BETROTHED TO THE ARROGANT PRINCE-HIS UNTAMED WARRIOR QUEEN

✷✷✷SIVARA⁠✷✷✷

The northern border of Silvara stretched out before them like a wound in the earth...barren, rocky terrain that offered no cover.

One hundred soldiers.

 That's all Adrienne had managed to rally before her father's advisors started wringing their hands about leaving the capital undefended. One hundred men against an army five times their size.

The odds didn't bother her.

What bothered her was the gods-damned betrothal that kept circling through her mind like a vulture over carrion.

Their camp sprawled across the valley floor just before the boundary markers, a collection of tents and cookfires that seemed almost obscenely cheerful given what awaited them come dawn. 

Knights laughed around the fires, passing wineskins and trading stories like they weren't marching toward their deaths. Like tomorrow wasn't going to paint these rocks red.

Adrienne sat apart from them, perched on a flat boulder that overlooked the camp, her sword across her knees. She'd been cleaning the blade for the past hour...not because it needed it, but because the repetitive motion kept her hands busy and her mind from spiraling into places she couldn't afford to go.

"What's Her Majesty thinking about?"

The voice came from behind her, warm and familiar. Sir Lancelot dropped onto the rock beside her with the easy grace of someone who'd known her since childhood, his own sword slung across his back. He was grinning that crooked grin that usually meant trouble, dark hair falling into darker eyes.

Adrienne's hand tightened on her sword hilt. "Call me that one more time and I'll chop off your head before the enemy armies do it for me."

"Touchy." But Lancelot's grin didn't fade. 

"What did I do to deserve a beheading? I thought we were friends."

"We are friends. Which is why I'm giving you a warning first."

"How generous of you." Sir Leon approached from the opposite side, his movements quieter, more controlled. 

Where Lancelot was all flash and charm, Leon was steady as stone...the kind of knight who inspired confidence just by existing. He settled on Adrienne's other side, creating their familiar triangle. The three of them had been inseparable since they were children playing with wooden swords in the castle yard.

 "Though if you're planning executions, perhaps wait until after the battle? We're rather short on bodies as it is."

"Princess..." Leon started, and Adrienne shot him a look that could have melted steel.

"Not you too, Leon."

He raised his hands in surrender, but his gray eyes were concerned. "You've been up here for hours. The men are starting to worry."

"Let them worry." Adrienne went back to cleaning her already-spotless blade. "Maybe it'll keep them sharp."

Lancelot and Leon exchanged one of those looks...the kind that said they were having an entire conversation without words. It was infuriating.

"All right." Lancelot stretched his legs out, settling in like he had all the time in the world. "What's actually bothering you? And don't say 'nothing,' because I've known you since you were six years old and tried to stab me with a dinner fork."

"You deserved it. You stole my dessert."

"I was eight. And it was one piece of cake."

"It was my cake."

Leon cleared his throat. "Focus, you two."

Adrienne sighed, the sound scraping out of her throat like gravel. For a long moment, she considered keeping it to herself..this new burden, this fresh cage. But these were her brothers in everything but blood. If she couldn't tell them, she couldn't tell anyone.

"My father has chosen to sell me off." The words came out flat, emotionless. "To some stupid, cocky, arrogant prince of Camelot."

The silence that followed was deafening.

Then Lancelot sat up so fast he nearly fell off the rock.

 "What?"

"You heard me."

"Prince Orion of Camelot?" Lancelot's voice had gone up an octave. "The Prince Orion? The Undefeated? The..."

"Yes, that one." Adrienne's jaw clenched. "Though his name sounds like Onions to me. Prince Onions of Camelot. Has a nice ring to it."

Despite everything, Leon's mouth twitched. "Adrienne..."

"Don't." She stood abruptly, sheathing her sword with more force than necessary. "Don't tell me it's for the good of the kingdom. Don't tell me it's my duty. I've heard it all from my father, and I'm not interested in hearing it again."

"I was going to say," Leon continued quietly, "that I'm sorry. That's not fair to you."

The genuine sympathy in his voice nearly undid her. Adrienne turned away, staring out at the darkening horizon where tomorrow's battle waited. "Nothing about this is fair. But when has fairness ever mattered to kings?"

"At least you'll be a queen," Lancelot offered, then immediately winced at the look she gave him. "Or... not. Forget I said anything. I'm an idiot."

"The first true thing you've said all evening."

Before anyone could respond, a shout echoed across the camp...sharp, urgent, slicing through the evening's false peace like a blade through flesh.

"We're under attack! The armies are here!"

Time seemed to slow and speed up simultaneously. Adrienne's hand was on her sword before her mind fully processed the words. Around the camp, the laughter died, replaced by the organized chaos of soldiers grabbing weapons, donning helmets, forming ranks.

"Already?" Leon was on his feet, his sword singing free of its scabbard. "They weren't supposed to reach us until dawn."

"Guess they don't follow schedules." Lancelot's grin was back, but sharper now, edged with something wild. "Shall we?"

Adrienne didn't answer. She was already moving.

The first clash of steel on steel rang out like a death knell.

They came from the north in a dark tide...Lord Garrick's forces, five hundred strong, crashing against Silvara's hundred like a wave against a breakwater. In the dying light, their armor gleamed like beetle shells, their war cries splitting the air.

Adrienne met them with a roar of her own.

Her sword found flesh before her enemy fully caught up, the familiar shock of impact traveling up her arm. A man went down, clutching his throat. She didn't wait to watch him fall. Already moving, already turning, her blade singing through the air to meet the next attacker. And the next. And the next.

This was what she was made for.

Blood sprayed across her face, hot and copper-sharp. She barely noticed. Her world had narrowed to the space around her sword.parry, strike, spin, duck, thrust. The brutal choreography of survival. An enemy blade whistled past her ear, close enough to feel the wind of its passage. She dropped low, swept her leg out, sent the swordsman sprawling. Her blade found his chest before he could rise.

"Left!" Leon's voice, sharp as a whip crack.

She spun and blocked, the impact jarred her bones but she held. Shoved back. The enemy soldier stumbled, and Lancelot was there, his sword a silver blur. The man didn't get up.

Back to back now...the three of them forming a triangle, just like they'd practiced a thousand times. Moving in sync without needing words, each covering the others' blind spots.

An arrow hissed past her shoulder. Too close.

Adrienne grabbed a fallen spear, pivoted, and hurled it with all her strength. It caught an archer in the chest, lifting him clean off his feet before gravity remembered to claim him. He hit the ground with a wet thud that she felt more than heard over the chaos.

Brutal.

Time became meaningless..measured only in heartbeats and blade strikes, in the burning of muscles and the copper taste of blood in the air. Dawn crawled over the horizon, painting the carnage in shades of gold and crimson. Bodies littered the ground, friend and foe alike, the earth drinking deep of what they offered.

Adrienne's arms screamed with exhaustion but she couldn't stop. One of Garrick's soldiers came at her with a war axe, the weapon heavy and brutal. She ducked under the first swing, felt the wind of it ruffle her hair. Came up inside his guard. Her sword found the gap between his breastplate and pauldron, sliding home with the practiced ease of someone who'd done this dance too many times.

He fell, and she was already moving to the next threat.

But there were too many. Gods, there were too many.

She caught a glimpse of her forces...down to seventy-five now, maybe less. They were being overwhelmed, pushed back, drowning in a tide of steel and fury.

A blade sliced across her arm, parting leather and skin with cold efficiency. Pain bloomed, sharp and immediate. Adrienne snarled, pivoted, and brought her sword across in a vicious arc. The enemy soldier's head separated from his shoulders almost lazily, blood fountaining in a crimson spray.

She couldn't afford scars. She wouldn't tolerate them. Her skin had always been flawless, and she'd be damned if she left this battlefield marked.

Another wave of enemies crested the hill.

No. No, they were going to be overrun. They were going to...

The thunder of hooves stopped her heart.

Adrienne spun, sword raised, ready to meet this new threat. But the banner that snapped in the morning wind wasn't Garrick's black raven.

It was the golden lion of Camelot.