The training courtyard echoed with the sharp sound of steel meeting steel.
Famoura stood in the center, her boots pressed firmly against the cold stone ground, fingers wrapped tightly around the hilt of her sword. The early morning air carried a chill, brushing against her skin and tugging at her long, dark hair that fell freely down her back. Sweat glistened at her temples, yet her eyes burned with unwavering focus.
Across from her stood Prince Philip — tall, broad-shouldered, and seasoned by years of battle. His movements were precise, confident, and effortless, as if the sword in his hand were nothing more than an extension of his body.
They clashed again.
Famoura lunged forward, her strike fast but slightly unbalanced. Philip deflected it smoothly, stepping back with practiced ease.
He sighed, lowering his sword just a little.
"There's still time," Prince Philip said, his voice calm but firm. "Give up now, child."
Famoura straightened her stance, tightening her grip. Her chest rose and fell with controlled breaths.
"I'll never give up," she replied without hesitation. "Uncle Philip."
Philip studied her for a long moment, then shook his head faintly. "Careful," he warned, lifting his blade again. "Or those long locks of yours might get cut."
Famoura's lips curved into a small smile. She adjusted her footing and raised her sword once more.
"It doesn't matter," she said quietly. "You can't cut my strength with a sword."
Their blades met again.
For a moment, Famoura matched his rhythm — block, strike, step, turn. But her body betrayed her resolve. Her foot slipped on the stone, her balance faltered, and in the next instant, she fell backward. The sword flew from her grasp, clattering loudly across the courtyard.
Prince Philip reacted instantly, sheathing his weapon and reaching out his hand.
"I warned you, didn't I?" he said, helping her up. "This isn't a game for girls. A true warrior can only be a man."
Famoura looked at his hand.
Then she ignored it.
She pushed herself up on her own, brushing dust from her clothes. Her eyes met his — not with anger, not with shame, but with calm defiance. She stepped closer, her voice soft yet sharp as steel.
"And yet," she said, leaning toward his ear, "every warrior is born from a woman."
For the briefest moment, Prince Philip said nothing.
Then he smiled — faintly, knowingly.
"You have a dangerous tongue," he murmured.
Famoura simply smiled back.
As she turned away, her gaze caught movement near the arched entrance of the courtyard. Three figures approached — tall, confident, dressed in fine robes bearing the royal insignia.
Her brothers.
The sons of her late elder father.
They walked together, laughing quietly, their presence commanding respect without effort. Famoura watched them, something tightening in her chest. She had trained beside them once. Studied beside them once. Dreamed beside them once.
Now, they moved ahead while she remained behind.
She took a step forward, intending to follow them toward the royal chamber.
"Famoura."
She froze.
The voice was unmistakable.
Prince Charles stood behind her, his posture straight, his expression unreadable.
"There you are," he said. "I've been looking for you."
Famoura lowered her gaze respectfully. "Yes, Father. What is it?"
He held out a thick ledger, its pages filled with neat columns and names. "Nothing much. I need you to record the accounts of the townspeople. Write it down here."
Famoura's fingers curled slightly around the edge of her sleeve.
"And my studies?" she asked carefully. "What about them?"
Prince Charles's eyes hardened. "We'll talk about that later."
His tone left no room for discussion.
He turned and walked away.
Famoura remained where she stood, the sound of her brothers' footsteps fading into the distance.
The candle in Famoura's room flickered softly as evening settled over the palace.
She sat at her desk, quill in hand, copying numbers and names into the ledger. Her handwriting was neat, precise — a skill she had mastered long ago. Yet her heart felt heavy with every word she wrote.
This was not what she wanted.
She finished the final entry and closed the ledger gently, sliding it into the cupboard beneath her desk. The room felt too quiet.
Just then, a knock sounded at the door.
"Come in," Famoura said.
The door opened, revealing Prince Lucien — her second cousin. He carried several books in his arms, their spines worn from use.
"I've finished reading these," Lucien said, stepping inside. "You can keep them if you like."
Famoura's eyes lit up.
"Read them well," he added with a small smile. "And since they're not letting you go outside, I thought you should at least have something to do."
She stood quickly. "Thank you, Lucien. Truly."
He handed her the books, his smile gentle and sincere. "Don't let them dull your mind, Famoura."
As he left, she sat back down and opened the first book.
The words pulled her in immediately.
History. Strategy. Philosophy. Tales of great rulers and forgotten scholars.
She read with hunger, absorbing every line, every idea, every possibility. For a brief while, the walls of her room disappeared, replaced by worlds of knowledge and freedom.
Later that night, Famoura gathered the completed accounts and walked to Prince Charles's chamber.
She knocked.
"Enter," came his voice.
She stepped inside and placed the ledger on his desk. "Father," she said, steadying her voice. "Why don't you allow me to study further?"
Prince Charles didn't look up at first. When he did, his gaze was cold.
"You girls should be grateful," he said, "that we've educated you enough to read, write, and handle accounts. You should feel proud — not questioning."
Famoura clenched her fists.
"And what about men?" she asked. "Were they born with gold that they deserve twice as much as we do?"
Prince Charles stood.
"It's because of questions like that," he said sharply, "that you'll never earn such rights."
A faint smirk crossed his lips as he turned away.
Famoura felt something crack inside her.
That night, sleep refused to come.
She stood by the window, the cool air brushing against her face. The moon hung high in the sky, pale and radiant, casting silver light across the quiet town below.
Her thoughts drifted.
The moon is more beautiful than the sun, she thought. Even in darkness, it shines brighter. The sun has all the light, yet never such grace.
She placed a hand over her heart.
One day, she promised herself, they would see her light — even if it rose in the dark.
And when it did, no sword in the world would be able to cut it.