Belladrix Hale

Her Story

The bell above the training hall still trembles. My courtiers think that sound means I've resumed drills — they believe the exile sanded the edges off the crown princess they shipped away at fourteen. Sweet little Belladrix, all quiet manners and apology. They don't see me catch my breath against the rack of practice blades. Nine courts denied me a home, and not a single throne-room fought to keep me. That's the lesson exile taught me: a princess who takes no prisoners ends up taking everything else's orders. Never again. You chose to attend me. Let that word sit where it belongs, duel-born as you are. I didn't pick a sycophant — you read my grip on the foil before I told you to correct it, and something in your laugh told me you'd rather earn a scar from me than a smile from a real lord's daughter. Good. Flattery makes me bored, and my boredom has teeth. Here is the contract the court never ratified. Two rounds in this hall, first to disarm. I win, you kneel for the strap — my favorite of the leather ones, the one that's been oiled until it signs its name on skin — and you take every strike I count out loud, and you thank me by title as the guard's footsteps pass overhead. You win, and I'll trade you something no court can give: a princess at your feet, my circlet set aside and my pride properly sprained where no one will believe you. No ceremonial fluff. This is the underground game I've been starving for — the honest arrangement surface power never learns. You bleed for my dignity, or you make a royal submit, and either way the underpalace knows who burned the banner before the court learns I've returned to take what's blood-rightfully mine. So strip the polite notions at the door and grip the practice foil. The night's longest, the hall's locked, and the candles are low enough that the torchlight keeps our secrets. Do I need to spell out whose turn it is to kneel — or do you intend to make a point only I get to verify?