The sword princess
768 Words
The clattering of swords echoed across the grounds.
Roars and sharp chatter carried from afar. Ashoka had never associated affection with a place like this. From childhood, the sword had been his companion, his discipline, his mastery. Yet none of that compared to the sight before him now.
A woman—no, a matron—was wielding a sword with expert precision. His gaze locked onto her, and he forgot entirely the urgency of meeting His Holiness. One look was enough to know she was no common warrior. Aristocracy clung to her bearing. He noted her graceful features: the long, elegant neck, the slender waist, the poised strength in her stance. A thin veil concealed her face, revealing only striking brown eyes.
What he saw was not enough.
He wanted more. Of her. Now.
Discarding the etiquette drilled into him for public assemblies, he leapt from the stone platform onto the sand, signalling his intent to join her training. She sensed his presence instantly—and answered by placing the tip of her sword at his throat.
He dodged, swift and instinctive, claiming the sword that seemed to have been waiting for his touch.
No words were exchanged.
The duel began.
He wielded his sword with his left hand, never once breaking eye contact. She mirrored him perfectly. He smiled inwardly, mesmerized by her technique. It felt as though she were speaking to him in a language only the two of them understood.
At the Prince’s command, the training ground cleared. He wanted a fair contest, a worthy opponent—yet somewhere beneath that desire, an unfamiliar possessiveness stirred within him, unnoticed and unnamed.
Steel clashed. They surged at one another with force and precision. He found himself defending. She allowed him no opening, attacking relentlessly, anticipating his every move.
He read her pattern at last.
With a calculated manoeuvre, he deflected her sword to the left and spun her back into his chest. The move caught her entirely off guard. She had expected an attack from the right—her left side already compromised to unbalance her stance.
She was wrong.
Her breath came fast and heavy when she realised his hand rested on her bare waist. Her training attire was minimal—designed only for support and modesty. She had never felt exposed before. Now, she did.
His hand slid closer to her navel. His grip tightened before she could gather her thoughts.
He was playing with her.
The realization enraged her.
She drove her elbow into his stomach and lunged forward. He released her—though not before tearing away the veil from her face.
For a moment, the world stilled.
He swore he heard his own heart beat—something he had never known he could feel.
Duty defined him: Prince of Chiva, servant of the nation, son, brother, leader. He was well aware of his own charm, the way it ensnared inexperienced hearts. Beauty had never tempted him; even now, what stood before him was not something his eyes could not bear.
But this—this struck his soul.
It unsettled him.
He told himself it was an illusion, a trick of the mind. Yet her every reaction contradicted that lie.
She knew who he was. Who didn’t? Every child in the kingdom idolized the Prince of Chiva. Warriors revered him. Elder women praised him. Unmarried women sought his attention. No one dared challenge his authority. Though he was not known for cruelty, his gaze alone commanded submission.
His parents glorified him. His brothers followed his lead without question. His political acumen satisfied the people; his command of finance pleased his ministers. Diplomats thrived under his rule—no kingdom dared oppose Chiva openly. Many who served him did so out of loyalty; others, out of debt to their lives.
And yet—
The maiden met his eyes without hesitation.
Half a minute had passed since he had removed her veil. She neither blushed nor smiled. She stared straight at him, defiant.
His smile only deepened her anger.
Insult. That was the word echoing in her mind.
His touch, his expression, the way he held her—it all mocked her. She remembered his hand on her stomach, the deliberate closeness. His smile was anything but innocent.
She clenched her jaw, refusing to reveal her fury. She could not afford to offend the Crown Prince—nor the future King.
“Dhara.”
The voice called her name.
As she stepped forward, she lost the virginity of her lips.
His mouth claimed hers briefly, decisively.
“Till next time,” the Prince murmured.
- Writer
