Overprotective Men, A Very Angry Cat, and A Persistent Crown Prince

If someone had told me a few weeks ago that I'd be swinging a sword in the middle of winter while a terrifying knight barked orders at me, I would have laughed in their face. But here I am. Sweating. Suffering. Swearing in my head.

All because my dear father, my overly paranoid older brother, and my apparently equally paranoid knight decided—no, announced—that I must learn sword fighting after the demonic beast King dragged me inside the fountain.

It all started a week ago.

Father just called me suddenly, announcing, "You're going to learn swordfght."

"What! why?"

"It's a self-defense ceceilia," Theodore said.

"But I know how to fist fight!" I had argued.

"You'll learn the sword," Father said.

"I'm perfectly capable of defending myself!" I insisted.

"Not against a blade," Tristian added, crossing his arms.

"I have magic!" I protested.