Chapter Seven

As Samantha made her way toward the castle, her boots crunched over the gravel path, leaving a trail of dust and defiance behind her. She didn't walk like a princess—not the way the palace tutors had drilled into her for years. No delicate glides or subtle curtsies. She walked like someone who could knock down a door if she felt like it—and had probably already done it once or twice.

The wind picked up, rustling the trees that lined the edge of the field. It carried the scent of fresh-cut grass, sweat, and something else—possibility. For a fleeting second, she let herself pretend she was just another girl who'd won a sparring match and was heading home to dinner, not someone who might be staring down a political war she never asked to fight.

The castle loomed ahead, bathed in warm afternoon light. Golden spires sparkled like something out of a fairytale, and ivy curled up the sides of the walls in a way that would make poets weep. From the outside, it looked like a dream.

But Samantha knew better.

To her, it was less a palace and more a pressure cooker—elegantly designed, yes, but filled with expectations, secrets, and an unhealthy amount of passive-aggressive smiling. She sometimes wondered if the throne came with a lifetime supply of emotional exhaustion.

She adjusted her sword bag across her back, already imagining the scolding she'd get for showing up to court like this—mud on her tunic, sweat on her brow, and a small bruise blooming under her right eye like a flower of rebellion.

She almost smiled. Let them talk.

Her aunt's face flickered through her thoughts—cool, calculating, and always just a little too pleasant. Lady Meria had perfected the art of pretending to care while quietly orchestrating every move like a chess master two games ahead. And lately, her moves had been bold. Suspiciously bold.

There were rumors. There were always rumors in the castle, like smoke with no visible fire—but this time, they felt different. Samantha had overheard servants whispering about secret meetings. Guards who'd been reassigned without explanation. Lord Rennick vanishing after publicly supporting her in court. And that was just what she knew.

Coincidence? Maybe. But then again, Meria didn't believe in luck. She believed in leverage.

Samantha's jaw tightened as she passed two maids who bowed stiffly and hurried off with barely a glance. Likely scandalized by the dirt smeared across her cheek. Or maybe they'd just learned not to make eye contact with the "wild princess." Either way, Samantha didn't care.

She was tired of playing the perfect doll.

A butterfly fluttered past her nose, landing briefly on her shoulder. For some reason, that tiny moment of softness made her heart clench. It reminded her that there was still beauty in the world—delicate, quiet things that weren't concerned with power or appearances. Just existing. Free.

She reached the castle's grand archway and paused.

Inside those walls were lies wrapped in silk, daggers disguised as dinner invitations, and a woman who would love nothing more than to see her "darling niece" out of the picture. Permanently.

Samantha inhaled deeply. She was scared. Of course she was. She was seventeen, untested, and walking into a fight no one had officially declared yet. But she wasn't stupid—and she wasn't alone.

Let them underestimate her. Let them laugh at her bruises, mock her sword skills, call her names behind fans and wine glasses. She would bide her time. Study every move.

And when the moment came?

She would not kneel.