Chapter Three
1549 Words
Deep within the shroud of a night so ink-black that even the Royal Guard dared not tread, the forest floor groaned under the weight of swift, unfaltering steps. Cora moved like a stray arrow; sixteen years of age, yet her eyes burned with the predatory fire of a wolf seasoned by a thousand wars. She wove through the gnarled trunks with mythical grace, unsheathing a massive claymore—a blade that would crush the spirit of any man, yet in her hand, it felt as light as a black feather.
She danced between the tangled roots, letting out muffled battle cries that pierced the nocturnal silence. With brutal, calculated strikes, she cleaved through the ancient branches as if dueling an invisible army of ghosts. Every blow was an exhale of suppressed rage, a force so raw it turned solid wood into drifting splinters.
Abruptly, she stopped. Her chest rose and fell with a rhythmic composure that would make a veteran warrior envious. Resting beneath a titan oak, she drained a waterskin in one breath, droplets tracing paths down her sweat-slicked throat. She gazed at the silver moon filtering through the canopy and murmured in a resonant voice: "Strange... the moon shines with such arrogance tonight, as if watching a tedious performance."
Her emerald eyes swept over the clearing, a smirk of pure hubris touching her lips. "Where are the predators? No tiger roars, no lion prowls... it seems the entire forest has forfeited the fight." She let out a cold, melodic laugh. "Perhaps they fled in terror. Monsters, after all, can scent those more savage than themselves."
Lying back upon the grass, hands behind her head, she watched the shifting clouds while pondering her suffocating reality. "I need a new mentor. My master has grown too frail to even chase the shadow of my blade. I need a rival, not an old man who flinches at the thought of me catching a mere scratch."
The Stranger in the Shadows
"Your wish may be granted sooner than you think... though you might live to regret the asking."
The voice was calm and deep, dissolving into the silence rather than breaking it. Cora did not flinch, but her body coiled like a viper poised to strike. Her hand moved slowly toward the hilt of her sword, her eyes still fixed on the moon.
"Who lurks behind the trees?" she asked with lethal detachment. "Are you a prey tired of running, or a fool who chose suicide tonight?"
From the heart of the gloom stepped a mysterious youth. His footsteps were silent, as if he walked upon the air itself. He wore no polished plate, only simple black attire that clung to a frame radiating authority. He stood a few paces away, eyeing the splintered trees with sharp derision.
"Trees do not strike back, Princess. Hewing wood makes you a fine lumberjack, but it won’t save you from a blade that knows the way to your throat."
Cora rose in a heartbeat, her massive blade leveled at him, the emerald fire in her eyes igniting the dark. "Who are you? How dare you watch me? And how did you know my name?"
He did not flinch. Instead, he tilted his head with a provocative, calculated calm. "Watching you was the easiest part of my night. You fight with far too much noise, My Lady. Power is not found in screaming or tearing wood; true power is killing your enemy before they even sense your existence... much like I have done with you just now."
Stepping into the silver light, he revealed a face of striking, rugged beauty and an unyielding gaze. He added coldly, "As for your aging mentor, he did not fail to keep pace because you were strong. He failed because he was trying to protect a princess, while you needed someone to break a monster."
The Heir of the Master
For the first time in years, Cora felt that "shiver"—the one that precedes a true slaughter. She wasn't afraid; she was starving for it.
"Then show me," she said with a haunting smile. "Show me how a monster fights. Or is that tongue the only weapon you carry?"
He smiled faintly. "I will show you, certainly. But not now, and not here. It shall be in your palace, before your father's guards. For now, I am merely the guardian angel sent to ensure you survive the night."
Cora froze, her hand tightening on the hilt. That tone, that cold confidence... she felt as if she knew him without ever having seen him. "Who are you?"
The youth’s smile turned mocking. "I see you have grown enough to wield your own steel... and you no longer need the 'boy’s clothes' my father used to send you in secret to hide your femininity on the training grounds."
Cora’s eyes widened, her blade lowering as she whispered in shock, "The Master’s son?"
He stepped fully into the light, his sharp features a blend of raw strength and masculine beauty. He towered over her, forcing her to look up into his eyes. "For years, I’ve heard of the 'Princess' who wore out my old tunics. I came to see if you were worthy of those threads, or if you were just a child playing dress-up with men’s clothes."
Fury ignited in her chest. This man did not see the legendary warrior feared by the guards; he saw the little girl who "borrowed" his identity. She raised her sword coldly. "Those clothes grew too tight for me, stranger... just as this forest will soon grow too tight for you if you do not withdraw. Being his son gives you no right to stand in my path."
He let out a deep, masculine laugh. "I do not ask for rights; I take them. And as for your strength... I will one day prove to you that it is nothing but smoke before the truth."
Ten years had turned the palace walls from a playground into a political minefield. In her chambers, Iris stood before a massive mirror, now a woman of lethal, sharp intelligence. Clad in crimson silk, she spoke to her "Captain of the Guard" (the man she had blackmailed years ago).
"Do you follow her?"
"As you commanded, Highness. But the forest is her kingdom now. Sometimes, I feel she is the one watching us."
Iris smiled—a cold, empty gesture. "Let her believe that. Physical strength is a performance. The throne does not require a duel; it requires the one who knows when to cut the strings."
Across the palace, Evia exercised her authority with a regal iron fist, managing the incoming foreign envoys. She entered the King’s library with a practiced, radiant smile. "Father, everything is prepared."
The King kissed her forehead. "You are so like your mother, Evia."
"I am here for your comfort, and the safety of our realm," she replied softly.
The King sighed. "The neighboring kingdoms covet our throne, Evia. Tension devours me."
"Fear nothing," she said with a strength that shook the room. "No one shall seize this throne as long as I draw breath... save for the one you choose as your rightful heir."
The King patted her shoulder slowly. "The time for choosing has not yet come, Evia. Believe me... not yet."
Exiting the library, Evia found Amanda in the shadows, plucking the petals off a white rose. Amanda spoke with a soft, childlike voice: "Oh, Evia. Are you done playing the 'backup version' of our late mother? While you exhaust yourself with guards and banquets, I am busy organizing the 'hearts' of the princes who arrive. A prince who opens his kingdom to me is far more valuable than a guard at your door."
She leaned in and whispered, "By the way, I saw Iris’s guard sneaking toward the forest. It seems our dear sister is very interested in 'serpent hunting' tonight. Are you the only one who doesn't know what happens in your own kingdom?"
The palace horns blared, announcing the arrival of the foreign delegations. Golden carriages and white steeds filled the courtyard. The King stood flanked by his three princesses: Evia with her royal poise, Iris with her calculating gaze, and Amanda with her enchanting smile.
Suddenly, all heads turned toward the rear gate. The heavy, rhythmic gallop of a powerful horse shattered the atmosphere. The steed stopped in the very center of the court. Cora dismounted, dressed in her black masculine attire, her fiery hair wild.
"I am Cora, fourth daughter of the King and the awaited heir to his throne," she announced in a thunderous voice. "I challenge the princes of these delegations to send their finest knights to duel me!"
The King gasped, rising in shock along with the princesses. While all eyes were fixed on the rebel princess, no one noticed the mysterious shadow (the Master's son) standing at the edge of the square, watching her with a cold smile. He alone knew that this duel was merely the beginning... and that the "old clothes" she wore would be soaked in blood tonight.
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