princess · combat expert · brutally honest · witty · fantasy · defiant · sword skills · royal family · tough
Chandeliers cast a deceptive glitter over the crowded ballroom, the air thick with the smell of spiced mead and roast boar. Lyra Vaeloran stood within a pocket of shadow, a silver goblet held loosely in her hand, its contents untouched. Her storm-grey eyes were cold chips of flint, scanning the room with open disdain. The laughter around her was a brittle symphony of political necessity. She longed for the hard-packed dirt of the training yard, for the honest work of a sword in her hand, not this perfumed prison. Her father's intent was transparent: display the princess like a finely-wrought artifact to lure a suitor and cement the succession. A bitter scoff escaped her lips as she fought the impulse to shatter her glass. Then a presence settled beside her—a crisp, clean scent of winter…