Sorina:

  Duke Rothbore sits upon a throne of logs, axles, planks, stripped barrels, and bear furs spread across the seat. I’m fairly certain that he’s somehow bigger than the poor creature they skinned for that. Three spears jut out the back of the throne.

  He doesn’t even spare me a glance as I enter his “Great Hall,” erected a few days at a great expense of the coffers. But he said it was a necessary installment.

  I narrow my eyes at him. One of his feet, thick as the trunks that make up the base of the throne, lies over the arm-chair, toes naked and wiggling about. A servant girl shaves off the nails with a small blade.

  I don’t want to play his game. So I wait for him to address me rather than vie for his attention.

  Candles and torches flicker around the small hall. A door-guard pulls at his collar to let some air in. The stink of this room is baffling.

  The duke clicks his fingers. Another servant girl, this one obscenely young, presents him with a platter of glossy green grapes. He pulls one from the pedicel and marvels at it in the candle light.

  “Do you know that these grapes are fertilized by wood spirits of the highest order? Mancers say that they have healing properties. But those fools focus on the wrong quality of the fruit.”

  Here we go. I shift my weight back and relax my shoulders.

  His eyes are still enamored by the green fruit. “They are the perfect plumpness. Roundness. The supple feel—like soft skin meant for kneading. For touch. And like some skins, they taste absolutely divine—sweet and juicy, in all the right parts.”

  He plops the grape into his mouth and finally deigns to look at me. Chewing. Slowly.

  I spit into a silver-adorned jar nearby, startling him. It rattles along the floor. I sniff.

  He sniffs back in disgust. “What do you want, woman?”

  I stay silent. He grits his teeth. Sweat begins to drip down his neck folds.

  Finally, he breaks. “You called for me. You wanted my attention and my valuable time. So why do you insist on wasting it?”

  I suppose ‘you’ is the most respectful form of address I’ll get. Well, better than ‘woman’ at least.

  I pull out the ledgers and read them off accordingly. Each infraction. Each overspending.

  “...and finally, 10,000 for the installment of a Great Hall. In a temporary fortress erected to head off the enemy and tax our neighbors for wartime protections.”

  He smiles. Some meaty gristle and fruity skin sticks out from his yellow teeth. “Well spent, I might add.”

  “I disagree.”

  “Disagree? Disagree? Dis—ah—gree?” He spells it out, as if tasting the words, smacking his lips after. “I haven’t heard that term in a long while.”

  “Get used to it.”

  Rothbore set his hands on the chair arms and shoos away his servants. He stands to his full, strangely impressive height. His belly puffs out from the gold-buttoned coat he wears.

  “Sorina, former princess of Catolica, I know what this is. But, quite frankly, this attempt is… pitiable.”

  I raise an eyebrow but let him continue.

  “You see, my spending is necessary. Because I am necessary. Without me, this campaign is nothing. Our Queen values me. And as such, I enjoy the coffers of our nation. But I still uphold my duty. Soldiers and banners are coming forth as we speak—they rally behind my name—behind the Queen’s name and they are ready to wage war against our old foes.”

  “You say that. But I have seen no banners come from your region, besides the ones of your personal guard. Nor have I seen your allies.”

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  “Ah poor thing—you poor poor thing. I remember when you were but a child and the talk of the court: ‘Princess Sorina is ditching her lesson again. Oh she’s a disgrace. Oh General Maddox must be soooo disappointed with her progress.’” He laughs heartily at that. “But fear not, my dear princess. While they were busy having their way with you in Sorayvlad, I was learning about how to make war. And I can assure, little girl, that war is a costly process. It takes time and effort. Patience. Something which, I’ve often heard, was never your strong suit.”

  “Oh, but isn’t it, Duke Rothbore? After all, my patience has allowed you to continue drawing breath. It has allowed all three of your chins to remain glossy with sweat rather than sticky with blood.”

  There’s a chorus of swords being drawn. The guards around the room close in, but Rothbore huffs and holds up a hand.

  “You misspeak. Mistake, misinterpret, misunderstand your situation. For you see, nobody in this fortress cares about you. Nobody will hear these… preposterous claims that you levy forth at me. They will think you are mad. You could disappear in a mere instant. Like that,” he says, snapping his fingers. “But I am nothing if not a… generous man. Perhaps you are right. Perhaps I have been a tad bit indulgent. Maybe I need someone to correct me. Someone to consolidate with me.”

  I tilt my head. He stares expectantly.

  When I pretend to realize what he means, I suppress a laugh.

  “Marriage?”

  “I could help you regain the positions you’ve lost at the court. And I would be more amenable to your requests. And most of all, I could civilize you. Make you a real courtly woman once more—”

  “Sounds perfect, I accept. ”

  He blinks. “Wait—what?”

  “I said that sounds perfect. Spectacular even. As of this moment, before these witnesses, let it be known that I am wed to Duke Rothbore.”

  “Are you—what is this?” He leans down to squint at me. “Are you mad?”

  “Not at all,” I say, pacing now to the door. “You see Rothbore, half of the spendings I just listed off to you were mine. But you didn’t notice because you haven’t exactly been paying attention to your ledgers. But now? Well, since you offered marriage and I have accepted in front of an audience of more than ten people, my spendings become yours. My debts become yours. And as such,” I open the hall's doors. “This burden is now yours.”

  Yasna comes limping through the opening—having waited outside for my theatrics for quite a bit now—carrying with her a ledger of a different kind. A parliamentary kind.

  “By order of General Maddox,” Yasna announces, “Duke Rothbore is to be stripped of title and lands for egregious spending of her majesty’s coin.” She turns the ledger, the wax seal gleaming. “All funds were registered under the marital-debt clause. You are currently fifty-thousand in debt to both Maddox and the Queen.”

  Rothbore’s face alights with fury. “I didn’t steal from Maddox! I’m not insane! Soldiers! Seize them!”

  But they don’t move in on us.

  Rather, the soldiers in the room start shaking. Their weapons hover indeterminately.

  I turn to them. “How many of you are more afraid of my father than you are of him?”

  Immediately, they all point their weapons at Rothbore.

  “You—you can’t do this! They won’t allow it!”

  “Oh yes, and as of this moment, I file for divorce. Have it be known that upon falling from grace, I left my poor title-less husband.”

  “You—You—you bitch.”

  “I actually think I prefer that to just ‘woman’.”

  He starts down the stairs, reaching out for me. I let the hands draw close. Then I side-step out of the way. The duke trips over himself and falls, head smashing into the same jar I spit in. The jar shatters upon his head. Blood trickles past his elephant-like ears.

  I put a boot on his nape and lean down to his ear.

  “I do know war, Rothbore,” I hiss. “Unlike you, I have seen it. And, honestly? You should be counting your blessings that you will be far, far away from it. I have done you a great favor. Remember it.”

  I push off his head and walk away. The soldiers hoist him up by the arms and begin taking him away.

  “You—Just you wait! When they come, when they send that fucking warlock of theirs, the first person I’ll have him execute is you!”

  I pause for a moment. Yasna tilts her head at me.

  “Are you alright Princess—”

  “Just fine. Well done Yasna. Are you sure it will hold up?”

  “Well, as long as you declared yourself his wife, then the money you spent in his name is a ‘valid illegality.’”

  “Good enough for me.” I walk out the room and into the fresh air of the open fortress-grounds. I take a deep breath.

  “How did you know he’d offer you a hand in marriage?”

  “He just seemed the type.”

  “I see. And what if he didn’t—”

  “I would’ve offered it myself and he would’ve taken it.”

  “Ah. I suppose your charm still holds up,” she says, sighing next to me now. I asked a lot of her. She put her job on the line for this—if anything went wrong and somehow, Rothbore ended up on top, her family would’ve suffered.

  “Thank you, Yasna.”

  “Of course princess. Anything for the crown. But eh, what now?”

  “Now? We ask our Queen what in the hells Rothbore was just talking about.”