Skin like fire, mind icy clear, sword a part of flesh, the enemy just meat, armor protection, but not for them. There was no one who could protect them from Tyta Pyke, soon to be Dame Tyta Pyke rather than Princess Tyta Pyke. She would not be married to some hideous witch prince for the sake of peace. She would be who she wanted to be, no man’s gift, less they be talking about the gift of Hope in their neck, the gift of blood they’ll sacrifice to her sword. Sweat dripped. This was no way for a lady to act, to behave, but who said Tyta ever wanted to be a lady?

Her sparring partner retreated heavily under the blows she reigned down upon him. Every time her sword made contact with his silly wooden shield, there was a loud think that startled the boy almost as much as her ferocity. Despite being their princess, they’d mocked her, told her to run back to the castle and hide under all of her pretty dresses and down in her jewels. Tyta would rather make him drown in his own blood. She’d launched herself at the one who mocked the loudest and he had no time to throw up his shield. Here he was now, craven, cowering. The rank stench of his urine only fueled her satisfaction in knowing he would never do more mocking.

“You’ve shown him whose boss Tyta,” called the master at arms, Ronan. Despite his call for the foolishness to end, she couldn’t resist landing one last blow; she slapped the boy on the rump with the flat of her blade. He yelped loudly, dropped the shield, and fell onto his face. The friends who had mocked her as well laughed at his misfortune, in hopes that Tyta wouldn’t turn her fury to them. The master strode up to her, placed a meaty hand on her delicate, sweat slicked shoulder and nudged the red faced boy with the toe of his boot. “Better learn fast, boys. Tyta is my best student. She could knock you all to the seventh layer of hell, she could.”

She had originally come to practice so she could get out her anger, not to spar with some fool, but her anger had suddenly dissipated. With her anger spent, Tyta was hungry and tired, but mostly hungry. Her sparring leathers clung to her like a second skin, promising protection from blunted practice swords, and she cherished the time she spent unpampered. Soon, she would have to wear her finest dress and her prettiest jewels in hopes that the witch prince thought her pretty enough for him. “I take my leave now, master,” she called to Master Ronan. He knew what day it was. They all knew what day it was. The master of arms inclined his head at her before calling for drills.

She sheathed Hope on her back and strode from the practice arena on her long, slender legs. Every part of her was hard, shaped and toned to perfection from constant practice at swords. Tyta hoped the prince hated her, so that he would reject her and then she could go on to fulfill her precious dream of becoming the first lady knight. Her brother Jack, already a world away to fight a different war, had given her hope. “Never give up hope, Ty, because she’ll be right here with you,” he’d told her, pressing the sheathed sword into her hands. That had seemed years ago.

From the very moment she had been told she was to marry a witch, she’d thrown herself into her sword and archery and refused to do anything lady-like. Most of her time these past three weeks were spent sweaty and falling into bed in her stinking leathers. The maids pleaded for her to wash, so they might dress her in fine silk instead of hard leather, but Tyta would have none of that. She refused to learn how to be a witch’s submissive wife. Tyta Pyke would rather cut off his head and let the war resume.

The kitchen wenches wrinkled their noses at Tyta when she walked into the kitchen, complaining to one another in their strange elven language about how she smelled. They still didn’t know she knew what they were saying, having studied the language for the moment she could surprise them. She glared at them out of hand and snatched an apple tart from the steaming tray one of the wenches had just pulled from the oven, paying no mind to how it burned her skin. If she truly wanted to be a knight, she had to learn indifference to pain, not whine at it like a spoiled princess. “I’d like cinnamon toast with eggs and bacon, another one of these tarts and a tall glass of juice, Rona. Oh, and I see that chicken you’re trying to hide. I’d like a leg of that as well,” Tyta told the head wench, a respectable woman who scowled down at those scouring pots and cooking food, much like her father Ronan scowled at the boys while they practiced. “Bring them to the dining hall.” Tyta snatched another hot, fruity tart from the tray and skipped out of the kitchen.

Today would be the day she was betrothed to a witch, would go with him to his horrific homeland, but never would she wed. Knights could not be forced to wed.

The youthful blonde with the mischievous sapphire eyes shoved the doors to the great dining hall, forcing the ornate white doors twelve feet high open to admit her. The ceiling was forty feel tall, a glittering crystal chandelier hanging high and swinging gently, adorned with hundreds of tiny candles, their flames winking down at the grand oak table, stained a warm, deep brown. At this grand table stood one-hundred twenty-two chairs, each an exact copy of the next save for two, cut from the same wood as the table and stained to match. One hundred twenty chairs were only high enough in the back to reach the average man’s shoulders, the seats and arm rests cushioned with red velvet, goose down stuffed inside, for maximum comfort at banquets. The two chairs at either end were high backed with wings jutting proudly to either side, the velvet royal purple and not red. Precious gems were inlaid in the back, catching the candle light above and glinting wildly. This was where the royal family ate with guests that had slept under their roof for more than one night, and family. They had two other eating halls; one was much smaller, for the immediate royal family only, and a green-slash-eating hall.

Tyta chose this one because of the king’s chair, the biggest in the hall, which dwarfed her size no matter how tall she got. It made her feel as though she were the ruler of Orlanthia, not by birth or by marriage, but by right of conquest. The greeting hall made her feel the same way, with its great throne and decorated walls, banners hanging from the rafters, brandishing her own sigil.

She sat in this large chair now, hands braced on the golden pommels at the end of the rests. This was the moment she would miss the most, sitting in the chairs that made her feel godly. At Aisling, they would make her wear her fancy gowns everywhere instead of her tunic and breeches, force her into heels rather than riding boots, and snatch away her practicing privileges, to replace them with needlework or singing. Her hair would always be done and she would smell like flowers instead of sweat. It was a life she dreaded. She shuddered to think about it. No doubt the witch prince would lock her away somewhere, only to release her when a public viewing of their “love” was necessary.

A servant brought her odd breakfast and stood by to await other orders. Certain the food was fine, Tyta waved her away absently. The aroma of a perfectly cooked chicken leg, fruity tarts and cinnamon toast made her stomach roar, demanding it bed fed, now. She was happy to oblige her wailing insides, devouring the toast, tearing into the chicken, hands and all, and drained half of her orange juice in moments. A servant, vigilant from the shadows, hastily replenished her glass.

“Tyta!” screeched a fair skinned blonde beauty with her face contorted into a horrified mask. Her pretty blue eyes were open wide, her golden eyebrows disappearing into her golden hairline. Queen Lana’s pink lips were open wide, her jaw dangling as she took in the terror that was her dirty, smelly daughter, lounging in her father’s chair and scarfing down food in a very un-lady-like manner.

The girl, sweet faced with loosely curled blonde hair that tumbled in dank twists about her shoulders and dark sapphire eyes as deep as the ocean, didn’t spare so much as a glance for her mother when she replied to the screaming, though she did have to force down a grin and a giggle. “How is your day, mother?” Tyta asked sweetly, picking the leg meat from her fat chicken leg. Grease juice ran down her hands. The young woman had a complete disregard for the lady-like behavior their priestess had tried to drill into her impressionable mind, because she was not impressionable, and this was her home besides. She would eat how she pleased.

Mother looked near to exploded, but ever the queenly lady, composed herself with some difficulty. She took deep breaths, smoothed out her pink gown, and painted on the most fake smile Tyta had ever seen form on her mother’s face. “Tyta Pyke,” she began again, reaching out to caress her daughter’s hair, and thought better of it, “my day will be better when I see you washed and ready for the prince to arrive. They will be here any moment, my darling daughter.
Even just as she said that, a squire burst into the dining hall, red faced and huffing as if he'd seen a ghost and ran straight there to tell them. "My queen, the witches are here,” he forced out between labored breaths.
Desperate, mother grabbed Tyta by the arm, forcing her to drop the chicken she'd been plucking at onto the floor. She tried to wrestle her way from her mother, but to no avail. The only way out of the dining hall was to go through the common room, where the witches would be waiting, unless they scurried out through the kitchen like slaves. The queen struggled with this decision for a brief moment before she stormed through the common room with as much grace as an experienced queen could manage. To her relief, the witches hadn't been shown to the common room, but she was quite sure they'd be there any moment. "Take my daughter to her room. Wash her, clothe her, and bring her back down immediately," the Queen snarled at the squire who followed them. He nodded furtively, whisked Tyta away by the elbow, and had a gaggle of maids following them by the time they reached the far room.
Tyta, however, was angry that she had to be forced into a gown, but she knew it was necessary. Today she had to look her most beautiful, otherwise the witches would likely try to back their way out of the agreement they had made. In all honesty, Ty wouldn't have minded, no matter how much they needed this marriage, for the safety of her people and the witches people.
The maids dressed her in the finest silken blue brocade that clung to her like a second skin and swayed just above her ankles. It left her strong, bruised back open, but they covered the bruises with a light powdery make up so that they couldn't be seen. Around her throat they fastened a silver chain with a blue gem in the middle, bound her hair on her head so her natural curls bounced gently around her ears, and gave her many silver rings to adorn her calloused fingers. On her feet, they tried to force black ball gown shoes Tyta was likely to kill herself in, and after some deliberating, they finally managed to get her into black flats instead.
Washed, dressed and as gorgeous as ever, Tyta began her way down to the common room while the servants packed her things. She would be living in the mountains with the dragons now, so her entire life had to be packed and brought with them, including her sword, her practice clothes, the battle armor she had forged just for when she became knighted, and only a handful of her prettiest, floor sweeping dresses.

Yet, as she descended the stairs, Tyta knew that this wasn’t the end of the world, as she’d thought it might be a fortnight past. This was an opportunity to experience something nice, to see what life was like somewhere else. Although she hadn’t always been a diligent learner, Tyta had a once in a lifetime opportunity to read witch lore, to learn about the witch people as none of her race had down before. In Aisling, Tyta would try to have the wedding pushed back as far as she could, and perhaps she could get herself knighted and have her dreams truly come true. In Orlanthia, they knew her as the princess, but not everyone in Aisling would know her as such.

Still, she would not wed.