TO&FQ: Book 1 - Chapter 31 (RAW)

Chapter 31 - The Prince

“Never attempt to win by force what can be won by deception.”

- The Prince by Niccolò Machiavelli.

What followed was less a battle and more a grim chore of mopping up. The bandits' backbone had been shattered, their will to fight crumbling into pockets of feeble resistance. Yet, it could not be denied—they fought with a tenacity uncommon to mere desperate highwaymen. 

Sergeant Frest had proven so industrious with his crossbow that he exhausted his supply of bolts. Drawing his mace-flail, he dismounted and plunged into the fray. Mounted combat was not his forte; after all, the men-at-arms in her father's employ were primarily foot soldiers. Still, Frest acquitted himself admirably. He had snatched up a battered heater shield from a fallen knight and was methodically crushing skulls, his expression one of cold detachment. The former bandit wielded his weapon mostly as mace, using its flanged head to bludgeon people to death. The spiked ball at the end of the iron chain was just a bonus, adding a touch of chaotic menace to each swing.

Eloise and the brothers, with the formidable warrior at their side, became a bulwark against the new wave of attackers. The doll-like girl conjured earthen walls and gaping chasms, her magic turning the very ground into a weapon that blunted the enemy's advance. She wielded her newfound powers with an ease that was almost frightening; it seemed only yesterday she struggled to move mere clods of Earth.

Seraphina herself had grown immeasurably during the clash. The sudden surge of her personal power only heightened her suspicion that she was but an actor in a play directed by unseen hands—a play whose script she was beginning to resent. She was being tested, she could feel it.

As the tide of battle turned in their favor, her confidence swelled. She swung her halberd with newfound assurance, each strike rewarded by the game system that governed her abilities. The harsh lessons from Kelsan were applicable even with this unfamiliar weapon: footwork, positioning, the judicious use of space. Her delicate frame belied a ridiculous strength, allowing her to wield the halberd with lethal efficiency. Normally, the weapon was deadly around the head, but in her hands, even the haft became deadly.

Her Critical Hit Mastery skill had risen a level, and her proficiency with Polearms increased by two. Perhaps as a result, her Dexterity naturally improved by a point. The amalgamation of these enhancements made her both stronger and swifter, but fatigue was setting in. No matter how formidable, a person could not fight at peak performance indefinitely. She made a mental note to pace herself better in future battles.

The mighty warrior atop his black steed had finished scattering his foes and thundered back to aid his fellow Royal Guards. His arrival was like a hammer blow, shattering the remnants of the bandits' resolve. Panic overtook them, and they broke ranks, fleeing into the shadowed sanctuary of the trees.

Seraphina whistled sharply. Kicker, her borrowed warhorse, trotted over after finishing the gruesome work of trampling an unfortunate soul beneath iron-shod hooves. Thanks to her Improved Riding Skill, she mounted him smoothly, her body tired but her spirit was thirsting for more blood and the promise of more experience.

She spurred Kicker forward, urging him to chase down the fleeing enemies. The command was unnecessary; the warhorse was as eager as she, his muscles coiled like springs ready to release. Together they barreled after the bandits, Kicker's massive form plowing through underbrush and men alike, while her halberd speared them through.

"Seraphina! Lady Seraphina! Further pursuit would not be wise!" Sergeant Frest's voice rang out behind her, a note of warning threading through the chaos.

It was sound advice, but Seraphina was nothing if not stubborn. Her blood was up, and her ears were deaf to caution. She was a tempest on horseback, singular in purpose. Bandits fell before her like wheat to a scythe, their cries lost in the thunder of hooves and the roar of blood in her ears.

So consumed was she in the chase that she failed to heed the looming grasp of the forest. A low-hanging branch from an ancient, unyielding oak hidden by its own shadows caught her unawares. Despite her ogre-like strength, the immutable laws of physics took precedence. The branch struck her squarely, tearing her from the saddle. She crashed to the dark, leaf-strewn forest floor, the world spinning as the canopy above blurred into a tapestry of shadows and light.

*****

Seraphina found herself lost in the strangest of dreams. She was lounging on a sun-drenched tropical beach, the gentle crash of waves harmonizing with the rustling palms. A frozen margarita rested in her perfectly manicured hand, condensation dripping languidly down the glass. In her lap lay a glossy magazine, its pages devoted to effusive praise of one of her most recent ventures—a triumph she deserved, of course.

The ocean stretched endlessly before her, a shade of blue so vivid it seemed stolen from the whimsical illustrations of a children’s storybook. She gazed out at the horizon, her lips curling into a satisfied smile. Naturally, she was chic as ever, draped in a designer beach ensemble that was effortlessly elegant.

Yet something odd lingered in the corners of her dream. The photograph accompanying the magazine article—a glowing profile of her success—showed her with long, jet-black hair. That couldn’t be right, could it? Seraphina’s signature golden tresses were her trademark. A brief flicker of indignation arose before she brushed it aside. Perhaps the shoot had been on a particularly whimsical day. Still, her discerning eye caught another offense: the angle of the photo did her no justice. Her figure, always the epitome of perfection, especially around the chest, had been minimized.

That simply would not do.

As she mulled over how best to chastise the magazine for their failure to capture her true essence, she glanced around for a member of the serving staff. She had half a mind to issue a frivolous complaint, merely to test the famed ‘heart of service’ the hotel so proudly touted. Testing people kept them sharp, she reasoned. Management should be thanking her for such impromptu performance evaluations. Surely, it was a form of training.

She trailed her fingers idly through the fine, white sand, the grains warm and soft against her flawless skin. For a moment, she indulged in the tactile pleasure, savoring the contrast of texture. The sun was, as always, a treacherous adversary to her perfect complexion, but for now, she allowed herself to bask in this fleeting tranquility. Alone on the beach, if only in her half-lucid dream, she was a queen in her own serene dominion.

Now there was an incessant voice trying to bring her back to the stupid waking world. Why couldn’t it simply shut up and leave her to her dream?

*****

"Lady Seraphina! Lady Seraphina!" a high-pitched, girlish voice sliced through the veil of her pleasant dream, yanking her back to harsh reality.

Someone was shaking her shoulder—urgently, almost desperately.

"I don't think that if you shake her any harder, fruit will fall off," drawled a cutting yet familiar male voice, laced with dry humor. Lacking in refinement, it could only be a commoner’s voice

Before she even opened her eyes, a notification flashed across her mind—a silent accusation.

You have learned Rest (lvl.3)

Groaning softly, she cracked open one eye, allowing the blurred world to come into focus before opening the other. Faces swam above her—worried, anxious. Two figures hovered over her, likely brothers judging by their shared sharp features and matching concern.

The owner of the girlish voice continued to shake her shoulder, her porcelain doll-like face twisted with worry.

"Hana? Eloise?" Seraphina murmured, an inexplicable annoyance prickling at her despite the situation.

Her gaze drifted, almost unwillingly, to a blond young man—Vellens. Those storm-gray eyes, so familiar yet so distant, watched her with a concern that felt... manufactured, as if worn like a mask.

"Water," Seraphina demanded hoarsely. Eloise sprang into action, pressing a flask to her parched lips. The liquid was stale, tinged with the unpleasant taste of leather, but she drank greedily, her thirst overriding any disgust. From the corner of her eye, she noticed the dark-haired girl casting furtive glances at Vellens, and irrationally, a sharp pang of jealousy stabbed at her.

She might have spat out the foul-tasting water, but her body betrayed her, swallowing every drop.

Once her thirst was quenched, Seraphina surveyed her surroundings. The road was littered with the lifeless bodies of the fallen, their blood staining the dirt—a grim testament to the battle that had unfolded.

"How long was I… resting?" she asked, her voice steadier now.

"About half a turn of the glass, milady," Sergeant Frest responded, his tone dripping with mock politeness. His rugged face bore the shadows of fatigue, but his eyes gleamed with a hint of amusement. "You had a disagreement with a tree, and unfortunately, the tree won," he added, his expression deadly serious—a seriousness that felt almost mocking.

"Thank you for that illuminating report, Sergeant," she replied sharply, pushing herself to sit up. Her limbs felt like lead, and she wobbled like a newborn colt attempting its first steps.

"You shouldn't try to stand yet," Prince Vellens cautioned smoothly, his baritone voice as soothing as velvet. He extended a hand to help her, but she brushed it aside, refusing to meet his gaze.

"I assure you, I am quite fine," she insisted, the sting of humiliation burning in her cheeks. If only she did not feel so abysmally weak, she might have snapped back with more venom.

"It was fortuitous that you arrived when you did—a stroke of remarkable luck. But tell me, how did you know...?" the Prince queried, his eyes narrowing with a hint of suspicion.

"My mother, of course," Seraphina lied effortlessly, the falsehood slipping from her lips as smoothly as silk. Well, perhaps it was only half a lie; her mother likely had a hand in orchestrating this—a gentle push here, a whispered word there.

Suddenly, a man stepped forward, his jet-black hair and sharp Asiatic features marking him as man cut most likely from the same racial cloth as Eloise. His eyes were dark pools of sapphire reflecting a depth of experience beyond his years. It was a juxtaposition of young and old. He pushed past the two towering brothers, who glared at him with thinly veiled hostility.

"And these were no mere bandits, Your Highness," the man stated firmly. His armor, though battered and scarred from battle, retained their imposing dignity. The cavalry saber at his side caught the light—a weapon she recognized all too well.

She recalled the flashing blade, the swift and deadly movements. This was the mighty warrior who had defended Eloise’s group, cutting through enemies with a grace that was both terrifying and mesmerizing.

The memories of the skirmish flooded back—the clash of steel, the cries of the wounded, the total surprise and sense of falling before everything went dark.

"Who were they, then?" Prince Vellens demanded, his voice cold and commanding. A shadow darkened his aristocratic features, and his eyes gleamed with an almost theatrical intensity, as if he'd been waiting for this very moment. "And you, Gallant—according to the other guards, you rushed off, leaving them behind. Leaving me, your charge. What have you to say for yourself?" His words dripped with cutting accusation.

The man's name was Gallant? Well, he certainly looked the part, Seraphina mused treacherously, a flicker of admiration stirring as she took in his chiseled jaw and unwavering gaze. There was an intensity about him that made her feel… very hot and bothered.

Gallant met the Prince's piercing stare with a dismissive smirk, a subtle defiance that made Vellens's eye twitch in barely concealed anger. There was definitely something between these two.

"As for these attackers," Gallant began calmly, "they were, as you say, not mere bandits." His tone was diplomatic, unflappable. It made Vellens look like a child. "And regarding my actions, I followed the code of Chivalry," he stated cooly.

"Gallant? The code of Chivalry?" the Prince echoed incredulously, surprise flashing across his face as he let out a false laugh. "Do enlighten us all. Surely the code would compel you to defend your liege lord and charge? Surely, you forget yourself as a member and Knight of the Royal Guard."

The proud Knight drew himself to his full height. "I protected a lady who required the strength of my sword arm more," Gallant replied with a feigned humility. "Such is the duty of any Knight. That sword at your side—I trust it's not merely ornamental, my Prince..."

"Why, you insufferable—" Vellens sputtered, his polished facade cracking as a flush of anger rose in his cheeks.

A few steps away, Eloise's eyes flickered toward Gallant, a delicate blush blooming on her porcelain skin. She glanced back at Vellens, her gaze shifting between the two men—as if subconsciously weighing them against each other. Her interest was so obvious it was embarrassing.

"Thank you for your help, Sir Gallant," the de Laney girl said softly, her voice laced with shy gratitude. “I will never forget it.” She cast another demure glance his way, her cheeks still tinged with rose.

Seraphina felt a sharp sting of irritation. Was she invisible? Gallant had not deemed her a lady in need of defending. Though she was grateful for his assistance, a petty part of her bristled at the thought that the foolish knight had prioritized Eloise—a mere upstart—over her. A true lady, overlooked for some recently jumped-up noble who fluttered her eyelashes at any man who was passing fair with a handsome face. It was insulting.

Honestly, the audacity of it all. Both men were now entirely focused on Eloise. Could they not see that she was the injured party here?

Her hands clenched at her sides, nails biting into her palms. A storm of conflicting emotions churned within her—humiliation, jealousy, anger. How dare they ignore her after all she had endured? After risking herself, she was being sidelined for a girl who barely understood the world beyond her sheltered existence.

She shot a glare at Gallant, who seemed oblivious to her presence, his attention fixed solely on Eloise. And Vellens—was he not supposed to be her ally at this stage? Her fiance? Was propriety completely thrown out of the window now? Yet here he stood, bristling at Gallant's insolence, but more out of wounded pride than any concern for her.

The tension in the air was palpable, a taut string ready to snap. Seraphina felt a desperate urge to seize control, to reclaim the attention that was rightfully hers.

"Perhaps we should focus on the matter at hand," she interjected sharply, her voice cutting through their heated exchange. "There are more pressing concerns than petty disputes over chivalry."

Both men turned to look at her, surprise flickering in their eyes. Eloise glanced down, a hint of misplaced guilt shadowing her face.

Gallant inclined his head slightly. "You are correct, Lady Seraphina," he acknowledged. "My apologies."

Prince Vellens straightened, smoothing his features back into a mask of composed nobility. "Indeed," he agreed coolly. "We must assess the situation and plan our next move."

For a fleeting moment, Seraphina allowed herself a small, triumphant smile. The balance had shifted, however slightly. Yet beneath the surface, the undercurrents of tension still swirled, threatening to pull them all under.

She took a steadying breath, her resolve hardening. “Well then, I must offer you the succor and hospitality of our keep.”