Captivated

CALLAN

She was quite captivating.

Her eyes widened, her large, doe-shaped eyes, the colour of starless night skies, and they darted towards him, as if seeking some kind of aid with the grip fastened on her wrist.

Callan watched her with fascination. She definitely looked the part. Glowing, golden brown skin, red dress hugging her curves and dark black hair elegantly pinned back with a tiara. However, unlike her mother and the other women present in that very room, she seemed to bear an expression of disgust towards her father's words, rather than the painfully patriotic air that surrounded the rest of them.

"Wha-what?" her voice fled her lips in a faint whisper, however in that silent throne room, even a pin drop could be heard and her words were audible to all.

"That is right," bellowed the fool, Isadore through gritted teeth, as if trying to stomach the disgust he felt towards the Acraeneiae. Callan would have gladly let him know that the feeling was entirely mutual, if not for the responsibility of keeping a civil tongue in mind. "If you win, you shall have my daughter. Do with her what you will."

For the first time, Callan felt sick to his stomach. It was to this man, this vile, obnoxious human being, that an entire kingdom had been trusted to. A man who would gladly give up his own flesh and blood over the most futile of wars waged over the stupidest reasons. A hundred curses rushed to the tip of his tongue, but Callan bit them back. Who was he to talk, when he himself had led such a battle?

"Father?" the princess said, her voice small and vulnerable. Her eyes darted back again to find Callan's, as if searching his piercing blue ones for an answer, inspecting his firm expression for emotion.

"If he wins, Paige my dear," Isadore said, his words accompanied by a foul smirk. "Which he won't. Everyone knows that I am the finest swordsman my land has ever seen!" Your land, Isadore? Callan thought, holding back from a triumphant smirk. Are you truly sure this land is yours?

Isadore let go of his daughter and Callan watched as she faltered back, barely just avoiding tripping over her dress as she returned to the shadows, an expression of betrayal and horror flooding her face. Her mother, he noted, beamed with pride, chest rising high in approval of her husband's foolishly stupid act of patriotism. Any man who would gladly give up his own daughter to a stranger in order to justify his pride never ought to have become a father in the first place. Callan's grip tightened on the hilt of his sword.

"Pick up your sword and fight!" Isadore spat, flashing the strong steel of his sword as he brought it close to Callan's eyes, an intimidating gesture it would have been, if Callan hadn't seen it performed so frequently. "Raise your sword and we shall begin. Your fate is truly in my hands."

"Very well," Callan sighed, his fingertips itching to put an end to Isadore's infernal bravado. He unsheathed his sword, not failing to catch the glimpse of envy flash across Isadore's face at the sight of Callan's impressive needle-like weapon, constructed of the finest tamahagane, its wooden hilt engraved with intricate features. Callan couldn't help the smallest of smiles as he turned his weapon to face his unfortunate opponent.

"Let us fight."

PAIGE

She was still in shock.

No, not shock. She knew her father and the foolish ways his mind worked in. But hurt, was perhaps closer to what she felt. Hurt that her own father, was prepared to give her away, like that, for a stupid battle, no regard for any love he felt for her. Disgusted that two men, responsible for running their own kingdoms would trade her off so thoughtlessly as if she were merely another trophy, another trinket to add to the overflowing treasure chest. Men like them, men like her father, men like the Prince of Arcaeneia, she could not stomach.

She wanted to cry. She wanted to run to Aiden, like she had, for the pasy twenty years of her life. Run to him and cry on his shoulder. Cry until there were no more tears left and then laugh, because that's how he made her feel. He made her happy.

Today, she had no idea whether he was still alive or not.

The prince unsheathed his sword and Paige let out the smallest of gasps. It was beautiful. Majestic, if you will, two and a half foot of impossible metal, tiny runes carved into its glossy surface, glinting proudly in the sunlit throne room. The prince seemed like a true king with such a weapon in his hand, as if it had been crafted just for him.

Swords clanged and Paige winced. The metal on metal sound had never appealed to her. She watched as the prince's eyes casually skimmed over to hers, just lingering on her for a second too long, sending the slightest of tremors down her spine.

Her father smirked, stepping in for another jab, however his attempts were deflected expertly by the prince, whose very manoeuvres would've brought the crowd to their feet, applauding madly, if not for the patriotic bias. However Paige's thoughts were not with her in that throne room. She could only think of her best friend, may he lay wounded on the battlefield, injured on a hospital bed or well and very much alive. He shouldn't have been down there. None of them should've been down there. They were fighting for a cause they could not name and for a king that could not name them.

Her attention returned to the duel and her eyes settled on the prince once more, watching with strange fascination at his fighting techniques, noting how he only deflected until her father was tired from his own attacks and only then did the prince pounce, threatening to disarm Isadore once and for all. It was as if Prince Callan had purposefully avoided beheading the King, in order to keep his audience at the edge of their seats, anticipating every attack and deflect.

Paige turned her attention to the prince's band of followers. She was surprised to find that none of them so much as wore a single shadow of doubt upon their faces, expression almost proud as their eyes pursued every parry and every strike and every moment the two swords met, metal clanging against metal fiercely. Their expressions almost mirrored the ignorant ones her family member's bore, her mother beaming approvingly with not a single figment of knowledge about what was really occurring in that throne room.

But Paige knew.

She'd watched Aiden fight as they had grown up, Aiden attending his sword-fighting lessons as she herself had been forced to sit through etiquette lessons. She'd sometimes sneak onto the ramparts and overlook their sword-fighting lessons, swinging the sword that Aiden had secretively bought for her sixteenth birthday. She wasn't half bad herself, but it wasn't her favourite thing to do. Her favourite thing to do in the whole wide world had been to write. She could write anything. She would sneak off in between her classes with Aiden and while he practised his parries and his blows, she would look up into the sky and write down all the stories she'd imagined in her head. Nothing made her feel quite so alive as when she had a pen in her hand.

"Give up," the King grunted as he attempted to deflect another blow, "while you can, Prince. You may not be around longer to accept such a luxury." The Prince merely smirked, stepping in for another attack, before darting back unfazed. Isadore staggered back, his face an unholy shade of dark red, ignorantly cheered on my Paige's mother, aunt and cousin, mistaken for a sign of victory.

But that foolish mistake did not remain so for much longer.

On the spur of the moment, a sharp clang ran through the throne room and the spectators watched, lips parted in anticipation as Isadore's sword was struck from his very hand, clattering uselessly onto the steps leading to his throne, before rattling to silence at the foot of his throne, the blade suddenly not as sharp as it had been just minutes before. Paige averted her eyes to the victor, standing triumphantly, face lacking in pride however, as he stood over the King, tip of his sword pointing directly at Isadore's Adam's apple, just inches away from piercing the skin and allowing the blood to flow.

"I suppose that means that I have won."