The Princess and the Preemptive Strike

Like a statue carved from alabaster, the princess reposed upon her velvet bed, ensconced within the second-highest tower of the castle. She was little more than a guest here, a bargaining chip in the far western domain of the Ignis Clan. Her legs, stiff and throbbing inside their constricting stockings, were a painful reminder of a long day filled with ceremony. A delicate purple veil still lay across her face, obscuring her features from the world.

The sound that shattered the tranquility of her slumber was unmistakable. It was a shrill, abrasive scream—the unique, metallic cry of steel grinding against steel.

Shaking off the last vestiges of a pleasant dream, Rosa blinked her eyes open with a nascent smile. The smile died on her lips as her surroundings came into focus, and the memory of the dangers lurking in the periphery of her new life came rushing back.

The metallic scraping persisted, ascending to an even higher, more ear-splitting octave by the time she was fully awake. Her gaze fell upon the quarterly revenue report from her minister of commerce, which had slipped to the floor. She must have dozed off while reviewing it. She found a strange comfort in such tasks; being presented with documents to analyze made her feel less like a figurehead and more like a genuine queen, as if her position held a substance beyond mere ornamentation. She enjoyed arranging the stack of data on her lap, smoothing the fabric of her dress, and tracing each line with a finger while peering through reading glasses—which, given her flawless vision, were purely for effect. The ink on the pages was so fresh that it smudged at her touch, but since this was her private copy, the small act of vanity harmed no one.

Though she would have been loath to admit it, the figures were a formidable challenge. They swam before her eyes, refusing to coalesce into any logical calculation in her mind. She suspected that none of the ministers truly sought her opinion or expected any profound insight from her, and she was certain none would be so discourteous as to press her for one.

What was the hour? How had she slept for so long? She had begun her work on the reports just after the evening meal; it had to be well past midnight.

The shrieking did not relent. Determined to reclaim her rest, Rosa resolved to locate the source of the disturbance and command its silence. The more prudent part of her consciousness—the voice that would have insisted she summon a bodyguard or at least delegate the investigation to someone with more brawn—remained dormant, swaddled in the lingering fog of sleep.

At this late hour, she channeled the self-reliant spirit she had cultivated during her time at the neighboring palace, a place where she had always been forced to fend for herself. Dressed only in a simple silk slip, she swept out of her private chamber, heaved open the heavy doors, and stepped into the humid night air.

Curiously, the unceasing noise—and the glaring fact that no guard had intervened to stop it—did not register as particularly strange to her. Perhaps this, too, was a consequence of her deeply ingrained conviction that if you wanted something accomplished, you had to see to it yourself.

The moss-covered ground was saturated with dew. The cold, wet earth squelched between her toes with every step, the sound nearly as maddening as the scraping itself.

"Enough!" she shouted, her voice taut with fury.

As the mist eddied and cleared, the culprits came into view.

It was her own guards, Ignis and Ventus Cheng of the Zephyr Clan. They were engrossed in a series of deadly drills, their blades clanging against a large sheet of metal that had likely been purloined from the blacksmith’s forge. Each impact unleashed an unholy screech.

She stared at them, planting her hands on her hips. Could they truly be so oblivious to the cacophony they were creating in the dead of night? Her guards were skilled mercenaries, but their dependability was questionable—they were often more inclined to stage a practical joke than to draw their swords in her defense.

This, however, was a new echelon of thoughtlessness.

"Stop!" she commanded, her voice slicing through the air with greater sharpness. "Stop! Stop! Stop!"

They finally ceased their noisy assault, their bodies freezing in place only when her form became unmistakable through the gloom.

Ignis was the first to break the silence. "So pleased you could join us, my princess."

"I am not your princess," she corrected him without hesitation. "And I have never encountered such insolent louts. Adherents of the Zephyr Clan are meant to pride themselves on their skill, not their absurdity. If you did not, I would have you banished from my presence."

She scowled, challenging them to reply.

"We were only preparing for the coming war," Ventus answered, his face a mask of feigned sympathy. "This particular technique generates such a racket that we deemed it best to practice now, rather than alarming people during the day. Under normal circumstances, we would be asleep."

"Then go to sleep!" Rosa snapped, her frustration boiling over. "You require rest to be effective in combat, surely you understand that? Or would you prefer to spend every waking moment honing your ability to kill?" Her smile was a bitter, angry curve of her lips. "That is all boys ever wish to do, anyway."

"Oh, and girls are so much superior?" Ignis scoffed before his brother could intervene. "I don't see you taking up a sword."

Rosa snorted. "I have other weapons at my disposal. My intellect, for one. And a kingdom to rule, for another. Therefore, I suggest you perform your duties well enough that I am never compelled to draw a sword."

With indignation fueling her movements, she brushed past the two brothers. To be kept from her sleep by her own guards—any other royal would be sick with laughter if they learned of her predicament.

She turned back toward the castle. "Go to sleep," she ordered. "Tomorrow, I will arrange for a few hours of quiet so you can perfect your technique. It will, at the very least, instill a sense of urgency in these slouching hedonists." She paused. "And please, for the love of the gods, get some rest."

As her silhouette disappeared over the rise, Ventus shot Ignis a grin. "I like her."

Ignis rolled his eyes. "And yet, she despises us."

Ventus shrugged. "She's my type. A challenge."

"They're calling this a preemptive strike," Argent groaned from beneath the splintered plywood wall that had collapsed on him. Reddington hauled him to his feet and kicked the debris aside.

"I'm aware of what it is," Red grunted, his hands beginning to glow with a cautious heat as they crept toward the hut's demolished entryway.

For several heartbeats, there was no sign of the brown-haired, scarred man with the unsettling habit of licking his teeth.

"Remind me of his weapon," Red muttered.

Argent touched a nearby wood panel, which was riddled with bullet holes. "Lance of Flame. But the ammunition is crude. Our own flames should be hot enough to melt the projectiles if we concentrate."

Red heaved a long, weary sigh. "Fine. Let's get this over with." He reached into his pouch.

A volley of bullets exploded from the gaping entrance, slamming into the wooden barrier around them.

The two men fell silent. Argent unleashed a broad sheet of flame, a defensive curtain to shield their makeshift fortress from the enemy's onslaught.

"Alright, future head!" Red yelled, but his cry of triumph was cut short as more bullets tore through his fiery defense. His smile evaporated. He produced nine poisoned shuriken, one for each gunshot he had counted.

"And you're the master marksman, as always," Argent commented with a dry tone.

"Hey. Is it enough, though?" Red asked, his eyes widening as a tenth bullet sizzled through the air. He conjured a fireball just in time to melt it, mere inches from his heart.

"He has us trapped," Argent observed, his gaze sweeping over the dilapidated structure. "But I know this place. There's a tunnel."

"Yeah?" Red grunted, launching another spray of throwing stars. "Where?"

Argent craned his neck, his eyes fixing on a chest tucked behind a dusty shelf. He moved toward it, cracked it open, and pulled out a key. Kneeling, he ran his palm over the floorboards, feeling for a seam. His fingers found the division, and he pried the slabs of wood apart.

"There."

"Where are you taking me, Ruby?"

Argent's expression soured at the nickname he despised. "It opens into a small patch of woods just past the field. If we're quick, we should be able to ambush him from the outside."

"Are you certain?"

"I only know of one tunnel."

Red scratched his head, sliding his remaining shuriken back into their pouch. "If you say so, future head."

They descended into the passage. It was confining and utterly black.

"How is the entrance so near the exit?" Red inquired as they navigated the impossibly short space.

"Whoever constructed this ages ago placed an incantation upon it," Argent explained, propelling himself up toward the exit hatch. "To compress the distance, to save time." He shoved the door open. "And to disorient blindfolded prisoners."

"Yeah, yeah," Red replied, his attention already elsewhere. He vaulted up through the opening without any magical assistance; the exit wasn't particularly high, and he stood a full head taller than Argent.

But as he surveyed their new surroundings, his casual air vanished. "You are an absolute liar," he exclaimed. They were standing before a stone archway, not in a forest clearing. A suit of armor was on display nearby, and down a long hall, a lavishly decorated bedroom was clearly visible.

Argent sneered. "As if your ridiculous pride would have permitted you to listen otherwise."

"Whatever you say, you coward."

"Enough of your childish theatrics," Argent snapped, his gaze sharp and unwavering. "The man was armed! Did you expect us to stand there and be riddled with bullets? Believe it or not, the clan does not have another strategist of my caliber to spare for the front lines."

"So what? You're going to run to The Seeress for aid?" Red retorted. "I can't believe you're proving that traitorous bastard right, after all this time."

"Mind your language," a new voice called out. "You're in the presence of a princess." The princess herself was sprinting toward them, clutching the pink skirts of her gown in both hands.

Argent grinned. "Really? Have you met my girlfriend, Rosa?"

Red simply stared. Then he erupted in laughter—a loud, hysterical peal that made him slap his knee and lean against the wall for support.

The couple glared at him, entirely unamused.

"Sorry, sorry," Red managed to gasp, wiping a tear from his eye. "But I must have misheard—"

"The princess and I are dating," Argent reiterated, running a hand through his lavender-hued hair. He turned to Rosa and pressed his lips to hers, stifling her own quiet giggle.

"Really, Argent," Rosa said, pulling away with a faint blush. "Was that necessary?"

He gave her a meaningful look. "You see what I'm forced to deal with." He faced Red again. "Now be quiet. This is a crisis."

Red appeared to be in a daze, unresponsive to any further provocation.

Giving up on him, Argent turned to Rosa, his voice now laced with urgency. "A preemptive strike has been launched against the clan lands. I need the Cheng brothers. Immediately."