This was by no means meant to be the official debut of her true and unbridled monstrous strength, but it nonetheless served as an unquestionable declaration of power.

Like a silver tongue, Princess Sella’s blade pierced through the air rapidly, thrusting and cutting in dizzying variations. 

Her weapon of choice was a mere shortsword that she had borrowed from the nearby armory, yet even a weapon so insignificant and undecorated appeared as a veritable crescent moon as it spun in the princess’ hand and reflected the bright lights of the council room.

Her opponent was Aren Vanadyl, an Elven noble who had managed to climb the social ladder during the past several years to finally reach the lofty position of the king’s advisor that he occupied now.

To increase one’s standing the Sylphid Alliance required one to master not only the arts of court etiquette and diplomacy, but also achieve a certain level of artistry over various martial pursuits, be they unarmed or not.

That was why Aren couldn’t understand how he was losing to this girl who was barely a quarter of his age. He’d spent the past century learning and mastering the art of combat from the best instructors available to him within the Alliance, yet here he was, struggling against someone who was nothing more than a child compared to his ample experience.

Princess Sella’s latest blow described a wicked arc that would have bisected Aren from his left clavicle to his right hip had it not been blocked. A pleasant shock ran through the powerful muscles of her right arm as her shortsword connected with the steel of Aren’s heavy two-handed longsword.

Sella watched with mild amusement as her attack sent Aren reeling backwards, struggling to regain his posture before the princess launched her next vicious attack.

The ghost of a smile danced on Radeca’s lips as she observed the duel. It was clear that none of the council members were expecting an outcome like this. After all, despite his obvious opposition to Radeca, it wasn’t as if Aren had somehow cheated his way into the position of the king’s advisor.

Everyone in the council was aware of Aren’s martial prowess, so the sight of Princess Sella one-sidedly overwhelming him was truly jarring. In truth, he was actually among the most skilled of duelists within the Sylphid Alliance, and only a few warriors in the nation could hope to match his blade.

So it wasn’t that Aren was weak. Princess Sella was just unfathomably strong.

Clang!

The sound of Aren’s longsword clattering to the ground echoed through the otherwise silent council chamber. A steely note of finality that hung in the air even long after its sound expired.

The duel—if it could be called that—had lasted little longer than a few minutes at best, yet those few minutes had cemented a monumental dread within Aren’s heart. The tip of Sella’s silver blade appeared at his throat, close enough to wet its perfectly tapered point on a single bead of his sweat.

“Yield.” 

It was not a request. It was a command.

However, Aren did not respond. Rather, he could not. His eyes remained transfixed by the deadly tip of Sella’s sword, not even a centimeter away from ending his life. The warm yellowish hue of the council’s ceiling-mounted lanterns was reflected across the length of the blade, giving it an ethereal sheen.

He stood silently, completely dumbfounded by what had just transpired. His sword had been in his hands, preparing to counterattack at last. Yet, before he could even issue his strike, the princess had disarmed him with nothing more than a simple flick of the wrist.

It was an impossibility given birth. An incomprehensible truth forcibly laid bare to his mind.

No... It can’t be. A mere human child... defeated me...? Aren staggered backward as disbelief overwhelmed his mind. The tip of Sella’s sword followed, never wavering. This time, she pushed the point forward slightly, pricking the soft skin of Aren’s throat and drawing blood.

A thin stream of red ran from the tip of Sella’s sword, flowing beneath Aren’s collar and staining the delicate fabric of his shirt.

“That’s enough. The victor has been decided. Please yield, Aren.” King Alcurain stood from his seat, watching the conclusion of the match worriedly. Although he was secretly happy that his daughter’s chosen champion was the victor, it wasn’t something he could publicly show, especially given the current circumstances.

Although this was an official duel in which the participants were honor bound to refrain from seeking revenge regardless of the results, the problem was that one of the duelists was a princess who represented a foreign nation. Should she deal a fatal blow to Aren, it would no doubt cause an international disturbance regardless of the duel’s terms.

That was something that King Alcurain simply could not deal with, especially with the army of the eastern tribes already on the march.

Aren’s gaze slowly shifted away from the weapon pointed at his throat, fixing the king in his vision. His eyes widened as he slowly realized that he had well and truly lost. He didn’t want to accept it. In fact, he wanted this to be nothing more than a mere nightmare that he would soon wake from.

But reality was cruel. The worry in the king’s voice. The steel of Sella’s sword pointed at his throat. Indeed, he had thoroughly lost.

Yet, this was not what Aren ultimately feared. Again, his gaze shifted. This time, Radeca became his central focus.

Yes. What Aren feared was not his death, the displeasure of his king, or the advancing army of the eastern tribes. What he feared was the failure of his true mission, and the punishment that would come with it. Whatever the cost, he absolutely had to make sure that he succeeded.

The moment Aren’s gaze landed on Radeca, she felt a chill run down her spine. Those eyes were not the eyes of one who had admitted defeat. It wasn’t the look of one who had been humbled, nor the gaze of someone who was asking for forgiveness.

What Radeca felt was an unmistakable killing intent masked beneath the thin veneer of desperation. Instinctively, she took a step backward and steeled herself. But nothing came.

“...Very well. I submit.”

Or so she thought. 

The moment those words left Aren’s lips and Princess Sella lowered her blade, Aren released a crazed shriek and dashed toward Radeca faster than anyone in the room could react, closing the distance between them within a fraction of a second.

Aren had assumed a beastlike form, his body covered with a smattering of mottled plumage not unlike that of an eagle’s. His outstretched hand reached toward Radeca’s neck, his fingernails now razor sharp talons.

Yet, what he saw on Radeca’s face was not a look of fear, but determination and strength.

Before his talons could even so much as brush against Radeca’s unblemished skin, a powerful gust of wind burst forth from the air around the Elven princess and blasted Aren backward, sending him crashing into a tall marble pillar that decorated the council room.

Radeca exhaled deeply, calming her nerves. In truth, she was beyond frightened. After all, it was the first time she had actually been forced to fend for herself. She clenched her hands tightly into fists, steeling her nerves as she stepped toward the prone figure of Aren who laid in a pile of rubble.

Sella stepped to her side, but Radeca raised a hand, signaling for her to stop. This was something that she had to do herself.

“Watch closely,” Radeca spoke, her clarion voice reaching the ears of all those inside the council chamber. “I’ll finish him myself.”