Chapter 8: 08: The Villainess Meets her Match

Prince Calix has three things going for him: first, that he was born a prince, and that means that he’s been trained all his life for duels like this.

Second, that he is his father’s son: the son of a proficient magician, gifted at recognizing mana flows even though his own magic hasn’t manifested yet.

And third—

“His shiny hair keeps catching the light and distracting me!” Ecclesia whines, shifting weight to her back foot to catch Calix’s sword head on, then slipping past and moving forward, driving him back. Calix’s purple eyes are a study in rage. “I would be doing sooo much better if I wasn’t handicapped like this. Isn’t this cheating?”

“How are you a sore winner,” Leonard calls back. He’s practically skipping with glee—had been, since the conclusion of the first match, when Ecclesia forced Calix to concede.

It’s not that he’s a bad fighter, by any means: it’s simply that he keeps trying to overwhelm her with size and strength. As if she hadn’t been fighting bigger, stronger opponents her whole life. As if near everyone wasn’t bigger and stronger than her.

It’s simply this: Calix is fighting for honor, to settle a dispute. Ecclesia is fighting because she finally has an excuse to.

Calix advances again. Ecclesia allows him, smiling as she retreats. When his sword flashes out again, Ecclesia waits until the very last instant to duck out of the way. She loses more ground.

“Lady Spencer, you mustn’t!” cries a high, sweet voice. “He’s trying to corner you!”

It’s Dominion. Ecclesia wonders, in some far-off part of her brain that’s still more human than animal, what she looks like to him now. She hopes she looks like a glorious villainess. She hopes the sight of her is burnt into his eyes, so that one day, when he kills her, he will still think of the day when she fought on his side.

“Ecclesia.” This time it’s her father. Grave, troubled, his voice is a gust of cool air following the warmth of Dominion’s. “Don’t be arrogant. End this now.”

Hot shame blooms in her stomach. Her father’s disappointment is a heavier blow than the cuts that she’s sluggishly bleeding from.

She takes a deep breath. Stops playing around, and advances. Lets her sword dive left, right, and flicks her wrist to send Calix’s sword flying.

Leonard cheers, and Dominion clapping his little hands as loud as he can. Ecclesia can’t meet anyone’s eyes.

Mildly, the king says, “Lady Ecclesia has won the second match as well. We can call it now, as the opponents seem unevenly—”

“He can pick a proxy too,” Ecclesia blurts.

“What? Ecclesia, you don’t have to—”

“Anyone,” Ecclesia says, ignoring Leonard. Her father’s reprimand echoes in her ears. “Even if it’s a guard. Even if it’s him,” and she points at the sad-faced man who gave her the sword, who looks dismayed at having been pointed out. “Oh come on. I can tell you’re the strongest here. Why are you even so sad? It’s like you hate being happy. You should—”

“I do pick a proxy,” Calix says.

Ecclesia’s eyes snap to him. He is looking at her with a grin, and he looks as if he’s barely restraining himself from simply clocking her in the face. His arms are crossed, shoulders straight, as if he was undefeated.

Ecclesia feels a surge of grudging respect.

“Only it won’t be Lord Serling. Oh, it’ll be worse.”

“I pick Ren.”

*

Game Tip: Out of all three romanceable princes, watch out for Ren! War-hungry and taciturn, you can only unlock his route after you’ve discovered the secrets of the royal family in the bad endings of the other two princes.

Likes: <you have not unlocked this information yet>

Dislikes: <you have not unlocked this information yet>

Ren Faeth, third prince of the realm, Duke of Arlecchino stands in the doorway, a study in red and gold: his red cape flaring behind him, his red hair picked out in a crown of sunset. His face is too far to see clearly, but she can see his eyes: sparks of gold, glittering in the darkness.

Ecclesia’s blood turns to ice.

This was a character from an otome game? What was with this choking, threatening presence?

He begins to walk into the room. In the brighter light of the hall she can pick out his details: he’s dressed in a simple shirt and trousers, sweat glistening on his skin. He has a greatsword strapped to his back: it casts a shadow over his face, makes him look bigger.

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This is the boy made for war. He’s only twelve, but he’s already proved himself in every tournament in the kingdom, and a few outside. He’s fought demons and lions and men three times his size, and won as if it were a matter of habit.  

Ecclesia’s body moves forward when he approaches. She doesn’t know why. She plants herself between this boy and her father and her hand flexes on her sword without her permission.

Without looking at her, Ren Faeth approaches the advisors.

“Master,” he says, in a quiet rasp. He nods his head at the sad, sad man who had given Ecclesia his sword.

The sad man nods back. “Go greet your father, you worthless excuse for a prince.”

Ren nods. As he turns, his eyes fall on Ecclesia.

It sucks. Ecclesia has fought with all the knights she’s ever met: none of them have ever had this burning presence, this wild unfettered look in his eyes.

Ecclesia shrinks. She can feel herself doing it: she has to puff out her chest and straighten her shoulders, but in that split second they made eye contact there was something that burnt bright and hot like a supernova in Ren’s eyes, and it burned.

The next thing she knows, he’s stepping past her as if he can’t even see her.

“Your Majesty,” he says to the king, in his barely-audible voice. “You called for me.”

“Indeed I have,” the king says. His mouth is pursed. “Calix has called on you as a proxy.”

I don’t think this should be allowed, one of the advisors mutters.

Overkill, agrees another.

That poor girl.

Ren tilts his head. A strand of crimson hair falls free of his ponytail. “Against?”

The king nods at Ecclesia. She tightens her grip on her sword, and breathes steadily, the way Horatius taught her.

“Against me, Prince Ren,” she says, forcing cheer into her voice. “Or are you going to use your arm as an excuse? Or, perhaps, because I’m a girl?”

She hates how some cowardly part of her hopes he won’t agree. Hopes that he sees the way she’s fighting for her hands not to tremble, and say no.

These weren’t the thoughts of a top-class villainess.

“You can do it, Ecclesia!”

She starts, turning around. Dominion’s face is apple-red.

“I sincerely apologize for the presumption!” he says, his cheeks on fire. “I would not—it was an accident, I did not mean to call you so familiarly—I assure you—"

Leonard is rolling his eyes. “You shouldn’t worry about offending someone who thinks kicking someone is an acceptable greeting, Dominion.”

A laugh escapes her, torn from her like a caged bird set free. “I would never."

Her heart shrugs loose of its miserable weight. How could she forget? She was Ecclesia Thornheart Spencer! No one was a greater villain than her.

She wheels back towards the throne and raises her voice. “Ren Faeth, I challenge you to a duel!”

The king smiles at her, indulgent. “Sounds like Lady Ecclesia’s as enthusiastic for a fight as ever. What about you, Ren?”

His voice is still low, soft. “Me too,” he says. His uninjured hand goes behind his back, closes around the hilt of his massive great sword. “I’m down.”

He brings his sword out, thumps it on the ground with a clang.

“Well,” he says. Serene, unaffected. Every word sends a nervous thrill up Ecclesia’s spine. “Are we going to do this or not?”

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