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My doubt-filled, somewhat peaceful afternoon has come to a screeching halt.

“Wow! Emma, well done. Up top!” I raise a high five towards her above my head.

“Down low!”

“Too slo- Hey, at least pretend that you’re too slow once in a while!” Emma fast reflexes have never lost to me.

The two guards posted out front rush in so fast, I don’t even have a chance to see the man Emma just dropped. One holds a sword to the downed man’s neck while the other does a formal bow in my direction.

“Forgive me, your highness. It was our negligence that caused this!”

.....

On the floor, a loud gurgle sounds, followed by the supervising guard’s low curse.

“Blasted heavens, he’s managed to ingest poison.” The guard tries to pry open the man’s mouth, but I make it to his side in record time and place my already warm hands on his chest.

When he gasps again, it isn’t in the throes of death but with renewed vitality.

“What? What the...? Witch, you dare use your cursed abilities on me? How I–” the man boldly swears. An obvious accent colors his voice, one I’ve heard before. A Sarsavalian one.

However, I flinch at the word ‘witch’. My mood, which had already been going up and down like a roller coaster, takes a sharp nosedive. Outside my tent, people wail like chickens with their heads cut off.

“An assassin has run into the princess’ tent! Quick, send for help!”

I already have a headache, the subsequent shock of the attack having made me use too much juice to heal the assassin. I put a hand to my head and take a seat on my cot.

“Well, let’s get this sorted, shall we?” I say in the most chipper tone I can manage.

Turns out my newfound status carries some weight. For scarcely half an hour later, I am seated beside my father within the strategy tent, every commander, captain, and notable figure within the military camp assembled in a makeshift court. The prosecutor? My father. The defendant? A sniveling man glaring daggers at me while mouthing ‘witch’ under his breath.

Before an assortment of decorated and knighted warriors, long cultivated into the ruthless fighting force that has been the scourge of neighboring lands, my would-be assassin looks weak and frightened. He is an average warrior powered by little more than hate and fear, but now the question is, how did he manage to get in? I tap my finger on the armrest of the chair, the faintest of smiles on my face. Without a single doubt in my mind, someone within this tent has helped the assassin enter the military camp. And to alleviate my bad mood and discover whether the Bishop Duvernay has gone back on his word, I look forward to digging up who it is.

With the heavy chains on the assassin’s arms as a musical accompaniment, I slowly look over every figure within the tent, the pillars of the impressive Erudian Army. In the navy and gold uniform of the royal guard, Sir Gregory is stand furthest to the left, his dark eyes unreadable when they meet mine. I don’t let my gaze skitter away, although I’m tempted to as I look at the man who, in addition to his mother, was responsible for the biggest hiccup I ever encountered as a princess.

Something always told me he knew more about what happened when he met with Janice and her mysterious poison, but he’s never breathed a word about it. Even now, there is no hostility in his eyes, as he knows well it wasn’t my fault. But what good is that if the real power behind him, the Duke and Duchess of Mulworth, hate my guts?

My eyes stray to the commander of the royal guard, Lord Amarelius, or just Sir Wolfgang to those in the army. He winks playfully. Next, there are a few commanders of the auxiliary battalions of the army: the Phoenix army and the imperial battalions. I can see a shock of bright yellow hair from the back, Sir Finn perhaps due to his being the heir of the very dukedom we stand in. My brothers are here too, but I don’t even bother sparing those overgrown brats a glance.

Whether these men’s allegiances lie with my father or with one of the various aristocratic factions that have grown with the depletion of the imperial bloodline, one thing is certain: they are not happy that I, or more accurately my healing abilities, were nearly snuffed out.

“Your Majesty,” a man in the livery of the Phoenix army steps forward and bows to the emperor. “If you would allow me the honor, I shall hunt down the perpetrators of the incident for them to face justice.”

His words are high sounding, the earnestness in his gaze making it easy to see how he is able to inspire his soldiers. But the Mad Dog snorts, his expression and mussed hair only making him look even more unruly than usual.

“Last I checked, aren’t you the one in charge of general security of the military camp? Are you suggesting that we may interrogate you as we please, Captain-General Vernice?” he slyly replies.

I raise my brows. Vernice. One of Empress Katya’s ladies-in-waiting carries this name. My father must know this too, although he says nothing. So I do the same.

“Take care not to accuse me of treason without grounds, my lord,” the captain-general says through gritted teeth.

“I’m simply saying what we all see,” Sir Wolfgang shrugged, his cavalier attitude contrasting sharply with the many medallions pinned upon his chest.

I start to get a sense of the dynamic between my father and the Mad Dog, particularly the reason why Sir Wolfgang has remained in his confidence for many years. He serves as my father’s mouthpiece amongst the nobility, with a known reputation that allows him to get away with saying just about anything.

“The bottom line,” an unknown general pipes up, “Is that we were breached by the enemy. What’s to stop an enemy soldier sneaks in and plants an eruption in our midst tomorrow?”

Everyone’s faces go dark with the thought, even Sir Wolfgang’s. It’s one thing for the food supply to be sabotaged, but if even the fortified grounds are breached, a war is guaranteed to be lost and everyone in the tent knows this.

Emperor Helio finally takes the chance to speak, his simple military suit as opposed to full armored regalia just as imposing as ever. “Regardless of the outcome, some of you shall die today for such a lapse in security. Whether the number is few or great depends on how much truth is uncovered today.”

Even the personalities before me tempered by steel and blood panic. Although no one shouts or yells in fear, the air within the strategy tent changes. I look at the captain-general again, but he looks calm. A little too calm.

Sir Gregory steps forward. “Your Majesty, if you would allow us, the royal guard are willing to interrogate the prisoner for answers.”

The imprisoned assassin kneeling on the floor shivers at the strange blankness of Sir Gregory’s tone.

“What? You would condemn me for ridding you of a witch. Her abilities are cursed! A blasphemy! A scourge upon the world!” the assassin yells at Sir Gregory. He makes a pathetic attempt to crawl away but with his heavy chains, he just struggles uselessly.

“Then what would that make your blasted eruptions that tear people apart limb from limb?” Prince Julian mutters, his words deliberately carrying across the tent and striking a chord within the assembled people’s hearts.

“The prince is right. This bloody soldier before us is responsible for the pain and death of many of my good soldiers, all of them bright, able-bodied lads eager to fight for their empire,” His eyes seemed to grow red as his voice choked up a little. “We should do away with this Sarsavalian filth first, and then the rest we have captured.”

“Aye.”

“I second that.”

All the generals nod, bloodlust thick in the air. It helps me understand why my father appointed them to their roles, for I have never met a group of people so eager to shed blood.

All the way at the back of the white tent, the curtains flap as someone enters. “To spill enemy blood within our home would invite trouble in the empire,” a gloomy voice says.

My hand grips the armrest firmly as all the generals turn around and nod with respect. “Your Excellency.”

Bishop Duvernay accepts their greeting. He steps to my father and nods with respect to him, the princes, and myself.

“Your Majesties. Your Highnesses.”

It is strange. Bishop Duvernay does not seem to sweat, despite his heavy white and blue robes that drag slightly on the grassy ground. It makes him seem less than human, a being difficult to quantify. His presence here brings many things into question, leaving a bad taste in my mouth.

“What are you doing here, Bishop?” My father inquires with a hard face.

“Your Majesty, I am simply here to bring light to the situation.”

My father does not beat around the bush. “You know who the culprit is?”

“Indeed, Your Majesty,” The bishop says calmly.

Behind him, the captain-general’s face changes like the seasons, from his previous spring-like calm to the bug-eyed frozen terror of winter.

Bishop Duvernay motions to the shorter, cloaked figure beside him, an inconspicious battle mage.

“This is Mio. He is young, but he is our most talented magicked interrogator. He shall extract the answer from the enemy promptly.”

Mio’s face and body is covered, but from his stature I can tell he must be around Prince Julian’s age. He could be considered to be disrespectful, as he didn’t greet anyone in this tent, only following Bishop Duvernay in like a shadow. But within moments of his hooded face staring down at the assassin, the disrespect can be forgotten as he performs a feat even I am amazed by.

The assassin shook on the floor, his eyes so wide that I can clearly distinguish the whites above and below his pupils like a cartoon character. “No! No, I shan’t speak. You can’t make me! You can’t-”

The assassin’s face went slack. All life drained from his limbs as his back simultaneously went ramrod straight. It was an eerie effect, as if the assassin had become a doll for Mio to play with. The generals, who had been grumbling at Bishop Duvernay’s intrusion, went silent with mild discomfort. As honest men of the sword, the disagreements between the military and the Holy Church had been around ever since battle mages had begun their military assistance.

“My name is Juareg Testunio. I am a member of the Sarsavalian army, the western phalanx under General Scovos. On Monday’s eve, I was instructed in a private meeting with the general to meet with a foot soldier under the leadership of Captain-General Vernice-”

“Lies! All lies!” Captain-General Vernice cried. His face was so red, if you pinched it it might bleed blood. With a look of incredulity, he turned to Bishop Duvernay.

“Tell your boy to stop coercing the assassin to lie!” He shoved a finger in Mio’s face, who to his credit, did not flinch at a grown man’s fury. What kind of dignified captain-general was this? His behavior has devolved to nothing less than the old drunkard who used to lurk by the corner of Bianca’s shanty and wail until 6 am.

His anger is understandable though. He is watching as House Duvernay forcibly cuts ties with his family and condemns him to death. A lesser reaction would worry me more.

“Shall I continue, Your Excellency?” Mio asks as Captain-General Vernice begins to run out of steam. His flat voice competes with Emma in terms of who can act like they’re dead inside the best.

“Yes, Mio.”

“-Under the leadership of Captain-General Vernice.” The puppet assassin eerily carries on where he left off. “The captain-general redirected the cavalry guarding the Dredgen Woods, allowing a two-minute window for me to enter with this foot soldier. I was then directed to wait until the late afternoon when I was to kill the witch.”

Life flows back into the chained man’s eyes and he writhes against his bondage.

“You can’t make me speak! On pain of death will I confess!” But there was no time to marvel at how the assassin seemingly did not recollect his forced confession. The faint music that I hear whenever magic is used around me fades away, but I hardly have a chance to notice.

The captain-general stands defeated, throwing a bitter look at Bishop Duvernay, who stands calmly in the corner with his hands hidden in his robes. His bluster is popped like a balloon, quickly thinking of the big picture like any other trained battle technician.

“I... I worked alone,” Captain-General Vernice confesses with his eyes to the ground. “The Vernice family had nothing to do with my decision. I shall absolve myself of my sin with death.”

“No, wait!” The Mad Dog lurches across the tent, displaying his impressive athleticism as he lunges for something that I only realize is a blade when it’s halfway out of its sheath.

“Stop him!” My father roars. So many questions remain. How did the captain-general get in contact with a Sarsavalian general? How long has he been in contact with them and are there any other key figures within the Erudian Empire who are in cahoots as well?

But Captain-General Vernice was a well-trained general, the thin blade flashing across his neck and leaving a thin red line in its wake.