"En garde!"
I aim the sword at him, my feet advancing on the grass.
He hated it when I acted on impulse, but it was indeed my best strategy to catch him off guard.
With a swift movement, my sword finds the gleaming blade forged in the hilt grasped firmly in his hand through the balmy morning air settled in the courtyard. Although his pulse was rotated in calculated precision, his body proceeded immobilized like one of the many marble statues that bear witness to the fight staged in their midst, simply shooing me like an unpleasant fly.
In certain part, I admit, it was bold of me to truly believe he would ever lower his guard for the briefest of the moment.
I retreat in frustration, tracing with my eyes the sword that now rested monotonously alongside the rich fabric of his trousers as we both anticipate our opponent's following attack - one more patiently than the other. Nonetheless, I would refuse him the satisfaction of making a fool out of myself this one time.
Guided by tenacity, I wield the sword once more. A mere clanging of steel whistles through the chirping of the birds flying over our heads. I strike once again, this time followed with another blow of the sword until the leather of his boots is impelled to move forward from the dirt, stamped by the royal crest under their sole, ever so poised that I would have lost my temper if I didn't know it was the exact kind of distraction I was expected to fall for.
I watch impotently as he regains advantage on the ground, my feet stumbling back under the sight of two eyes that better resembled a stone. The blades clashed against one another, separating us apart by inches of steel. Both our empty hands clenched into a fist behind our backs as the sound grew gradually fierce through the grounds, appraising me that if I did not soon act, the fight would be over before the blink of an eye - and along with it my pride.
Yet, the words he once uttered struck me in a sudden and the line that had never made any sense to me sprang an idea.
'If you can't defeat your enemies, allure them to defeat themselves.'
The blades fight a game of dominance and strength that I had never won. Not against him, at least. Hence this time, instead of parrying his strike, I duck under the shimmering blade, spinning behind his back. The sword whistles through the air that I can only conclude he was as bewildering as I was when he barely retaliates.
Before he was able to, my boot lifts the skirt of my dress and clashes against his abdomen, barely able to send him jolting back on his feet but enough to incite me to rotate my body in an almost complete spin.
Both my feet were steady against the ground and my fingers tightly grasped around the hilt of the sword. The tip of the blade resting fearlessly beneath his chin.
I lift his chin along with the sharp steel threatening his skin when my eyes follow his motionless sword positioned downward. It could only mean one thing.
After all these years, me, Lydia of Aurelia, among all the dead and living people, was victorious from a fight with this man.
A pretentious smile draws itself on my lips without permission but as fast as it emerges, it vanishes, as soon as the sword is swept from my grasp. My eyes follow the gleaming weapon flying at an impressive height just before it cuts through the grass surrounding the patio where I now stood incredulous.
My attention is drawn back toward the intensity of the man's gaze upon me. His sword resting beside him so naturally as if it was its righteous place - like it has forged itself on his arm. He slightly nods, leaving me behind of astonishment. Was he impressed? I scrutinize the dark of his eyes observing my every movement from above, in hopes they would unveil something for once. Perhaps it was my imagination, a brief moment of insanity, but I could swear there was a feeling of respect flickering from behind all that void.
Immediately, a beaming smile displaces my incredulity as if the matter of the winner was not the main point of a sword fight anymore. Yet, I oath to brag about my momentaneous victory to my last breath.
My neck bends in a slight arch before I leave the courtyard. At the end of the pathway bordered by the evergreen shrubs hanged the timeless steps of stone, shaped by the wind and the water for many centuries.
The mild breeze blows gentle through the chestnut strands of my hair, drawing along the floral fragrance of the flamboyant blossoms. Atop the stairs, sauntering Northeast, a hefty door of oak was left ajar. I shove it further into the corridor and quickly find my way into the interior of the grandiose Royal Palace of Aurelia.
Gold graces the imposing pillars positioned thoroughly between the forty-four statues lining the walls of the large passage. Each owned their own niche, illuminated by the heated candles held by massive chandeliers dropping from the beautiful lines carved into the ceiling like the beaming sun rays of dawn. The parquetry floor steers my steps into a Hall, distinctively coated in a crimson carpet that climbed the stairs to the upper floor from where an impressive crystal chandelier suspended in the centre lights up with refracted light the Hall above several portraits of mighty royalty and historical paintings framed along the ivory walls in lustrous gilded frames.
A girl stood near a marble pedestal that flaunted a ceramic vase embellished by the beauty of a single lily - the first of the season to blossom in the Royal Garden. My Mother has ever been an affectionate for flowers, particularly for the ones that reminded her of the sun.
Hairpins secure the small bun on the rear of her head - a paler yellow than the flower's - and a dress mantles her silhouette almost down to her feet while a chiffon apron is strapped over the dusky clothing, accentuating her slim waist. She hums a gleeful melody while dusting the piece of furniture into perfection but the sound comes soon to a halt and a blissful smile takes place on her lips when she catches sight of me.
"Here you are!" Her etherial voice sounds from across the Hall. "Her Majesty, The Queen, is looking for you."
"Thank you, Claire." I meet her with a smile and follow the gold railings climbing the Grand Staircase.
Above the first floor, the apprehensive woman was walking back and forth the corridor, dragging alongside with her the significantly long train of the royal blue dress she has chosen to wear this day. The ocean blue eyes of hers widen at my sight at the top of the stairs.
"Lydia, where have you been?" The Queen hastens her steady pace toward me, causing the silky brown hair - falling from the strands caught up in beautiful hair pins with jewels of the same hue as the silver adornments of the dress - to bounce over her right shoulder as she walks. "Come, now, we can not afford to spare any more time." Not hoping for an answer, she grasps my wrist in a gentle, yet firm hold, leaving me with no choice but to follow her expeditious pace.
Through the hallways, we come to enter a mirrored room centering a large aureate pedestal raising from the tiled floor. On the facing wall, a man rests oblivious on the armchair with his legs crossed and the weight of his head supported by his left hand over the armrest.
Before his wearisome demeanor - which left me to wonder for how long I have left the poor man waiting - The Queen clears her throat in an attempt to make ourselves noticed in the room. Judging by the way he sprang out of his sit, providing us the chance to better look into his rather picturesque suit, I would say her plan has succeeded.
"Your Majesty!" he exclaims, immediately dropping into an overexaggerated curtsy that made me titter behind my hand. "Please, pardon my manners, it has been a long voyage."
"Hm, I see." The Queen stands unimpressed.
"Princess." The amber gleam of his eyes shifts in my direction as I slightly nod as a greeting. "Concede me the honor to introduce myself, Jacobini Jacks," he presents himself with an extravagant gesture of his hands. "Allow me to say, that I feel tremendously honored with the invitation for such an opportunity as dressing Your Highness for an occasion of the utmost importance as the following month's ball."
"I am most delighted you did accept it," I assure him with a sympathetic smile.
Jacobini - as humurous as the name might sound - was the most prestigious courtier across all lands. My Mother moved the seas to bring the man here for this one occasion, the exact moment she first heard about him.
'What an uncommon name,' she comments one night at dinner, to which I replied with, 'I think it sticks in our heads.'
Without further ado, Jacobini draws closer and promptly offers me his hand to help me climb on top of the pedestal. He takes a step back and claps his hands twice near the natural blush of his cheeks. The quiet room immediately gets brimming with people darting through the doorway - both women and men, dressed up in all black, the blouses and their capris - that they resembled formidable dressed spies of the crown.
"At work!" His voice comes out unexpectedly authoritative, but not before he takes a hold of the tape measure that hangs from his neck like an ominous serpent and stretches the accessory in front of my eyes.
The sixteen hands quickly begin to ramble over my prickled skin with skillful fingers measuring every part of the human body possibly measurable in spite of what seemed to me an inflated number of people for one person alone. Yet, with all strenuously immersed on their own specific tasks, I would not dare to question their own methods of work.
"Lydia!" my Mother bursts out. Her heels creak against the floor panels in clear displeasure, before she seizes my arm and leads her gaze above the elbow joint. "What is this?" she demands.
The one thing I took notice was that not a single glance was spared toward her, as if The Queen herself did not sound willing to assassinate her only child mercilessly in their presence.
My eyes trail then, unhurriedly, the skin of my arm until they find the point dignitary of all my Mother's attention. I notice there, for the first time, a shallow cut drew of crimson in the particular tender spot of my skin, so thin that it would be imperceptible to the human eye, yet it did not evade from her sharp eye. "Oh, that... It is nothing, Mother." But her accusatory glare would not leave me for an instant before I told her the truth. "It must have been Lawrence..."
She immediatly loses the grip on my arm and speaks in a deceitful poise, "For the hundredth time, I do not wish for you to stand near a sword!"
"For the hundredth time, I do not understand why!"
"Oh my, Lydia!" Her hand flings to her chest, her iris dimming against the light. "We are not discussing it here."
"Why?" I demand.
She blew out a hopeless breath before meeting my eyes. "Because weapons are not any trifles for you to play with. They are dangerous, Lydia, and shall you never know the harm they can bring upon the people."
"You chose Lawrence for a reason," I retort.
"To teach you English, French, Algebra... not to teach you how to fight!"
"You might have given him that place but we are both aware of the position he stands guard within this palace. What you do not accept is that the best way to protect me is granting me the power to defend myself!"
She shakes her head with certain incredulity, recognizing that there was no point in this quarrel. "You truly inherited your Father's stubbornness," she states at last.
"So I've been told." I hold a victorious smile on my lips.
My gaze moves to the image reflected on the mirror. Watching all these people throughout my silhouette made my mind wonder at the ball.
The Royal Ball of The Gilded Kingdom.
An ancient tradition drawing The Royal Family from all the nine kingdoms into ours - both the highest ranks and the lowest. Every excuse will do as a pretext for the prestigious royalty to celebrate anything with a ball. The major purpose was to announce the future ruler and so keep the good relationships and the market trades across the lands.
The true purpose was to find me a husband.
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