The Duke’s Reborn Daughter Sometimes Chooses Violence.

The Blade of Illiana Casper Burns Again: Fourteen-Year-Old Heir of House Veyne Slays Dragon on Everfrost Peak.

The image beneath the headline was grainy. Scrylens photographs usually were, especially the ones taken at distance, in conditions no sane person would be taking photographs in. The cheap paper didn’t help -publications from that part of the Kingdom could rarely afford better. None of these small details mattered at all.

A girl stood on the neck of a dead dragon. She was small. So small against that massive corpse that she might have been mistaken for a smudge if not for the light. A blade was raised above her head, and it bled into the world. Even in a photograph, even through the limitations of the Scrylens and the cheap ink, the light was unmistakable. It was crimson. A violent crimson. A beautiful crimson.

Princess Katarina Elise von Arianmere read the headline again. And then a third time, then a fourth, because the words didn’t change, and she needed to make sure they didn’t when she wasn’t looking.

She was sitting crosslegged on a bed that had been imported from the Southern Isles at a cost that could have fed a village for a year. The silk cushions beneath her were embroidered with golden thread in patterns so fine and complicated that only one artisan in all the Kingdom could have made them.

There were fourteen of these cushions. Katarina was sitting on three of them and had shoved the rest onto the floor. The rest of her chambers were also a mess. Books lay open on every surface. They were on the writing desk, under the bed and even the floor.

Maps had been pinned to the walls with common iron tacks, which had caused her newest chambermaid to weep the first time and merely sigh every time since. Reports were stacked in two uneven towers beside her bed, each one marked with notes in her own hand.

The room itself was, by any measure, obscene. The ceiling was gilded. The chandelier above her was made of crystal and shone. It was something between a Magical Implement and an Artifact. The carpet beneath the scattered books was Trestie silk. The windows’ glass covered one of the walls floor to ceiling, framed in white marble. Beyond them, the Capital stretched in every direction.

Her window afforded her a view of the spires and domes and the distant green of the Royal Gardens, all of it gleaming in the afternoon light.

Katarina didn’t see any of it. She hadn’t seen it in years. In a room worth more than some forts, Katarina had only ever been one thing: bored. She had been, until she’d read the shabby newspaper before her.

She read the article again. She skipped paragraphs, doubled back, reread. Everfrost Peak. A legendary dragon called Vyranthos. An expedition of almost sixty cut down by half. A Godblade. She lingered on the image again. The girl was her age. Her exact age. Fourteen years old, standing on the corpse of a beast from legend, holding a weapon that hadn’t been seen in a generation.

Katarina’s fingers tightened on the paper. Her nails dug into the margins.

The last person to hold that blade had been Illiana Casper. The First Sword of the Kingdom. The former first sword of the Kingdom. A woman who had served the crown faithfully, and then decided the crown was wrong. She had walked into the throne room and nearly killed the King -Katarina’s grandfather.

Why she didn’t do it, was truly a mystery. Almost fourteen years ago, the woman had died fighting the Sword God, and her blade had been lost. Had. Katarina knew this story the way she knew her own name.

She stood. The article was crumpled in her fist as she made her way to the door. A figure detached itself from the far wall.

Katarina hadn’t forgotten she was there. That was impossible. You didn’t forget Ser Aziah Storm once you had ever seen her. It was more that Katarina had eventually stopped actively noticing, because she was always there, and always would be.

The First Sword of the Kingdom was tall and plain in a way that was easy to overlook. Her hair was dark and cut short, with a single streak of white at the left temple. Her eyes were a steady, unremarkable brown. Her armor was dark steel, unadorned save for the Kingdom’s crest at the shoulder.

The blade at her hip was the finest steel the Kingdom’s smiths could make, and yet it still paled in comparison to the woman’s actual weapon: A Godblade. The Godblade of Shielding.

Aziah looked at Katarina’s face. Then at the crumpled article in her fist. Her expression didn’t change. She reached out, as Katarina passed, and adjusted the collar of the Princess’s dress. It had been sitting slightly askew. Katarina didn’t notice. She never did.

They moved through the palace corridors. Katarina walked fast. She always walked fast. Her bright golden hair, loose and unbraided because she hadn’t let anyone style it this morning, caught the light from the arched windows that lined the hall.

Everywhere she walked, men and women fought over themselves to bow to her first. Katarina didn’t notice them either. She never had. Aziah matched her pace without hurrying. She had been doing this for more than a decade.

The council chamber doors were guarded by two men in Royal plate. It glimmered in the light. They stood at attention, halberds crossed. The first guard saw the Princess approaching. His mouth opened. Katarina didn’t slow.

The guard’s mouth closed. He looked at his partner and said partner was already stepping aside. This Katarina did notice. She always did. There was a flicker across her face -too fast for anyone to catch. Too fast for anyone but the Hero by her side, she reminded herself.

Within these glimmering walls, nobody ever pushed back against her. Nobody ever said no. Not the guards and not the Ministers who smiled and agreed with everything she said and then went right back to doing whatever they were going to do before she’d spoken when she wasn’t looking. Even the ones who disagreed with her disagreed carefully. It was exhausting, being agreed with.

She shoved the doors open. The council chamber was long and windowed. Afternoon light fell across a giant wooden table that was older than the current dynasty. Six chairs lined each side. Four of them were occupied by grey-haired men and sharp eyed women. They had been discussing something, a discussion that ended the moment Katarina had flung the doors wide open.

At the head of the table sat King Friedrich Wilhelm von Arianmere.

Her father was old but not frail. He was the kind of man seemed to accumulate more authority with age. He was broad-shouldered and largely white haired now, though he was only forty five. Katarina remembered him being young, once. It hadn’t been that long ago. Alestia had managed to wear down her father without a single soldier ever having step foot over the border. Well, besides that Hero.

Her father’s eyes were dark, like Katarina’s own. He wore no crown. He never did, unless he had to. Katarina liked that about him most of all.

The councilors looked up. Three of them opened their mouths. One actually started to speak. “Your Highness, this is a closed-”

The man stopped and looked at Katarina’s face. Then, he looked at the paper crumpled in her fist. He closed his mouth with a resigned sound that was almost a sigh.

Another councilor -Lord Brannick, old enough to have served Katarina’s grandfather- drew himself up. “Your Highness, His Royal Highness Prince Rean would never presume to-”

“Lord Brannick, please, do not imply that my daughter was in error. Prince Rean will make a fine King, we all know this.”

Brannick’s mouth worked silently. Friedrich raised one hand. “Leave us.”

The councilors filed out. Lord Brannick looked like he was composing a very pointed letter in his head. Of all of their councilors, Lord Brannic she found most displeasing. To him, the entire field of oration could be summed up with talking the loudest, for the longest amount of time.

They moved past Katarina without meeting her eyes. The doors closed.

Three people remained in the council chamber, the King, the Princess, and the First Sword, who had taken her position against the wall beside the door. She stood perfectly still. She might have been carved from stone, were it not for her eyes, which were always sharp when she watched the Princess. That Katarina would never stop noticing.

Katarina crossed the chamber in six strides and slapped the article onto the table. The Scrylens image faced up. “Did you know about this?”

Her father looked at the article and his affectionate expression shifted to weariness. It always shifted that way, when Katarina had her mind set on something. Katarina both liked and disliked that. It meant she’d already won.

“We did receive reports. The first report arrived yesterday, during the night,” he said. “The details are still being confirmed.”

“And?” Katarina braced her hands on the table and leaned forward. The golden hair fell across her face and she didn’t push it back. “What are you going to do?”

Her father was quiet for a moment. He studied the image with an expression Katarina couldn’t fully read. For a brief moment, he was the King, and not a father at all. “A new Hero complicates things. I wish I could say it was just good news, Katarina.”

“But she killed a dragon!” Katarina protested. “What about that isn’t good news?!”

“Illiana killed a great many things.” His voice was even. It almost always was. Katarina had only once heard it be anything else. “Illiana killed a Hydra at the Battle of Shirone. Then there was the time she killed two rogue warlords in the Northern Campaign. Illiana served this Kingdom with distinction for many years. There were no marks against her honor. None save the whispering of petty nobles.” He paused. “Then she walked into this room and almost put that very blade through your grandfather’s chest.”

Katarina’s jaw tightened. “That was different,” she said. Katarina did not know how it was different. She only knew that it had to be.

“Was it different?” Friedrich leaned back in his chair. “And does it even matter if it was? My daughter, the question with Heroes is never whether they’re powerful. We know they are. It’s never if they can be useful. They always can. The question is whether they believe they’re right, and whether the believing is theirs, or their sword’s.” He held his daughter’s gaze.

“So you are going to do nothing, Father?”

“I did not say that. I will simply be more careful. I will learn,” Friedrich gestured at the article. “This Esra Veyne is just fourteen years old. She leads a failing House in a city that by all rights should have collapsed generations ago. She carries a blade whose last wielder nearly ended this dynasty.” His eyes were steady. “I need to understand what she wants before I decide how to approach her. The wrong move with a Hero might be worse than no move at all. For that, I wish to wait, and watch.”

Katarina felt the argument building inside her. It wasn’t a sophisticated argument. It never was, with her. She just knew she was right. In this one instance, she had to be right. “Look at what she’s done,” she said, jabbing her finger at the article. “She led an expedition into the Wastes. She killed a dragon. Hell, I even read she opened an orphanage, Father! Does that sound like someone who’s going to walk in here and stab you?”

Her father’s expression softened. It was a small thing -a loosening around his eyes. “Illiana Casper opened three schools,” he said quietly. “She opened two hospitals. She opened a sanctuary for war orphans on the Solven border.” Katarina went still. “She was a good woman. Good people,” Her father said, “do not stop being dangerous simply because they are good. Often, it is the opposite. Especially when they are Heroes.”

The silence that followed was long. All Katarina could do was stand in place. She stood in place until she had to use a trickle of mana to reinforce her legs while she thought.

It was a good argument, one that Katarina did not have any great defense against. It had been a long time since even her father had pushed back against her, and this part of her had grown dull from disuse. A part of her felt joy. Alas, this was one argument Katarina actually needed to win. And so, Katarina turned to the First Sword.

It was instinctive. On the rare occasions the world refused to give her what she wanted, she looked to the one person she trusted without reservation. “You’ve read it,” Katarina said.

Aziah had not moved from her position against the wall. She had been so still that one might forget she was even there. Katarina never forgot. Her father never forgot either.

The First Sword stepped forward. She stepped forward by one step, just enough to leave the wall.

She looked at the article on the table. Katarina followed her gaze. That gaze moved across the image, past the dragon, past the small figure standing on the corpse. It settled on a single word in the text below. Katarina saw where it landed. Illiana Casper.

Something moved behind Aziah’s steady brown eyes. It was brief, and Katarina was perhaps the only person alive who would have caught it.

Her father was quiet. He valued Aziah’s silence more than most men’s counsel, and he valued her words more than anyone’s. Even Katarina’s. That was only a little displeasing to her.

“Defiance, that was the intent behind this blade, was it not?” Aziah said. Her voice was low. “It’s an Intent that breaks things. It fights against what is.”

She paused and looked at the King. “This girl used it to protect soldiers. She defied a dragon so that others might live.” Another pause. “She defied the circumstances of Aelheim, so that children may have a roof over their heads. Defiance in service of others is not rebellion, Your Majesty.”

Katarina stared at her. Her father was quiet for a long time. When he spoke, the quality of his voice had changed. “I will send an envoy,” he said. “Very soon. When I have a clearer picture of who she is and what she intends. These things must be handled carefully. In a few weeks, perhaps. Once it is more clear to me who she is. If only Adrian had not met that man. It would have been much preferable dealing with him.”

Both his words and tone implied a finality to the conversation.“Bring her here,” Katarina said. “Invite her to the Capital. I want to meet her. I just want to talk to her.”

Her father met her gaze. “Not yet. But soon. You should wait until then, that is all.”

“Father-”

“Not yet, Katarina.”

Katarina held his gaze for three seconds. Then she curtsied. “Of course, Father.”

It was, by a considerable margin, the most well-behaved she had been in the entire conversation. Perhaps the most well behaved she had been in many months. She saw her father’s eyes narrow by a fraction. Perhaps she should have protested a little more first. Oh well.

She turned and walked toward the doors. Aziah fell into step beside her. The doors opened and closed behind them.

The corridor stretched ahead. Late afternoon light fell through the arched windows in golden bars across the marble floor. Their footsteps echoed. Katarina’s were quick and sharp, Aziah’s were barely audible. Katarina did not know how. Aziah would not make any sound even if she were wearing the same shoes Katarina herself was. Some trick of being a Hero, maybe? She wondered if this Esra would make noise when she walked.

Katarina thought of Rean. Her brother would have nodded at their father’s decision. He would have gone to his study, drafted a careful and very long letter, and waited for the envoy’s report. He would have done the sensible and princely thing, and by the time he finished deliberating, this girl would be old enough to have grandchildren.

That was the difference between them, Katarina always told herself. Rean had inherited their father’s patience. Katarina had inherited everything else that was actually important.

She got everything she wanted. She always had. The rooms and the gowns and the crystal chandeliers. Anything she pointed at was hers. Every door opened before her hand reached the handle. Everything except the things that actually mattered, the few that there were.

She thought about the image again. The girl on the dragon, just as old as Katarina was, standing in the frozen god knows where, bleeding, and holding a burning sword above her head. Katarina had never bled for anything in her life.

She stopped walking. She looked up at Aziah. Aziah looked down at her. The First Sword watched for a few moments, and then she sighed, and it was a deep, long sigh.

“Kat.” She just said one word, and it had all the gentleness Katarina’s own mother had never shown her.

Katarina grinned. It was wide and bright. “Start packing.” The First Princess said.

“As you wish, Your Highness.”

Katarina was already walking. There was noise from her steps. The First Sword followed. There was no noise from hers. Katarina really did wonder if this was a trick all Heroes had. She was going to find out.