Is it really spite if it's justified?

"Marci dear, what have you done to your hair!?" said Duke Jean du Valmont, Paladin of the Order of the Verdant Blossom, General of Her Majesty's Sixth Aerial Legion, third in line of the throne (or second, if anyone ever took Marci's declarations she didn't want it seriously, which they didn't), and Marci's first cousin on her mother's side.

It wasn't difficult for anyone to see the familial resemblance: the heart-shaped face, the royal blue hair pulled back into a neat low ponytail with elegant curls that tumbled down on either side of his face, and the same piercing blue eyes that Marci had once possessed before they'd became baleful orbs of crimson evil.

Jean was five years older than Marci, and she had a vivid memory of having her pigtails pulled by the older fairy, being shoved into the mud of the royal palace's garden, waking up with spiders in her bed, having her favourite pair of shoes dipped in paint, and generally being terrorised by the older boy and two of her other, more distant cousins. She wasn't sure if her mother had sent him on purpose, as some kind of twisted test or something, or if Queen Adele just had no idea that he'd bullied Marci so badly. She could have believed either.

"Hello Jean," said Marci neutrally, looking over the thousand fairies who were hovering in drill formation beyond the battlements of the Dreadfort, resplendent in their gleaming mithril armour, blue and gold tabards, and fluttering banners.

They were divided into squadrons of fifty, each with their own dedicated wizards and healers, and in addition to that, there were also thirty-two Paladins of the Order of the Verdant Blossom, special forces essentially, who had come along and were arrayed behind the Duke. It was all very pompous, ostentatious, and designed to intimidate—something it was succeeding in, judging from what she could sense from all the onlooking demons who had come out onto the battlements to watch. Fairies might be small, but small meant you were a harder target, faster, and more manoeuvrable, and Eladraine and Eladraine alone had successfully repulsed a Shardfort in the last war.

"And a Shardkeeper, really darling?" said Jean, shaking his head and putting his hands on his hips. "The red clashes something fierce with your hair—what's left of it, anyway. Ugh, why is it asymmetrical!?"

"Fascinating as hearing about your stupid opinions on fashion is, I am rather busy," said Marci. "So, I'll have your vow to follow my orders now, cousin."

"Oh, alright," he said, waving a hand at the assembled fairies and raising his voice. "Soldiers, swear yourself to Princess Marcelle!"

"We pledge fealty to Princess Marcelle du Valmont," said the troops in unison (implying they'd practised?), some of them more enthusiastically than others.

Marci swerved and almost lost control of her flight for a moment as she felt one thousand and thirty-three new links form to her: unconditional ones—the kind that made her skin crawl. On one hand, she was glad: there would be plenty of opportunity for an infiltrator who wanted to kill her—assassinations weren't entirely unknown in Eladraine, and she was still technically next in line to the throne; on the other hand, it felt gross: exactly the kind of thing a monarch would do. Which had probably been her mother's primary or at least major secondary reason for sending the troops—trying to ensnare Marci into her awful feudal apparatus, getting her used to wielding such authority, corrupting her with the sweet promise of power that Marci wasn't so arrogant to think that she was immune to.

Conspicuously, however, no link formed with Jean.

Marci turned to him and raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, come cousin, we're family," said Jean with an only slightly tense laugh. "We are above such things, surely?"

"And if anyone was going to try and assassinate me, it would be you," said Marci levelly. "You're, what, third in line for the throne? After your father?"

"Oh darling, that's hurtful," said Jean, putting a hand to his chest. "When have I ever done anything to harm you?"

"Do you want an itemised list?" said Marci.

Jean's jaw clenched, and his jovial expression soured. "I am a du Valmont!"

"A du Valmont who will be going home unless I can trust you won't sneak in and smash my Shard," said Marci. "If I die, and mother has no more children, you would one day inherit the crown. Nevermind that I've said over and over I don't want it and you probably will anyway, I know how you think, cousin."

"Hmph," said Jean, crossing his arms.

"I'm serious," said Marci, gesturing to her troops. "I already have them, I'm sure one of the officers would make just as good- actually, probably a better commander than you. You're what, thirty-five now? How exactly are you the best qualified to command? Why do I even need you?"

Jean's eyes flashed with anger. "I am a du Valmont!" he said again, aghast. "I am- we are- we have the breeding! You- you…"

He balled his hands into fists, silver light swirling and sparking around them at Marci's amused smirk.

"Very well, cousin," he all but spat. "I swear that I will follow and obey your commands for the duration of this assignment. Happy?"

A bond formed, not an absolute one, but one solid enough to ensure the Duke couldn't backstab her. Unlike the ones with the fairy soldiers, Marci didn't feel the least bit bad about this one. As far as she was concerned, no one in her family, especially not her mother, was coming aboard the Dreadfort without such a pledge.

"Welcome to the Dreadfort. Thank-you for coming, it makes me glad to have so many professional countrywomen and men here assisting me," said Marci, speaking directly into the minds of the fairies and trying to put them at ease. Although, given how many of whom flinched, she didn't think she was entirely successful. Oh, right, talking directly into people's minds wasn't normal, was it? "You may rest assured that I shan't be abusing this power I have over you, that I take the welfare of those under my command seriously, and once this assignment is over, I will release you from this mystic snare. Barracks have been prepared, the kitchens are already cooking a meal, and there is hot water in the bathhouses—I imagine you are eager for a rest after such a long flight. Officers, please see Ms. Vos for your squadron's billeting."

Marci gestured to where the elvish woman was standing a few meters down and to her left, clipboard in hand.

"Very good," said Jean, trying to hide his disquiet. "Now, does this rabble of demons you've marshalled even have officers? I'd like to meet my new expendable troops."

Marci scowled at him, and she was about to start lecturing him about how no one, fairy or demon or otherwise, was expendable. Then a thought occurred to her, and her face shifted into a grin.

Oh, she was going to enjoy this.

***

"What do you mean, I report to him!?" screamed Jean, pointing at Rafferty, who was radiating smugness, even if he couldn't understand the male fairy's words.

Olaf was also there, looking slightly cross with her but also a little amused. She could tell by the way his ears were twitching and he was forcing his tail to remain still that he was going to tell her off later, something along the lines of 'I thought you were responsible now?'

"I mean, he's the senior commander," said Marci. "You'll still be in charge of commanding the Sixth Legion, but Rafferty was my General first, it wouldn't be fair to bump him down a peg when he's been doing such a good job, would it?"

Jean's face, already red, deepened its shade.

Marci, honestly, hadn't been intending to have one of them higher than the other out of some clearly misplaced and silly attempt to not enrage the fairy commander. But that was before she'd known it was going to be Jean.

Yes, this was much better.

Was Marci petty? Yes, she was definitely petty. But sometimes it felt very good to be petty.

When she was forced to have to justify it to Olaf later, she was going to argue that Rafferty was almost certainly a better general than Jean, who, while he would have received an excellent martial education, was too young to have any practical experience fighting against anything except perhaps some bandits. His only claim to the post was that he had royal blood in his veins—which was a stupid idea from a stupid system that, honestly, if Marci ever did become Queen of Eladraine, she was going to abolish in its entirety.

"And Olaf, my partner, is my strategic adviser," continued Marci, gesturing to her boyfriend. "He outranks you too."

A vein pulsed in her cousin's head.

A.N.  I have some other stories, which can be read here or on my Patreon.