Three years ago...
Her room had felt colder in the past few days — cold enough to make the nauseating scent of the fine wood feel frozen in the air. Each afternoon she had sat alone, blankly drinking her tea, its warmth long gone by the time another slow, hesitant sip touched her lips. The whispers beyond the door scraped at her nerves, making her feel as though even the sound of her breathing was an intrusion. It had been a week since her first so-called strategy class. The memory of the scolding she had received that day crawled over her skin, making her shiver. Her lips pressed tightly together as she set the cup down, her hand resting on her thigh — almost feeling the phantom sting of her punishment returning.
An uneasy chill swept through her, followed by the sharp crack of a whip echoing in her mind. Her breath quickened — only to halt when a giggle rang softly from the corridor. Her hand drifted back toward the table as she drew in the freezing air through tense lungs before taking another cold sip. The reason her classes had been suspended lingered in every mocking whisper, every amused tone shared between the maids. Her first encounter with Sir Raddick and the knight-captain had been the only one so far, for the king's knights had been appointed to escort the princess — Valerie's older half-sister. Lady Lasswyn accompanied her as lady-in-waiting.
Valerie's thoughts drifted to the other princess. Though they lived in the same castle, they had never once shared the same room. Valerie was watched closely by the queen's appointed maids, while her half-sister — the queen's daughter — was free to wander the palace, yet never stepped into the distant corner where Valerie was relegated.
The red-haired princess only knew of her half-sister through gossip: the maids' fawning praise or their louder complaints about serving the "wrong princess." Those same voices kept her tea cold. She was painfully aware of the fragility of her position in the palace. Any hope she might have once held had been smothered by the endless reminders of her place... by the careful, cruel hands that made sure she never forgot it.
And yet, hearing the glittering praise heaped upon her half-sister made jealousy burn behind the tears she refused to shed. She didn't have to move to maintain her composure in that empty room. Those tears never had time to fall — they vanished the moment the warm memory of her mother and little sister filled her mind: their laughter, their smiles, their shared joy.
"There is nothing that she has that I would trade for these memories., even if they are gone..."
Queen Raphysis and Lady Lasswyn were said to be closest to her half-sister. Valerie could not imagine either of them sharing warmth with anyone. The thought tightened her chest — and she wondered, quietly, painfully:"Is my sister happy...?"
Her thoughts were cut by raised voices outside her room, followed by an abrupt, unnatural silence. She finished her tea in one swift swallow and snatched the first book from her adorned white desk. Returning to the small round table beneath the window, she sat among the flowered cushions and opened the book across her lap. But the words on the page refused to settle.
A shadow slid across the bottom of the door. A knock sounded — sharp, controlled — and a maid stepped lightly inside.
- Princess, Sir Raddick has come to see you. We have informed him that he shall wait in the study.
Knights were known to rely on their wits when a battle loomed, but what many failed to grasp was that etiquette wielded a force of its own — subtle, binding, unyielding. A man could not enter a princess's bedchamber unbidden. The door itself marked the boundary: a line of respect where desire, curiosity, or arrogance dared not cross. To appear without notice, to step into such a space without invitation, was to commit an insult. A dishonor to both guest and host.
For a moment, Valerie's chest refused to rise. Fear prickled through her, the dread of another punishment — harsher, perhaps — curling in her stomach. Shock spurred her into motion. Even in whispers, the maids' voices had always been clear as gold against marble. They weren't involved. They hadn't known Sir Raddick had returned. If they had, their complaints would have echoed all day; they hated being kept from serving the queen's daughter.
Her lungs finally loosened as she excused the maid, saying she needed a moment. Whatever awaited her, she couldn't run. She had never run. If Lady Lasswyn had been on her side — a thought nearly laughable — she might have urged Valerie to scold the knight for such impropriety. But nothing in Valerie's life had ever been easy. Lady Lasswyn was likely behind this sudden visit, ensuring Valerie couldn't slip away from another reminder of her punishment.
Not that she ever tried.
Uncertain, heart pounding softly beneath her ribs, Valerie rose from her chair and stepped toward the door, toward the knight waiting in the room next door — the weight of expectation settling over her like a second skin.
She stepped into the corridor, her legs aching to turn her the other way. She paused, gathering the little strength she could. The whispers of the maids slithered back into the silence, cutting through her brief stillness. They trailed behind her like faint, persistent echoes as she forced herself forward, drawing slow, deep breaths. The fading scent of last night's lavender candles brushed her cheeks as the air passed by.
The study door stood ajar. As she crossed the threshold, a different scent greeted her. The window had been left open. A warm summer breeze swept through the room, stirring her hair behind her and carrying with it the faint fragrance of violets.
The knight rose from his chair when she approached. He was tall, imposing even, yet the girl lifted her chin and met his eyes. Fear tightened her throat, making speech impossible. Without warning, Sir Raddick dropped to one knee. Her gaze followed him downward until it landed on the marble floor — and on the flowers resting on the table. A small bundle of violets, freshly plucked from the earth, nothing adorning them.
She stepped closer, and he finally spoke.
- Please forgive my rudeness, Princess.
- Sir Raddick, raise your head, please. To come without warning the moment you return from your journey, it must be important.
Her voice was steady, though she felt far from calm. The maids had not mentioned Princess Claudette's arrival, and the knight... he was not dressed to meet royalty — not even the unwanted one. His armor was caked in dirt, his boots staining the white floor like ink on parchment.
- Shall we speak over tea? Sam, if you would kindly prepare the table.
The maid frowned, then obeyed after a brief hesitation. Valerie moved toward one of the chairs, Sir Raddick following. As he neared the table, he seemed to remember the flowers; he scooped them up awkwardly and rested the small bundle on his lap once they were both seated. A long silence settled between them until the maid returned with the tea.
Valerie folded her hands neatly.
- Sir Raddick... were there any complications before your arrival? You appear to have been through quite the ordeal.
He lowered his gaze.
- Forgive me for bringing filth into your room, Princess.
- Do not concern yourself with that. Tell me, what happened?
He hesitated only a moment.
- There were people blocking Her Highness's carriage. The horses startled. I tried to settle them down, but a child stumbled into the road and the horses pushed me aside.
His expression tightened on the last words — his voice level but cold, stripped of emotion. Valerie swallowed hard before she found the courage to speak.
- That sounds dreadful. Was anyone... harmed?
- Not at that moment, Princess. But the attack on the carriage before we reached the village was less... benign.
Valerie's eyes widened, meeting the knight's unchanging stare. His face remained still — almost carved from stone — as he delivered the bad news.
- Is my... Is she unharmed?
- Yes, Princess. Her Highness is safe. A few of us were lightly injured. The men we apprehended... took their own lives.
A chill swept down her spine. The knight's cold tone echoed the memory of his brother's voice — the same voice that had once cut the breath from her lungs. The warm summer breeze suddenly felt sharp and icy as her breathing quickened. She noticed Sir Raddick watching her closely. To hide her trembling, she lifted the cup and sipped her tea — too quickly, too clumsily.
"Compose yourself..." She urged the words inside her mind, but they trembled like her hands.
- T-they preferred to take their own lives... We truly never know... what awaits outside the palace...
- Princess... If I may speak freely. That day, my brother — the captain — was not... courteous. But Your Highness's reaction was... unusual.
Valerie took another sip, this one far less graceful. Her hands shook violently, and a few drops splashed onto the table as she set the cup down. Every word she uttered, every breath she took, felt like a step closer to punishment.
She clasped her trembling fingers together on her lap. Valerie's breath hitched as she tried to steady herself. The tremor in her fingers only worsened beneath the knight's gaze.
- I did not expect Your Highness to raise your voice that day. Your thoughts about the book... they made me wonder if your mind hadn't grown too mature for your years.
His words were plain — but for the girl, they felt coated in poison, wrapped in double meaning — they pressed on her chest with the same weight Miss Lasswyn's taunts once had. The same tone that used to come before the kick... before the whip bit into the backs of her legs. Her shoulders curled inwards as if her body remembered every bruise.
Sir Raddick continued, unaware of the storm he was stirring inside her.
- What he said wasn't wrong. The world is cruel. Your enemies will not leave Your Highness in peace simply because they should.
The words hit her like cold iron.
Cruel.
Enemies.
Your Highness.
Each one twisted inside her ribs.
Her breath shortened. Her heartbeat throbbed in her throat. The lonely ache rose again — the same hollow truth she had been trying so desperately to ignore. Her mother... her sister... the only kind voices she had ever known. Both gone. And the world had never felt larger, or darker, or more devoid of allies.
A tear slipped down her cheek, staining the red fabric of her dress. Then another. She tried to breathe, to swallow the sob climbing her throat.
Sir Raddick's expression changed instantly.
- Princess...? Your Highness, are you unwell?
The chair scraped lightly as he stood. Without hesitation — without a second thought — he dropped to one knee before her, the flowers he had clumsily placed on his lap rolling to the floor unnoticed. His gauntleted hand hovered in the air, unsure if he was allowed to offer support, unsure if touching her might worsen her trembling.
- Princess Valerie... please, forgive me if I spoke too harshly.
His voice, once steady and cold, was now softer — almost shaken. He placed a hand on her shoulder.
Valerie felt its weight settle over her. Heavy, yet strangely gentle. A different kind of heaviness — one that grounded her instead of crushing her. Those hands might have harmed many before... but in that moment, she knew they held no intention of harming her. She drew slow, controlled breaths, managing to still the tears halfway down her cheeks.
- Princess... my brother's heart is as cold as his mind is sharp. Understanding how he thinks may help Your Highness foresee a counter-attack, should you ever face someone with intentions as dark as his.
Battles were the only language Sir Raddick seemed to speak — the only framework through which he knew how to express concern. Yet somehow, his words reached her. Valerie clung to them, letting reason push its way past fear.
- But... I will never step onto a battlefield.
- As Your Highness said yourself... we never truly know what awaits outside the palace gates.
Her thoughts shifted — no longer spiraling, but aligning. He was right. Cruelty had already found her here, within the safest walls of the kingdom. What lay beyond them? And perhaps... perhaps people were not only cruel. Perhaps they simply carried their own pasts, their own circumstances. Sir Raddick did not know her story. And she had not understood that his words — even the harsh ones — were, in his own rigid way, meant to shield her.
He straightened his posture slightly, though still kneeling before her.
- I came to apologize for what occurred during our last lesson. Please... accept these flowers.
He reached for the small bundle of violetas on the floor — petals slightly crushed, still speckled with dirt. He brushed them off with the back of his gauntlet, trying to make the bouquet look presentable before offering it to her with both hands.
Valerie accepted them. A full smile didn't quite form, but her expression softened — tension easing from her shoulders, her breathing no longer fragile. She corrected him gently.
- You mean our first lesson. And... I wish to learn more.
Back in the present, before the dwarven fortress
The amused murmur among the soldiers begins to falter. What starts as scattered grey patches in the sky thickens slowly. Clouds that were harmless moments before drift toward one another, gathering above the battleground like a slow-forming bruise.
Mockery fades into confused glances. Their captain's words — muffled, almost swallowed by the distance — plant doubt in their ears. As whispers rise, the shadows above stretch longer, one cloud merging with the next, darkening the field in an uneasy half-light.
Sir Camillo's grip around the princess's arm tightens. His jaw locks.
- Aack!
- What do you think you are doing?
At the princess's pained cry, Sir Raddick turns toward his captain, uneasy. His sense of justice refuses to hold his tongue.
- It was all a lie! They tricked us!
Sir Camillo shouts his own truth, attempting to decieve his men, his temper shattering.
- What are you talking about? We saw the hostages!
- I am the captain. The call is mine! Step aside, brother.
He retreats dragging the princess with him, being followed by the other two. The dwarves move closer to the knights trying to reach the rest of the battalion. When Sir Camillo tries to push his persuers away, he swings blindly behind him — his blade grazing the girl's arm by accident.
- Aack!
She cries out again as panic spreads through the knight. Now close enough, he shouts to the army:
- Raise your swords, you idiots!
Darian's eyes narrow, the storm reflected in the black of them.
The confused air around the soldiers turns darker — as dark as the soil beneath their feet. Thousands of iron boots pound the ground, shredding the green and grinding it to lifeless brown earth. As if answering to that violence, the heavy clouds above merge into one vast, suffocating shroud.
The clang of metal rises in a mournful symphony, swelling with the dry roar of distant thunder. The battlefield, once bright, is swallowed in shades of iron and ash — lit only by the storm's anger, mirroring the fury burning through Darian's chest.
His voice explodes through the chaos:
- You lying piece of shit! Warriors — to battle!!
Dwarf warriors and human soldiers crash into each other, their iron and metal accessories clanging like the clumsiest orchestra. The sounds are brutal and chaotic — clang, clash, tchss — painting the green battlefield in vivid red with touches of dirt.
Through the chaos, Lord Igion storms into the fray, his voice booming over the clash of steel and the screams of combat. He moves with authority, directing the dwarves with precise shouts, forming ranks where disorder threatened to take hold, turning the tide of the skirmish with every command.
Lost in the middle of it all, the three masters stand back-to-back, protecting one another and putting their internal arguments aside. They don't always agree — in fact, their personalities couldn't be more different — but dwarves protect their own. Their loyalty is as unshakable as the roughest mountain.
Two axes and one hammer carve their way through the chaos:
Darian's massive one-sided slasher, Cornelious's medium double-edged axe, and Baliot's oversized heavy hammer crush the poor human soldiers around them with brute force.
Two bulky knights jump onto Darian at once. His enormous axe holds back both swords pressing down on him. Cornelious steps behind and frees him with a wide, powerful slash right in front of the knights. They stagger back, startled. Darian kicks one down. Cornelious brings the other to the ground.
- Thank goodness your old axe didn't give up on you!
- Your old bones aren't as bad as I thought either, Cornelious!
- Old?! Watch your old spine!
A soldier sneaks up on Darian as the two argue. Cornelious covers his back once more.
- Ooh, now you asked for it. Let's see who gathers more stinky heads!
Working together to push the humans back, Darian and Cornelious start a little contest to see who takes down more enemies.
The dwarves are fewer in number, but even being small, each can handle two or three soldiers at once. Knights, however, are another story — each dwarf can manage only one at a time. And for their misfortune, it looks like half of the king's coronated knights joined this battle. The dwarves are being pushed back; the humans grow closer and closer to the fortress walls, every single fight tight and desperate.
Baliot has drifted far from the other two masters — not a problem yet. From a distance, he spots the princess surrounded by three knights and heads straight for her. His heavy hammer swings all around him, smashing through the human metal in his path with brutal force.
Before he can reach them, a knight drenched in blood steps in front of him. His sword catches Baliot off guard and slashes his shoulder.
- You shall pay for what you did to the princess!
The golden knight's blade clashes loudly against Baliot's iron hammer. Their fight rings louder than the battles erupting around them. Sir Camillo towers over him, taking advantage of his height. He slashes relentlessly, raining blows down with endless swings and high arcs. Each strike crashes onto Baliot's guard, pushing him back step by step.
Baliot grits his teeth. The weight of the attacks forces him to keep his defense up. Every time he tries to counterattack, Sir Camillo's next strike shuts him down. His heavy hammer isn't meant to be swung upward — it's a weapon built to apply pressure, not endure it. Blocking high slashes is a losing battle.
He tries cutting the knight's swings mid-way, but even that is nearly impossible. Dodging upward blows from below, in the bulky body of a dwarf, is a nightmare. Sir Camillo's sword falls again, sparks bursting between steel and iron, the sound echoing like a bell tolling doom. Baliot's blood begins to paint the ground beneath his boots as wounds multiply across his arms and shoulders. His breath shortens. Fear crawls up his spine. His thoughts fill with regret... with the crushing dread of what will become of his people once his body falls cold and his blood dries into the soil...
A sharp hiss cuts through the chaos.
An arrow whistles past and forces them apart, catching both off guard. The knight staggers back in surprise. A second arrow flies, striking his sword and sending it skidding across the muddy ground.
High on the fortress wall stands Marion, crossbow steady in her hands. Beside her are Lord Igion and the dwarf women who stayed behind — their arrows avenging the heads that litter the battlefield. Another bolt slices off a lock of the golden knight's hair. His hand flies instinctively to his face.
Baliot doesn't waste the opening.
With a roar pulled from the deepest fire of his lungs, he swings.
The hammer meets armor with a sickening crash.
The golden knight drops.
A faint, tired smile curls beneath Baliot's fluffy mustache — a spark of triumph glowing through the pain.
His hammer rises high above the fallen knight. A sharp crack echoes as it comes down on another, the dwarf's swing shattering the knight's wooden shield beneath it. He pivots, sweeping the hammer toward a soldier sneaking up from behind.
- Brother...
- Captain, are you uninjured?
Sir Raddick glances back at the fallen knight. Sir Camillo nods, rising to his feet with measured composure. The golden knight, bloodied and fierce, surveys the battlefield. Sir Raddick was tasked with guarding the princess. Sir Neitles, along with two soldiers under his command, now form a protective barrier around her. She remains tied and blindfolded, her only recourse the faith she places in her guardians.
- I shall deal with him. You — see to the princess's safety, Sir.
Sir Raddick casts his broken shield into the mud. The two-handed sword in his hands rises steadily toward Baliot. Tension coils in the air like a drawn bowstring before they charge. Steel clashes against iron, the sound amplified by a booming war horn. Its deep roar silences the battlefield for a heartbeat, cutting through the grunts and cries of men locked in combat.
All eyes snap toward the gate. Marion stands there, crossbow slung across her back, her garments shredded and stained, green hair whipping in the wind — the embodiment of a fierce, relentless, and strikingly beautiful warrior. Around her, the human hostages stand, alive and unharmed, framed by the chaos of the battlefield.
Valerie had been waiting for this signal, quietly biding her moment to step into the light and turn the tide against the human captain's dark intent.
- Sir, please release me.
Her hands rise toward Sir Neitles, who steps forward and swiftly severs the ropes binding her. She pulls the cloth from her head, lifting her chin with defiant grace for all to see. She may not be the person they think she is, but her confidence alone commands attention.
- The hostages are safe! Your captain has betrayed you! Not only did he put the hostages in danger by ordering this attack, but he imperiled all of his men as well. He is the reason your blood now colors these once-beautiful fields in a terrible red, shed for no cause. As your princess, I command you: lower your weapons!
Her voice rings with authority, striking each soldier as if her words were aimed at them individually. Confusion flickers across their faces, the tension breaking as one by one, weapons clatter to the ground. The dwarves remain among them, frowns deep, stance unwavering, vigilant as ever.