Chapter 33: How A Woman Fight

The rhythmic clatter of wooden swords echoed through the air until, with a decisive flick of her wrist, Emily sent her opponent’s blade spiraling into the grass.

She stood breathless, the undisputed master of the ring.

“You have a natural flair for the blade,” a voice observed. It was Olivia.

Emily turned, her breath catching. There stood the Duchess, a vision of imposing grace with her silver hair cascading over the obsidian silk of her gown.

For a fleeting second, Emily found herself lost in the woman’s ethereal beauty before recollecting herself and dropping into a deep, formal curtsy.

“I humble myself before Her Grace, the Duchess,” Emily murmured.

Olivia’s gaze was piercing, tracing the slight tremor in Emily’s stance and the way her eyes darted toward the ground, searching for an escape.

The heavy shadow of the previous night still loomed between them, making silence a precarious bridge.

“Come, sit, Miss Emily,” Olivia commanded softly.

The girl hesitated, a mere heartbeat of defiance, before obeying. The contrast between them was jarring.

Olivia watched her with a flicker of practiced disdain—noting the boyish gait, the forced gravel in her voice, and the jagged, reckless cut of her hair that seemed to war with her natural features.

A silence stretched between them, heavy and deliberate, like a predator savoring the moments before a strike.

“So,” Olivia began, her tone feline and smooth. “I am told you have enrolled in the Academy.”

“I have, Your Grace,” Emily replied, her voice clipped.

“How charming. And what, pray tell, were you studying?”

Emily straightened her spine, a spark of defiant pride igniting in her eyes. “I was training to become a Royal Knight.”

Olivia’s lips curled into a faint, mocking amusement.

“A Royal Knight? How… intriguing. That certainly accounts for the peculiar hairstyle, the garments, and these rather—masculine—affectations.”

Emily’s expression darkened instantly. “Masculine? I am nothing of the sort. Do you truly believe that the path of the sword is a sanctuary reserved solely for men?”

Olivia let out a sharp, melodic laugh. “Who suggested such a thing? There is nothing a woman cannot achieve.”

She tilted her head, her eyes gleaming. “It is merely a matter of discipline, my dear. I do not question your ambition.”

“Then why comment at all?” Emily snapped, her frustration boiling over. “As if being a woman is a cage I must break out of by mimicking someone else?”

Olivia leaned in, her gaze sweeping over Emily with cold appraisal. She reached out, catching the edge of Emily’s rough collar between two delicate fingers.

“Because cutting your hair into a jagged mess and donning ill-fitting clothes will never make you a man,” Olivia whispered.

“I have no quarrel with trousers, child—but wear those made for a lady. If you wish to prove your strength, do so as a woman. Erasing your identity does not change your truth. Or is it that you are simply ashamed of what you are?”

The words hit like a physical blow. Emily surged to her feet, her temper erupting.

“By what right do you speak to me this way? I am proud of who I am!”

The realization of her insolence struck her the second the words left her lips. Her body stiffened, and the fire in her eyes was replaced by a flash of panicked regret.

She bowed her head low, her voice trembling. “Forgive me, Your Grace—I overstepped.”

Olivia waved a hand dismissively, a predatory, playful smile dancing on her lips.

“No need for apologies. However, since you claim the title of a knight, let us put that claim to the proof.”

Her voice took on a melodic, challenging lilt. “I challenge you to a duel. I shall show you that I can best you while remaining at the height of my femininity.”

Emily blinked, utterly blindsided. “What?”

Olivia rose with effortless grace, the hem of her black gown swirling around her like a dark cloud. “Follow me to the courtyard. I shall show you how a woman truly fights.”

The training grounds were soon swarmed by knights. Disbelief rippled through the ranks; the Duchess, a creature of silk and silver, was about to duel.

It wasn’t long before the spectacle devolved into a gambling den.

“Place your wagers!” a voice called out. “Who bets on Miss Emily, and who on Her Grace?”

The consensus was near-unanimous—the knights’ purses were emptied in favor of Emily, the trained prodigy.

“And what brings you to the dust of the training grounds, Mathias?” Leon asked, leaning casually against a stone pillar.

Mathias crossed his arms in a gesture of weary surrender. “I am watching my wife ignite yet another war, as you can plainly see.”

Leon let out a hearty laugh. “Then I shall go and bet on my sister-in-law. Poor, foolish Emily—she has no inkling of the woman Olivia truly is.”

“Just get out of my sight,” Mathias muttered, his eyes fixed on the ring. “I need to focus before Olivia actually kills someone.”

The arena stretched wide, the air thick with the scent of parched earth and cold iron.

Olivia plucked two wooden practice swords from the rack. She tossed one toward Emily, who caught it mid-air without a second’s hesitation.

The contrast was nothing short of cinematic.

The young knight stood in a simple tunic and trousers, her short hair tucked behind her ears—a portrait of practical ambition.

Opposite her, Olivia was the very embodiment of regal defiance.

Her magnificent black gown clung to her silhouette, its voluminous skirts seemingly an impossible burden. Her silver hair flowed like moonlight, her heels were impossibly high, and her long nails were lacquered blood-red.

She looked like a porcelain doll—yet there was nothing delicate about the predatory grip she held on her sword.

“At my signal,” Olivia said. “I expect your absolute best. Do not dare to hold back.”

The moment the signal was given, Emily lunged. Her strikes were a blur—disciplined, fast, and calculated.

But Olivia was faster.

She parried every blow with surgical precision, her blade moving as if it were whispering to Emily’s sword, anticipating its path before the strike was even conceived.

Frustration surged through Emily. It was infuriating—how could Olivia be this agile while hampered by silk skirts and towering heels?

Then, with the suddenness of a lightning strike, Olivia transitioned to a counter-offensive.

Her movement was liquid silver, weaving through the air with lethal grace. Before Emily could even register the shift, her own sword was ripped from her grasp, sent clattering into the dirt.

A heartbeat later, the cold edge of Olivia’s wooden blade was pressed firmly against Emily’s throat.

The Duchess smiled—a victor’s smile, sharp and triumphant.

“This,” she whispered, her voice a silken thread of iron, “is how a woman fights. I have no need to discard my femininity to match the strength of a man.”

“I will never seek their approval at the expense of my own soul. I am a woman, and I fight as one.”

The words sank deep into Emily’s heart, leaving her breathless in the dust.

The knights stood frozen, a collective shiver of awe and intimidation rippling through their ranks.

Olivia stood amidst the dust, looking less like a combatant and more like a devastatingly beautiful vision of power in motion. Not a single bead of sweat marred her porcelain skin.

“It appears,” Leon remarked with a knowing smirk, “that the wager is mine.”

Beside him, Matthias remained silent. His usual composure had fractured, replaced by a profound, wide-eyed bewilderment. He had expected skill, but not a performance that bordered on the supernatural.

However, his admiration was short-lived. He felt the atmosphere shift as the surrounding knights lingered, their gazes transfixed on his wife.

Matthias’s expression darkened instantly.

“You lot,” he growled, his tone dropping to a dangerous, predatory low. “Have you grown weary of your eyesight, or do you simply find your eyes unnecessary?”

“Get to the training grounds. Now.”

After a lingering moment of silence, Olivia extended a gloved hand. “Now,” she commanded, “stand up.”

Emily allowed herself to be pulled from the dust. “I think I understand now, sister-in-law. But tell me—how did you become this formidable?”

Olivia’s expression remained an unreadable mask of poise. “Because noble warriors are forged in a fire different from that of the common folk. If you continue on this path, Emily, you will never wear the mantle of a Royal Knight.”

Emily’s fingers tightened into a fist. “The Academy… they only accept the high-born,” she admitted, her voice laced with bitterness.

A predatory, silken smile crept onto Olivia’s lips. She stepped behind Emily, her voice dropping to a seductive whisper that grazed the girl’s ear.

“And what if I told you there was a way?”

Emily spun around, her brow furrowed in suspicion. “A way?”

“You are aware of your sister’s adoption, are you not?”

Olivia’s voice was like honeyed poison—smooth, sweet, and utterly captivating.

“What if we made it appear as though you, too, were part of that lineage? A simple adjustment of history.”

The words struck Emily like a thunderclap. She recoiled, her posture instinctively defensive.

“What exactly are you suggesting? I will do nothing that brings harm or dishonor to my mother.”

Olivia chuckled softly, a sound that suggested she had already anticipated every move of Emily’s conscience.

“You won’t be the one hurting her. I shall shoulder the entire burden of the deception. I will tell her it was my design—that you were a mere witness to my schemes.”

“You achieve your dream without betraying her trust,” Olivia added. “Isn’t it perfect? I truly loathe seeing a woman of your ambition let her potential wither away into nothing.”

Emily wavered. A violent storm erupted within her, pitting her fierce loyalty to her mother against the burning hunger of her lifelong ambition.

The prize Olivia dangled before her was both terrifying and irresistible.

“You wouldn’t offer this,” Emily said at last, her voice wary, “without expecting something in return.”

Olivia laughed again, a light sound tinged with a hidden darkness.

“You understand me well. You truly are your mother’s daughter. Let us just say… there is a place I wish to show you. Will you come?”

Emily hesitated, then straightened her shoulders.

“It seems a small price to pay. And it matters not if the place is grim; I am a knight, not a coward. Very well. I will go.”

“Of course you are strong,” Olivia purred, her eyes gleaming with a triumphant light. “A short visit shouldn’t frighten a knight of your caliber. Follow me then… sister-in-law.”

The word ’sister-in-law’ and the rare spark of encouragement acted like a balm on Emily’s pride.

In that moment, Olivia appeared not as a duchess, but as a guardian angel sent to rescue her dreams.

Ignoring every warning her mother had ever whispered about the woman’s cruelty, Emily fell into step behind her.

Unbeknownst to her, they were walking toward the wing of the former Duchess—toward a fate meticulously woven by Olivia’s cold, calculating hands.

Emily was no longer a girl; she was a pawn in a much grander, more lethal game. She was a blade Olivia intended to plunge into the very heart of Talia’s world.

The two women came to a halt before an ancient wooden door, its grain scarred by time.

A soft, rhythmic tapping broke the silence, answered by a voice so frail it was barely a whisper: “Enter.”

Emily turned to the Duchess, her eyes clouded with apprehension. “Forgive me, Your Grace… but who exactly am I meant to meet behind this door?”

“You shall only know once you step inside, my dear,” Olivia replied, her tone as smooth as polished marble.

With trembling fingers, Emily pressed against the heavy oak.

As it creaked open, she felt the sudden rush of air from the closing door behind her. She spun around, only to find that Olivia had remained in the corridor.

Olivia stood as a silent sentinel, knowing this encounter was a stage she did not need to tread upon.

In the center of the dimly lit chamber stood Eloise, leaning heavily upon a gnarled wooden cane.

She looked as though the mere act of standing was a battle she was barely winning, yet she refused to meet this moment from a position of weakness.

Time had etched its cruel signature upon her frame, but her eyes—haunted and searching—still held flickering embers of something Emily couldn’t quite name.

Eloise’s lips parted, trembling as she breathed a single name, as if fearing the sound of it might shatter a fragile illusion.

“Emily… my child.”

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