AZALIYAH RISE OF THE FAE

COME HOME PRINCESS (PT.2)

“You have walls thick enough to stop sunlight,” Misha said. “Anger slips through the cracks. That is why it comes easiest.” The words landed harder than Azaliyah wanted to admit. She folded her arms, more shield than stance now. “So what? I’m supposed to walk around pissed off forever?”

“No,” Misha said quietly. “You’re supposed to learn there are stronger emotions than anger.” Camron, sensing danger in the silence, slowly began backing away. “I’m going to continue my laps before feelings start exploding too.” Misha pointed to the track without looking at him. “Smartest thing you’ve said all morning.”

Azaliyah hated how quiet she’d gone. Anger she knew. Anger was easy. It was clean, familiar, always waiting with its shoes on. Everything else was messier. Grief made her feel hollow. Fear made her feel weak. Hope felt stupid most days. She looked down at her hands like they’d betrayed her personally. “So what now?” she asked, voice flatter than she intended. “You want me to cry at a target and hope lightning shows up?”

Misha’s mouth twitched. “If that happens, I’ll write it down for future lessons.” She walked to the weapons wall, pulled free a narrow wooden staff, and tossed it toward Azaliyah. Reflex caught it before thought did. “Now we involve your body,” Misha said. “Because right now, if your magic fails, you become decorative.” Camron barked a laugh from across the yard and immediately regretted it when Misha pointed the cane at him without turning.

“Keep laughing and I’ll decorate the ground with you.” He resumed jogging in offended silence. Azaliyah spun the staff once awkwardly, nearly clipped her own knee, then glared like the wood had insulted her bloodline. “I don’t use sticks.”

“Today you do.” Misha stepped into stance with another staff from the wall, shoulders loose, eyes sharp. “Your enemies will not pause politely while you search for feelings.” Before Azaliyah could answer, Misha struck fast enough to blur, cracking the side of Azaliyah’s staff and jarring both arms numb. “s**t!” Azaliyah stumbled back. Another strike came low. She barely jumped it. A third tapped her shoulder hard enough to sting.

“Language,” Misha said. “And guard your left.” Azaliyah reset, breathing harder now, pride waking up mean and loud. “You hit old for someone this rude.” Misha smiled thinly. “And you talk royal for someone getting handled with lumber.” Then she attacked again.

The next few minutes were a public humiliation dressed up as training. Misha moved like age had forgotten to claim her, stepping in and out of Azaliyah’s reach with irritating precision while the staff cracked against wrists, thighs, ribs, and pride in equal measure. Every time Azaliyah thought she had the rhythm, Misha changed it. Every time she swung angry, Misha redirected it. Every time she rushed, she paid for it. Dust clung to Azaliyah’s skin, sweat stung her eyes, and somewhere behind her Camron had stopped running solely to enjoy the show.

“This is painful to watch,” he called out. “Mostly because she keeps missing chances to hit back.”

Azaliyah spun toward his voice for half a second, which was half a second too long. Misha hooked her ankle with the staff, swept her clean off balance, and sent her flat onto her back hard enough to knock the breath from her lungs. Laughter broke out around the yard before people tried to swallow it. Camron made no attempt to hide his. He bent over, hands on his knees, laughing like he’d been healed by the experience. Azaliyah stared at the sky, chest heaving, then lifted one finger in his direction.

“Keep laughing,” she wheezed. “I’ll kill you after cardio.”

Misha planted the end of the staff beside Azaliyah’s head and looked down at her. “Good. Threats mean you still have breath.” She offered no hand to help her up. “Again.”

Azaliyah blinked at her. “I’m on the ground.”

“Excellent observation.”

“I can taste dirt.”

“Then stand up angry.”

Camron wiped tears from his eyes. “Honestly, I’m starting to like her more than you.” Azaliyah rolled to her feet with a growl so sincere the air around her hands gave a brief violet pulse. Misha noticed immediately. “There,” she said. “Now hit me with that feeling before your brain ruins it.”

Azaliyah lunged before doubt could catch up to her. The staff came around in a hard horizontal swing meant less to land cleanly and more to wipe that calm look off Misha’s face. The old woman ducked under it, tapped Azaliyah’s wrist, then pivoted behind her in one smooth motion. Azaliyah spun with a curse already halfway out of her mouth and drove the butt of the staff backward. This time Misha had to block it properly, wood cracking against wood with a sharp snap that drew a few impressed murmurs from the watching villagers.

“Better,” Misha said, stepping away. “Still reckless. But better.”

Azaliyah advanced again, breath rough, hair sticking to her temples, every bruise in her body loudly opposed to this plan. She feinted high, swung low, then shoved forward with her shoulder when Misha moved to counter. It was ugly, unrefined, and absolutely not how staff fighting was supposed to look, but it forced Misha back two steps and nearly put her in the dirt. Camron straightened where he stood. “Well, damn.”

Misha regained balance and smiled wider than before. “There you are.” Azaliyah didn’t let up. She drove forward with a second strike, and when Misha blocked it, frustration surged hot and familiar through her chest. Violet light flashed down the length of the wooden staff like lightning trapped in grain. The impact exploded outward, sending both women skidding apart and showering the yard in splinters. Silence hit first.

Then Camron’s voice cut through it. “I’d just like everyone to know I saw that and was impressed before she ruins it somehow.” Azaliyah stared at the broken halves of the staff in her hands, chest rising fast. “Did I do that?”

“Yes,” Misha said, rubbing one shoulder like it actually hurt. “And if you stop sounding surprised every time you’re powerful, we may get somewhere.”

The horn from the eastern watchtower tore through the yard, long and low enough to freeze every conversation where it stood. Laughter vanished. Villagers moved on instinct, grabbing weapons, abandoning tools, shifting from workers back into survivors in the span of a breath. Camron crossed the yard immediately, snatching up the sword he’d mocked earlier and testing its weight with a much more respectful expression. “That doesn’t sound friendly,” he muttered.

Misha’s face hardened into something colder than either of them had seen yet. “No,” she said, gripping her cane. “That means company.”

Azaliyah tossed the shattered halves of the staff aside and followed as Misha strode toward the front gates. Guards rushed past them fastening armor, loading bows, clearing the path. The whole village moved like this was a danger they recognized.

“Raiders again?” Azaliyah asked.

“I’d prefer raiders,” Misha replied without slowing.

They reached the gate just as a scout stumbled through, blood streaked down one sleeve, chest heaving. He dropped to one knee in the dirt.

“Banner sighted,” he gasped. “Silver Thorn on black.”

Misha went still.

Azaliyah caught it immediately. “Should I know what that means?”

Misha’s jaw tightened. “It means one of the old fae houses has come calling.”

Camron glanced between them. “And judging by everybody’s face… they’re not here to borrow sugar.”

Misha’s eyes slid to Azaliyah, sharp and unreadable now.

“No,” she said quietly. “They’re here because someone has finally learned the lost princess is alive.”

Azaliyah slowed for half a step, the words catching her harder than any strike in the yard had. “Wait,” she said, looking from Misha to the scout and back again. “People thought I was dead?” It came out sharper than she intended, but confusion was already climbing fast behind it. “How the f**k would they think that? I was there. Hidden, yeah, ignored, definitely, but alive.”

Misha gave her a long look, the kind adults give when deciding how much truth someone can handle in one sitting. Around them, guards continued preparing the gate, but the world felt narrowed to the space between them. “Because isolation is a cleaner story than imprisonment,” Misha said at last. “Because neglect sounds uglier than tragedy. Because when rulers fall, those who profit from it rewrite what happened.”

Azaliyah’s face hardened, though uncertainty still flickered underneath. “My village never told me any of that.”

“Of course they didn’t,” Misha replied. “You were easier to control as a forgotten girl than as the living daughter of the King and Queen of the Fae Realm.”

Camron’s expression shifted, sarcasm dropping away for once as he glanced at her. Misha stepped closer, voice lower now, meant only for them.

“Your parents were not merely loved, child. They were feared, respected, argued over, admired, and blamed in equal measure. They spoke of uniting houses that preferred division, ending blood feuds that kept powerful families comfortable, and sharing strength with villages outside noble walls. That kind of vision creates loyalty.” She paused, eyes narrowing toward the gate. “It also creates enemies.”

Azaliyah stood very still, trying to fit that truth beside the lonely scraps of childhood she’d been given. “So my existence matters because of them?”

“No,” Misha said firmly. “Your existence matters because of you. But their blood in your veins makes every faction in this realm pay attention.”

Camron let out a slow breath. “Well,” he muttered, adjusting his grip on the sword, “that’s a terrible amount of pressure for someone who was losing fights with a stick an hour ago.”

Azaliyah elbowed him hard without looking away from Misha.

Azaliyah stared at Misha for a long moment, then shook her head once like she was trying to clear ten different thoughts at the same time.

“So when I first got here,” she said slowly, suspicion creeping into her voice, “when you came out with that bowl and started talking to me like I was some lost child… you already knew who I was?”

Misha didn’t even bother pretending to hesitate. “Of course I did.” She adjusted her grip on the cane and looked mildly offended that it needed explaining. “That is why I greeted you personally. I felt you the moment you crossed into the village. Some blood carries a presence with it, and yours announced itself before your mouth did.”

Camron snorted. “That explains why you looked annoyed the second you saw her.”

Azaliyah shot him a glare sharp enough to file wood, but Misha’s expression never changed. “You have your mother’s face in flashes,” she continued, “and your father’s energy when you’re angry. Anyone who knew them well would have recognized pieces of you immediately.”

Azaliyah’s jaw tightened. “Then why not tell everyone?”