Page 23 of Rise of the Vicious Princess

“What do you mean done?” she demanded.

“I’ll spar with you.”

She clenched her jaw. “You’ll do no such thing.”

“Afraid of losing?” He gave her a crooked little smile, and something in her flared to life for the first time in two weeks.

“I’m not afraid of anything.”

“Does that include eating breakfast?” He looked pointedly at the tray.

They stared at each other for a full minute, and Charis waited for him to break. To incline his head and murmur “Your Highness” at the very least. Instead, he held her gaze, a challenge in his, and she found herself rising to the bait.

Not because he’d intrigued her.

Because if she didn’t, he’d tell Father.

Grabbing the spoon, she shoved it into the porridge and said, “I want it clear that I know you’re trying to manipulate me, and it isn’t working.”

He raised a single brow as if to cast aspersions upon her statement as she took a bite, but said simply, “Of course.”

“And I also want it clear that Father doesn’t hear a single word of your concerns.”

“Happy to oblige as long as those concerns are being addressed.” He caught a glimpse of her expression and tacked on a hasty “Your Highness.”

She ate three more bites, irritated to discover that the food tasted good. “One last thing, Tal.”

“Yes?”

“No one goes easy on me in sparring practice.”

His crooked little smile returned. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Your Highness.”

Forty minutes later, they stood facing each other in the courtyard outside the palace armory, their swords corked to avoid causing fatal injuries. Charis had more energy than she’d had in days, thanks to the breakfast her bodyguard had practically forced her to eat. He’d been right to insist on it, not that she was going to admit that to him. A collapse would’ve sent a message of weakness to Calera’s allies and enemies alike, and that simply couldn’t happen while the queen was recuperating and unable to leave her chambers.

Plus, she’d have scared Father, and she couldn’t bear that.

“Ready when you are,” Tal said.

Charis hefted her blade. She knew he must be skilled, or Father would never have installed him as her bodyguard. It was time to see just how good he was. “Each touch counts as a point. Best two out of three wins the round.”

He adjusted his grip on his sword hilt and slid his feet into attack position.

Lunging forward, she jabbed her blade toward his chest.

He pivoted, lightly nudging her blade with his own as he danced out of the way.

Graceful, then. And quick.

She anticipated his follow-through and ducked just as his blade whistled over her head. Spinning, she struck his side. Or she would have if he’d still been in front of her.

Whirling, her blade rising, she met his attack, her pulse racing as the grooms called to each other in the nearby stables, the palace smithy hammered out an ax-head with a sharp clang, and the distant call of a flock of gulls disappeared. All that was left was the fight. Anticipating his next move and the three beyond that even as she planned out her own. The scrape of sword on sword and the huff of her breathing.

He grinned and swept out of the way as she attacked again. His feet shifted like a dancer’s, sweeping, intricate movements that pulled his body gracefully in and out of attack range, his blade moving ever closer to getting the first touch.

How was he doing that? It was taking all her considerable skill to keep up with him, and she had the sudden, stomach-squeezing worry that he was going to beat her.

She was the princess. She had to be the strongest.

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