...

by Lucienne Juhnke

I twist the knife around in my hand, feeling the carefully crafted handle. This knife is probably worth more than me. Actually, I doubt it. The handle depicts a battle between the first queen, Queen Octavia, and an army of soldiers. The army looks pathetic next to her. She towers over them, her hair whipping in the wind. The colors used create the illusion that she is glowing. It’s possibly the worst dagger to use, but I don’t tell my parents that. They believe it’s more “royal” than a standard dagger, which is a very foolish thing to say in my opinion. Daggers should be lightweight, simple, and easy to use. I hold the ridiculously large thing up, letting the reflection of the sun temporarily blind me.

“Can you hurry it up please!” Reta yells, her sword making her look more threatening than she actually is. Our trainer is helping her with her stance and I stifle a laugh as she almost drops the silver weapon. I turn back to my target, the stuffed mannequin that’s leaning against the wall. I pull back my arm and prepare myself, like I have done hundreds of times, before whipping my arm forward and releasing the knife. I watch as it hits the mannequin right in the heart. I repeat this a few times before someone starts applauding. I turn towards the door and see Henry watching me.

“Very impressive,” he steps towards me, and I scowl. “Why do you have that look on your face? Aren’t you pleased to see me?” He smirks.

“I’m trying to practice, Henry,” I pull the knife out of the mannequin and throw it again. It doesn’t come as a surprise that it hits in the same spot.

“His majesty sent for you.” I freeze. My father?

“You don’t need to lie to get me to do something with you, I am your fiancé after all,” I murmur, trying not to gag. I look around the room, only now noticing that Reta and our trainer have already left. How long have I been practicing?

“I’m not lying, he needs you in his study.”

“Why did he send you?”

“You’re not going to go until I answer all of your questions,” he sighs, running his hand through his hair. He says it as a statement, not a question.

“Correct, so you might want to start talking.”

“I was asking his and her majesty a couple questions about our engagement and when we finished discussing he asked me to come get you. That’s all I know.”

“Questions about our engagement?” I ask.

“Yes, just some simple things, like who I can tell and who I should keep it a secret from,” his face turns red, adding to his abnormally unprofessional appearance. He’s wearing a white button down shirt with the top two buttons undone, causing a little bit of his collarbone to be visible. His hair is also messed up, most likely from his unconscious stress habit of combing his hand through it, like he just did. He normally looks regal and serious, which is how I know that whatever he was talking to my father about was more than just our engagement. I decide to let it go. I place the knife back into its holder and walk over to Henry, hooking my arm through his. We glance at each other once more before stepping out of the room and slipping back into the noble versions of ourselves.

I am no longer “Anastasia, the 17 year old that enjoys throwing knives.'' I am Anastasia Cordelia Knaus, Princess of Ewhye.