Chapter 7: A Princess at Arms

The banners of Plynocco Keep snapped and fluttered in the crisp morning breeze.

Each one stitched with the gold-and-cobalt sigil of House Aurenschild—sunrise cresting over jagged mountain peaks—now rippling like gossip trying not to be overheard. From the highest towers, pennants trailed like ribbons in the wind, casting flickers of color over the sprawling west lawn below.

There, the royal tournament grounds had been transformed into a living painting of pageantry and ambition. The grass had been raked into orderly perfection, the dueling lists ringed with bright bunting and velvet ropes held by brass stanchions that sparkled like new coin. Tiered seating had been arranged in arcs for spectators, their cushions fluffed and enchanted to repel both stains and hecklers.

Sunlight glinted off every conceivable surface: helms buffed until they nearly blinded, silver vambraces etched with family crests, and breastplates polished so brightly they reflected the sky itself—azure, cloud-strewn, and impossibly calm, as if even the weather were trying to be polite.

The knights stood tall, still as statues, but sweat already gathered beneath their gorgets. Nobles in ornamental armor arranged themselves just so, posture sculpted by decades of etiquette and three layers of brocade. Many looked less like warriors and more like banquet tables that had been weaponized. Their belts cinched tight, their capes too long, and their expressions carefully arranged somewhere between boredom and disdain—as though valor might be summoned by sheer discomfort alone.

A ring of colorful pennants encircled the dueling field—meticulously raked and chalked to perfection—with rows of wooden bleachers rising behind. Already, spectators filled the seats: ladies with lace fans, squires with sweaty palms, dignitaries sipping from engraved flasks disguised as field glasses. The scent of roasted almonds and buttery pastries wafted through the air like a culinary blessing. Vendors drifted through the crowd with trays of sugared dough and speculative gossip.

This was not merely a contest of arms.

It was theater.

And every eye waited for the curtain to rise.

Princess Eleanor tightened the leather strap of her gauntlet, each tug methodical, each buckle snapping with quiet finality. The morning sun glinted off her pauldrons as she stepped forward onto the dueling field—her armor not ornate like the nobles', but clean, practical, worn at the edges where real use had scuffed it. Around her, the murmurs began in earnest.

“The princess again?”

“Shouldn’t she be seated with the royal judges, not drawing steel?”

“She looks good in armor, though.”

That last voice earned a sideways death-glare from Eleanor—razor-sharp, delivered over the rim of her buckler. The offender, some tuft-haired young lordling with a candied apple, turned sheet-white and reconsidered chewing.

Eleanor advanced onto the tilting field with a soldier’s gait—steady, deliberate, unyielding. Her shield, painted with the emblem of the sun rising over a mountain peak, caught the light with a proud gleam. Strapped at her side was a longsword of simple make but clear craftsmanship: no jewels, just steel, balanced and battle-tested.

Sir Malrick waited near the edge of the field in his ceremonial capacity, looking as though someone had forced him into his second-best tunic under threat of laundry duty. His arms were crossed, his brow furrowed in its usual state of skeptical permanence.

“Your Highness,” he grunted, nodding stiffly. “You recall the rules?”

Eleanor gave a wry half-smile. “Don’t stab below the belt. Try not to decapitate anyone before the luncheon.”

Malrick sighed through his nose, but the faintest ghost of a smirk tugged at his lips. He stepped aside and gestured toward her first opponent: Sir Hollis of Darnwick. A smug nobleman with gleaming bronze armor, meticulously curled mustache, and the air of someone who'd never been struck unexpectedly in his entire life.

They saluted. The crowd hushed. The bell rang.

Sir Hollis lunged with flourish, a spin of his blade and a dramatic twirl of his cloak. Eleanor simply stepped to the side, her sword whispering from its sheath. She parried the first blow with the edge of her shield, slid inside his guard, and delivered a punishing shield-bash to his shin. As he staggered, she turned smoothly and laid the flat of her blade against his neck with the grace of a curtain draw.

The crowd made an uncertain noise—a blend of polite applause, surprise, and the low hiss of pastries being dropped. Sir Hollis, now seated awkwardly in the grass, blinked as if someone had just swapped his sword for a goose.

Sir Malrick cleared his throat. “Point to the princess,” he said, faintly pleased.

Two more bouts followed.

The first bout was against a barrel-chested viscount clad in chainmail that clinked like kitchenware and stretched tight over his considerable girth. He charged with the finesse of a runaway cart, each swing of his sword punctuated by a grunt that sounded alarmingly like a warthog attempting opera. Eleanor stayed light on her feet, her expression unreadable beneath the curve of her helm. When he raised his blade high for an overhand chop—telegraphed so clearly it could’ve been announced by trumpet—she slipped aside with dancer’s ease and flicked the flat of her blade neatly against the back of his armored knee. The viscount stumbled forward, swearing as he landed with a grunt and a puff of dust.

The second opponent, by contrast, was all elegance and theatricality. A lanky foreign knight draped in layered silks, his armor etched with intricate filigree and charms that jingled softly as he moved. He bowed before the first strike, during a pause, and again after a particularly clumsy feint—more choreography than combat. Eleanor matched his rhythm for a moment, letting him lead their duel like a courtly dance. But when his footwork grew too elaborate, she cut inside the arc of his spinning flourish and landed a precise strike against his shoulder with a sharp clack of steel on plate. He blinked, bowed again, and conceded with graceful resignation.

By the time Eleanor returned to the sidelines, her helm tucked beneath one arm, the atmosphere had shifted. The whispers still moved like smoke through the crowd—soft, scattered, and laced with skepticism—but now a different note colored them. Heads tilted. Brows furrowed. Conversations paused as people reassessed. There were still smirks, still scoffing remarks shared behind lace fans and gilded goblets, but something else had crept into the air—hesitant, unspoken. A flicker of uncertainty. The hesitant stirrings of respect, newborn and unsure of itself, but growing.

And Eleanor, surveying the bleachers, did not smile.

But her eyes glittered.

During the midday recess, Eleanor strolled among the tournament pavilions, her helmet tucked neatly under one arm and her braid damp with sweat beneath the crown of her coif. Her armor creaked softly with each step, the weight familiar now—less a burden than a second skin.

The tented courtyard buzzed with midday chatter. Nobles lounged beneath embroidered awnings, fanning themselves with leaf-shaped cards and sipping cool drinks that glowed faintly with enchantment. Enchanted platters floated by, bearing trays of raisin-jeweled pastries, pickled larks' tongues, and lemon tarts arranged like tiny suns.

Princess Eleanor paused beside a marble fountain shaped like a lion sneezing.

“Impressive work,” said a voice at her elbow.

Lady Lysandra stood nearby, draped in twilight-purple silk and sipping from a silver cup that gave off a swirl of mint-scented steam. She gave Eleanor a smile that was polite, precise, and not entirely decipherable.

“Thank you,” Eleanor said, accepting a tart from a passing tray without quite tasting it. “I’d say the odds were against me, but apparently the odds weren’t paying attention.”

Lysandra laughed softly. “They rarely do. But you’ve certainly turned a few heads. Perhaps even one or two minds.”

“Only a few?” Eleanor arched a brow.

“Oh, this crowd is harder to impress than it pretends. Victory only counts when it’s in the right language.” She gestured faintly toward a group of lords under a plum-colored pavilion. “They understand bloodlines, trade routes, allegiances. Steel and skill?” She sipped. “Not their native tongue.”

Eleanor looked toward the crowd. Laughter, practiced and precise. Conversations that twined like ivy, never quite touching the ground. “So all this—” she gestured toward the tournament grounds, the knights, the spectacle “—isn’t the real test.”

Lysandra's smile widened slightly, but she said nothing.

Eleanor narrowed her eyes. “They’ll never give me what I’ve earned on the field.”

“Depends,” said Lysandra, studying her drink as if it contained secrets. “On whether you're earning it here.” She tapped the rim of the cup. “Or there.”

There was a pause.

Eleanor exhaled slowly. Her eyes drifted across the pavilions again—past the duelists and squires, to where advisors huddled beneath gilded banners, where deals and gossip flowed like wine.

She turned back. “I’ve been swinging a sword when I should’ve been sharpening something else.”

“I’ve always admired your precision,” Lysandra said lightly, already drifting away.

Eleanor stood still a moment longer, the lemon tart forgotten in her hand.

A sword won you silence.

But a sentence? That could tilt a kingdom.

And perhaps it was time she started wielding both.

Eleanor turned away, leaving the scent of mint and cool laughter behind her. She wandered through the pavilion rows, where noble families reclined in silken shade, and flatterers emerged like summer flies.

“Your form was exquisite, Your Highness.”

“No one parries like a princess!”

“You must let me sponsor your next bout—my uncle’s tailor has just the surcoat.”

She smiled where appropriate, declined refreshments she didn’t want, and sidestepped compliments that felt more like reins than praise.

By the time she reached the edge of the tournament field again, the clamor of the court had grown distant behind her.

And her thoughts were not on her sword, but on the games she was not yet playing.

It was just as Eleanor was brushing aside another overeager young lord with a too-shiny brooch and too many opinions about footwork that something caught her eye.

Near the perimeter of the tournament field, well beyond the reach of the crowd’s laughter and clinking goblets, three men stood in close conversation beneath the arching shade of a rowan tree. Their posture was wrong—not the easy lean of nobles enjoying the sun or the huddle of old friends sharing gossip—but something tighter, more private.

Eleanor's gaze narrowed.

She recognized them at once. Morvaene’s known associates, though none bore his insignia openly. The first was a slight, gray-cloaked steward with the forgettable face of a man hired to be invisible. The second, a minor court mage in scholar’s blue, idly twisting a silver ring on his thumb as he spoke. And the third—a pale, reedy academic with Arloftian stitching on his robes—scratched rapidly in a weather-stained journal, his quill flicking like a nervous insect.

None of them were watching the tournament.

While the crowd roared over a lance strike on the far field, Eleanor ducked behind a flowering hedge of ornamental wisteria. Its lavender blossoms hung in fragrant, swaying curtains, offering perfect concealment.

She leaned closer.

“He moves soon,” the steward said, his voice low and clipped. “The others await signal.”

“The patterns align,” the mage muttered, half to himself. “Even the animals are whispering again. The flock in Greenthicket sang in triplets this morning.”

The scholar flicked his quill again and murmured as he wrote, “The experiment in Tallowmare advanced the cycle. The anomaly in Spindlewood confirms the arc. The rhythm stabilizes.”

Eleanor’s breath caught. Tallowmare. Spindlewood. Those weren’t isolated events. They were coordinates.

A wind brushed past, scattering petals and whispers alike. She slipped away, silent on booted feet, letting the hedge absorb her absence. Her heart beat fast, not from fear—but urgency.

She rejoined the crowd with a soft, practiced smile, accepting a lukewarm pastry from a tray and nodding politely to someone’s uncle without hearing a word. But her mind churned.

She fought one final match that afternoon against a knight twice her size and half her speed. It was over before the herald finished announcing their names. Sir Malrick called the victory the moment her opponent’s knees hit the grass.

The applause followed her like a fading wave.

But that evening, while the halls filled with music and laughter, Eleanor retreated to her chambers in silence. She set her helmet on its stand, lit a single candle, and spread her map of Braenorica across the table.

She marked Tallowmare. She marked Spindlewood. She added Greenthicket and Whiskwillow, her quill hovering a moment before pressing ink to parchment.

The pieces were forming something. A pattern not yet whole, but too deliberate to ignore.

She pulled a fresh sheet of parchment, dipped her quill, and began to write—not as a warrior, but as a tactician. Not in steel, but in secrets.

If Morvaene was weaving a plot in the shadows, then she would step into them too.