The courtyard of Plynocco Keep, the royal citadel perched at the heart
of Braenoricaâs capital, shimmered beneath the late-morning sun.
Its flagstones, worn smooth by centuries of boot heels and hoofbeats, gleamed like pale river stones underfoot. High walls of golden limestone loomed on all sides, bearing ivy-clad battlements and colorful pennants that snapped in the breeze. A ring of colonnades framed the open yard, their marble pillars carved with ancient heroes, each perpetually victorious in some long-forgotten battle.
It was here that the clang of wood on wood rang sharp and fast, drawing the occasional glance from squires and servants passing on their errands.
Princess Eleanor of House Aurenschild, heir to the throne and determined wielder of pointy things, stood in the sparring circle, sweat glistening at her brow and fire in her green eyes. She wore a training tunic belted snug at the waist and breeches suited for movement, though her boots were polished just enough to annoy the court seamstress.
She drew in a breath, light on her toes, and lunged forward. Her wooden practice sword sliced through the air with precision, striking the curved shield of her opponent with a loud thwack that echoed off the stone walls.
Sir Malrick, greying and broad as an ox, shifted back a half step and grunted.
"A fair strike, Princess," he said, adjusting his grip. "Though you do seem to favor flair over function."
Eleanor straightened, lowered her blade, and glared. "Itâs called finesse, Sir Malrick. Perhaps youâve heard of it."
The knight gave her a tight-lipped smile, one he reserved for spirited youths with dreams of glory. "No doubt, Your Highness. But in war, it is the dull strike that kills just as well as the elegant one."
She clenched her jaw and launched another attack without warning. Their blades met in a rapid staccato of swings and blocks. Eleanor moved with energy and grace, her steps quick and calculated. But each time she pressed, Malrick met her, solid and immovable.
The duel ended with a sharp crack as Eleanor feinted left, pivoted, and struck upward with a deft flick of her wrist. Sir Malrickâs helmet flew clean off and clattered across the courtyard.
A beat of silence. Then Eleanor exhaled through a smile.
"Careless of me," she said innocently.
Sir Malrick rubbed his head and chuckled. "Or just careless of me."
She left the courtyard flushed but victorious, wiping sweat from her brow with the edge of her sleeve. Her sword clacked softly in its leather loop as she strode under the shaded archway and into the cool interior of the keep.
Within the keep, the mood shifted to one of hushed formality. Wide corridors stretched beneath vaulted ceilings. Tall stained-glass windows bathed the halls in a soft kaleidoscope of reds, blues, and greens. Rose-oil incense lingered in the air like a secret, blending with the polish of old wood and the faint must of stone.
Eleanor moved quickly through the halls, nodding absently at a steward, ignoring the curious looks of two gossiping courtiers. She was halfway to her chambers, her thoughts still humming with the memory of the fight, when she heard raised voices drifting from the throne room.
Male voices. Sharp, insistent, edged with tension.
She slowed, then paused entirely, footsteps silent on the carpeted floor. The great oaken doors to the throne room were slightly ajar, just enough to let sound slip through.
"You tie our hands with these restrictions, Your Majesty," came a voice like velvet soaked in vinegarâsmooth, rich, and unmistakably displeased. "How is a man of magic to protect this realm when he cannot so much as enchant a teaspoon without your council's blessing?"
Eleanor inched closer, the polished wood cool beneath her fingertips.
"You are not without influence, Morvaene," replied the king, his tone firm yet heavy with the weariness of command. "But power without boundaries is not protection. It is peril."
She leaned slightly to peer through the narrow opening.
Her father, King Aldren, stood tall before the throneâsilver-haired, broad-shouldered, and wearing the simple gold circlet of a ruler who favored clarity over grandeur. His royal robes were deep green with golden trim, embroidered not with dragons or lions, but with braided wheat and oak leaves.
Opposite him stood Morvaene, the Court Wizard of Braenorica. He was draped in robes of deep midnight blue, embroidered with runes that glimmered faintly like stars glimpsed through smoke. His dark eyes were sharp, his mouth a perfect line of practiced civility. He bowed stiffly.
"I only desire the good of the realm," he said.
"And I believe you," the king replied, folding his hands behind his back. "But the realm must also be protected from the ambitions of its protectors."
Eleanor withdrew quietly, heart pounding. There had been something there, something in Morvaeneâs eyesâthe briefest flicker of restrained fury. It had vanished in a blink, masked behind smooth words and polished deference.
But she had seen it.
And she would not forget.
***
She found her father later that afternoon in the west study, a quiet chamber tucked beneath the library tower. The tall mullioned windows overlooked the castle gardens, where the lavender bushes were just beginning to bloom and the ornamental hedge maze had recently been reconfigured into the shape of a phoenixâthough not everyone agreed on whether it looked intentional.
Inside, golden sunlight pooled across the oak desk, illuminating curled scrolls, opened tomes, and one particularly large map weighted with a carved paperweight shaped like a lion wearing spectacles. King Aldren sat in his high-backed chair, the embroidery at his shoulders worn from long use. A steaming cup of herbal tea sat at his elbow beside a plate of carrot cake in slow retreat.
He was tracing a finger along the borders of the western provinces when he spoke.
"You were listening."
He didnât look up.
Eleanor leaned against the doorframe. "I heard enough. Morvaene is dangerous."
The king sighed and gave a small, tired smile. He set the teacup down with a soft clink.
"Morvaene is brilliant. And brilliance often treads the edge of danger. That is why it must be watched closely."
Eleanor stepped into the room, the hem of her tunic brushing the old rugs that blanketed the stone floor. "Then let me help. If the disturbances are spreading, I shouldnât be stuck curtsying for dignitaries or fencing for noblewomen who think swords are decorative. I belong in the field."
Her father finally looked up. His eyes were sharp despite the soft creases at their corners. "You wish to patrol the countryside like a guard captain?"
She met his gaze. "I wish to lead, Father. And I canât do that behind a tapestry."
He was quiet for a moment, his expression unreadable. The only sound was the scratch of a quill somewhere down the hall and the soft rustle of the breeze through the open window.
Then, with a resigned exhale, he reached into a side drawer and withdrew a sealed parchment.
"We received word this morning," he said, offering it to her. "Strange happenings near Spindlewood village and Tallowmare Forest. Warden reports mention magical creatures behaving oddly. And their phrasing has become... concerning."
Eleanor broke the wax seal with a practiced flick. "Concerning how?"
"Poetic."
She blinked. "Poetic?"
He took another sip of tea. "The cows are quoting philosophers. The sheep have staged a sit-in around the mayorâs herb garden."
Eleanor grinned despite herself. "Then I am clearly needed."
King Aldren chuckled. "I shall authorize your journey. But you are to report back regularly and take a proper escort."
She stepped forward to take the scroll from his outstretched hand.
"Understood."
He gave her a longer look, one filled with both pride and concern. "Eleanor... lead wisely."
She nodded, heart steady.
It wasnât a full victory.
But it was a start.
***
Elsewhere in the castle, Bram Thistleside stood awkwardly in a high-ceilinged antechamber that reeked faintly of lavender, boiled meat, and a sort of quiet disdain that clung to the draperies. Gilded sconces lined the walls, casting flickering light on a series of stern portraitsâall nobility, all with noses in the air, as if offended by Bram's very existence. The tiled floor was so polished he could see the dirt on his boots reflected in it.
He had been ushered in by a guard whose expression suggested he expected Bram to either steal the silverware or sneeze on something ceremonial. The man had stared at Bram's patched trousers as if theyâd been sewn from revolution.
"Youâll see the Steward shortly," the guard had grunted, then exited with stiff-backed efficiency.
Bram shifted uncomfortably on the velvet-upholstered bench. He was fairly sure he wasnât supposed to be touching it. The cushion creaked in protest beneath him.
From inside his coat, Croaksley peeked out of a breast pocket like a smug brooch.
"Iâm not saying this place is gaudy," the frog whispered, "but the tapestries have tassels on their tassels. I think one just winked at me."
"Not now," Bram muttered, eyes fixed on a mural depicting a knight nobly rescuing a teacup from a hydra. "Just try to behave."
The grand oak doors at the far end creaked open. Bram stood and began to approach.
Through them strode Princess Eleanor, her presence cutting through the antechamber like a blade. She wore a forest-green riding cloak over a tunic that hinted at armor beneath, her boots echoing with purpose on the marble floor. At her side came a young squire juggling a folio of documents, and behind her, the Steward, tall and angular and wearing a pinched look that suggested he hadnât smiled since the last coronation.
Their trajectories collided like ships in a fog.
There was a flurry of parchment. A scroll flew skyward. Bram, attempting to step aside, tangled with the train of Eleanorâs cloak. His foot caught on the bench leg, and with a cry of alarm, he toppled forward.
He hit the ground with a thump, finding himself face-to-face with a boot polished to a blinding sheen.
"Ow," he muttered into the floor.
"What in the Queenâs nameâ?" Eleanor started, then narrowed her eyes as Bram rolled over and looked up. "Youâre not a courtier."
"No, maâam. Pest-control."
Croaksley, now perched jauntily on Bramâs shoulder, added, "And the finest mud-splattered example of the profession."
Eleanor blinked, her brow arching slightly. "Why are you in my hall?"
Bram pushed himself upright and brushed imaginary dust from his sleeves. "Was told to report about some enchanted livestock. Spindlewood. Suppose weâre both heading that way."
Her eyes swept over him from head to toe, taking in the patched coat, soot-smeared satchel, and expression of earnest awkwardness.
He glanced at her polished breastplate, the precise braiding of her hair, and the subtle scent of saddle oil and rosewater. He then quickly looked slightly to her left, choosing to focus on a tapestry depicting a heroic turnip.
The Steward cleared his throat, a sound like the turning of dry parchment.
"By royal command," he said, drawing himself up, "Princess Eleanor and Mister Thistleside shall investigate the disturbances separately."
"Separately?" Bram and Eleanor said in unison, the word falling from their mouths with equal parts confusion and dread.
"Indeed," the Steward intoned. "One to Tallowmare, one to Spindlewood."
Eleanor exhaled through her nose. "Splendid," she muttered.
"Splendid," echoed Bram, with precisely the opposite sentiment.
Croaksley looked from one to the other. "Well," he said brightly. "This will go well."
***
That evening, Bram saddled his mule and packed a satchel of enchanted nets, dried sausage, and croaking commentary.
"You realize," Croaksley said as they set out under the moonlight, "that you just insulted a princess to her face."
"I was beneath her face," Bram replied. "Technically, I insulted her ankle."
"Bold strategy."
"Wasnât a strategy. Was tripping over my own foot and then being elbowed by destiny."
Croaksley sighed. "Youâre going to get us executed. Or knighted. Which is worse, really."
"Letâs hope for neither. Iâve got pests to catch and a kingdom to not be responsible for."
And with that, the unlikely hero and his amphibious companion set off into the night, entirely unaware that history had already begun scribbling their names into legend.