. A quiet acceptance of her authority, perhaps—but done in a way that retained a sliver of his own.

  Belara composed herself and stepped back into the role of hostess.

  “Prince Malgorn, thank you for your words. Your metaphor intrigued me—I shall not forget it. And Prince Qelmar, thank you for the gown. I appreciate your gesture. I’ll have it tailored and wear it during the tournament.”

  She smiled politely.

  “Now, I entrust you both to the care of our staff. You must be tired, dusty, and hungry. Your chambers, baths, and supper await. We will speak again in the morning. By then, I hope our third guest will have arrived. Only then shall I reveal the rules… and the prize.”

  With a nod, servants led both princes away.

  As the doors closed behind them, Belara remained on the balcony, watching as Malgorn’s white warhorse was led off. Her parents stood quietly beside her.

  Where is the third one?she wondered.

  The ship carrying the third prince had arrived around the same time as the others—but he hadn’t shown up yet.

  Twenty minutes later, the familiar rhythm of hooves echoed across the stone.

  Prince Kelen had arrived.

  His carriage matched Qelmar’s in style, though it came with no fanfare, no trumpets, no theatrical entrance. In contrast to his rivals, his arrival was so modest it was almost jarring. Only two older men accompanied him in the coach. No entourage. No drama.

  Once the carriage halted, Prince Kelen stepped out and stopped beneath the balcony, mirroring where Malgorn had stood.

  “Princess Belara,” he said with a quiet bow. “Thank you for your invitation. It is an honor to stand here, given the chance to show you who I truly am. I know I’m at a disadvantage—my rivals are older, more experienced. My aging father warned me to be wary of them. Stories of their kingdoms... they’re unsettling. Our talk left me restless.”

  He paused.

  “And so, I decided to wrap my gift for you in that same concern. Perhaps it will seem out of place.”

  He signaled to one of the older men, who brought forward a small rectangular chest. From it, he pulled a blade—a sword smaller than standard, longer than a dagger. Slim, lightweight. Forged specifically for a woman’s grip.

  “It’s not a weapon for battle—but for moments where strength must be shown. Should any rival try to steal your honor, this will help you remind them of your resolve. It swings like a reed, but it cuts. Perhaps one day, you’ll give it a legendary name. It was forged for you, by my instructions.”

  He paused again.

  “Princess Belara… please keep it with you—even around me. I had prepared a proper speech, but…” His voice softened. “The moment I saw you, it vanished from my mind.”

  Belara tilted her head slightly and smiled, with a touch of empathy.

  “It happens to the best of us. When words fail, breathe. Begin again. Speaking from the heart means more than reciting lines.”

  Then she straightened with quiet dignity.

  “Prince Kelen of Terres—welcome to Dusughbarah. Our staff will attend to you. There is a hot bath waiting, a generous meal, and fine wine. Rest well. We shall meet again in the morning.”