#regnumstarter

“Do you know to whom you speak?” 

The woman’s voice rang clear throughout the hallways of the foreign palace. She had arrived only hours ago, and already it was clear to anyone that she did not mean to have fun. This was not a friendly game to her. She had one goal in coming to Parcovia: win the King’s favor and take over as its Queen. 

The servant immediately ducked her head, apologizing. “Forgive me, your Highness.” 

Isira took in a slow, deep breath. “Leave. I can find my own way.” In a moment, the girl had left and Isira was alone again. Always alone, but never lacking in prying eyes.

Most were busying themselves with whatever preparations they had to make for the rapidly approaching wedding. Whether she’d even be allowed to go to the celebrations was the doctors’ prerogative ( and she would have to, with much resentment, abide by whatever they decided merely because she wasn’t physically able to sneak out and defy them ) and any formality, which she had been tempted to try for the Princess of Elesea’s benefit — see how she would look — would undoubtedly be vetoed lest it aggravate or strain her injury. 

( The feared pirate captain was on blankets, books and bedrest for the foreseeable, it would seem, and the doctors insisted she stay within the Parcovian palace. Which had her missing her ship all the more profusely. )

Unquestionably, she would make the same choice again if presented with it. Not just seven times, as the priests would say, but seventy times seven — which, just as it was in the holy book she read so infrequently as a child, and never in many years, was an indication of infinity rather than to be taken literally — but this did not erase the fact that it was terribly timed. 

It seemed doubtful, though, that there ever was truly a good time to be stabbed, only bad or worse or catastrophic. This wasn’t catastrophic per sé, but perhaps fell into ‘worse.’ Blythe’s gaze lifted ( reluctantly, though that was no insult to the entrant so much as a compliment to the riveting nature of the book ) from pages to doorway. 

“Excuse me, you’re not allowed to—”

Pirate stepped closer to guard, these manoeuvres the precursor to the dance we know to be battle. Blythe cared not for the stares upon her back nor the gapes on their faces ( if they wanted to look utterly idiotic, that was their prerogative ) but a vicious brand of satisfaction was born in her chest at the sight of a flash of fear in his eyes; guards with rabbits’ hearts were always a joy and a pity to see, pulses driven to racing speeds by unpredictability alone. 

Her finger pressed against the man’s lips to quell him into silence. “That’s where you’re wrong,” she smirked, sharp and caustic laughter cleaving through the air, “I’d have to be a fool to give this up. If you feel so strongly about it, I suggest you try and take it from me, and we’ll see who lives to tell the tale, hm?”

“N-no, that’s not necessary, Miss—”

“That’s Captain,” she corrected, retracting her finger from his mouth and dragging it along his cheek ( to rid it of the condensation and spit that had amassed there ) while her mouth twisted in distaste, “to you. To everyone, as a matter of fact.”

“That won’t be necessary, Captain.”