23

  The morning sun glinted off the polished swords of The Argent Spire, casting long reflections across the training yard. The sound of metal clashing rang sharply, echoing against the stone walls of the prestigious school.

  At the center of the yard, Marco, first-born son of the Head of Treasury, moved with fluid precision. His light brown eyes were sharp, calculating every motion of his opponent. Prince William, second son of the Aurum Kingdom, met each strike with skillful parries, his own swordsmanship honed through years of royal tutelage.

  The two were widely regarded as the best duelists of their level, and every match drew a small crowd of students and instructors eager to watch. Marco’s movements were taller, more elegant—his frame commanding the space around him. William, however, had an uncanny ability to anticipate, counter, and turn Marco’s skill into an opening, leaving Marco frustrated yet invigorated.

  As their swords collided, Marco’s voice cut through the clash, casual yet teasing.

  “So,” he said, sidestepping a thrust, “tell me, William… how is Princess Sophia today? Did she laugh at something delightful this morning, or is she still… reserved?”

  William gritted his teeth, deflecting a swift overhead strike. “Marco,” he said, voice steady, “you know better than to ask me that.”

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  “Ah, but curiosity never kills the best swordsman,” Marco replied with a smirk, spinning to block a low swing. “Come now, tell me what she enjoys. What makes her laugh the most?”

  William’s eyes flicked to the princess’s pavilion across the yard, though she was not present today. He sighed, lowering his sword slightly in a brief respite. “Even I am restricted,” he admitted quietly. “The royal physician, the king and queen, and sometimes my brother—the first prince—are the only ones allowed to see her. No one else. Not even me, Marco. Not even during the day.”

  Marco froze for a heartbeat, taking in the words. His chest tightened, not from exertion, but from the sharp reminder of the distance between them and Sophia. He had admired her from afar for months, cherishing every fleeting smile and gesture, yet the royal protocols made every attempt to know her heart frustratingly impossible.

  He shook off the feeling and assumed his stance again, offering William a respectful nod. “Then I suppose I’ll just have to wait. Someday, I’ll know what makes her laugh.”

  William chuckled softly, raising his sword for the next exchange. “You’re as relentless off the field as you are on it, Marco.”

  Their swords met again with a spark, metal clanging against metal, as Marco’s mind balanced between the duel and the distant thought of Sophia. Each parry, each thrust, was precise—but there was an undercurrent of something more personal, a silent vow that he would not rest until he understood the princess’s heart, even if the laws of the kingdom forbade it.

  As the duel continued, students watched in awe, sensing the unspoken tension between friendship, rivalry, and admiration that passed between the two duelists. Marco’s skill might rival the prince’s, yet he knew some battles—like the mystery of Sophia’s laughter—could not be won by sword alone.