Nyssara
I don't remember when it started.
Maybe when I held my first blade.
Maybe when she first looked at me — not as her daughter, but as her successor.
"You will become the next Sword Emperor, Nyssara. That is your path."
Mother's voice has always been clear, sharp, undeniable. Like the clang of metal. Like an order no one dares defy. Not even me.
So I walked that path. Every day. Every hour. Every heartbeat. Sword in hand, back straight, emotions sealed. What she said, I did. What she dreamed, I pursued.
And slowly… I forgot to dream for myself.
They call me the Princess of Steel.
The heir to Thryllmere, the radiant jewel of the Elven lands. Daughter of Queen Ithirel Aenya Aralyn — the most revered high elf to walk the capital in a thousand years.
But I've never seen my father.
They say he died in the war.
They say he abandoned us.
They say many things.
My mother… she never speaks of him. Never once. Her face twists into quiet rage when his name is mentioned. Her voice, usually a melody of diplomacy and pride, hardens like stone.
"Forget him."
That's all she ever said.
So I did.
Or I tried to.
⸻
I was raised not as a daughter, but as an heir. Every gesture, every step, every breath weighed against the expectations of the Elder Council. I was not allowed to laugh loudly, or cry openly. I was not allowed to falter.
My crown was forged long before I was old enough to wear it.
And my sword… was chosen for me before I could even pronounce its name.
They trained me from dawn until dusk. In swordforms, in poise, in elven diplomacy. Not once did anyone ask what I wanted.
I learned to smile with empty eyes. I became what they wanted.
A blade in the form of a girl.
⸻
Sometimes, in the middle of sparring matches, an instructor or court knight would say, half-lost in thought—
"Your swordsmanship… it's just like your father's."
And every time, I froze.
Not from pride.
Not from pain.
From emptiness.
How could I be like someone I've never known?
Someone who is a ghost in my mother's fury?
Someone whose absence lives in my silence?
⸻
They call me one of the Four Divine Prodigies, and I play the part well. Among us, I am the only one who uses no magic. No incantations. No summons.
Only the blade. Always the blade.
That's why I was shaken when I saw him.
Arthur Valerian.
They said he has a Crystal Core. That he shouldn't be able to compete with us — let alone surpass us.
I didn't care about the titles or the rankings. Not even the fact that he became Yearlord.
What struck me… was his sword.
I'd trained all my life to perfect my form — and I had. They told me I moved like a master knight. Unstoppable. Precise.
But Arthur…
He moved like wind given shape.
Like music played on steel.
Where my sword was control, his was freedom.
Where I struck to win, he struck to express.
It wasn't just swordsmanship. It was something more.
Something I couldn't look away from.
⸻
And so, for the first time in years, I did something for myself.
⸻
The café in Arcadia's sky-tier was lively that evening — lanternlight and laughter, a rare moment of normalcy.
I spotted them before they saw me.
Arthur, seated with Jullian and Saryn, leaned back in his chair, eyes casually drifting across the tables, like any boy his age might. A smile played on his lips as his friends elbowed him, whispering about a group of girls at a far corner.
He looked. Laughed quietly.
But the girl he noticed…
Was me.
⸻
I stepped forward, the bell above the café door chiming softly. The world seemed to pause as my boots clicked against the stone floor.
Their table went silent. Jullian and Saryn straightened. Arthur's smile faded. He turned away, gaze dropping to his drink — almost sheepish.
Because the girl they'd been watching…
Was the girl walking toward them.
I stopped beside their table, expression calm, voice level.
"Arthur Valerian," I said, and his name fell between us like a drawn blade.
He looked up slowly. But wouldn't meet my eyes.
"I challenge you," I continued.
"To a duel. Sword only. No magic. No mercy."
——————————————
Arthur stared down at the drink in his hands, the faint tremor of surprise fading from his fingers as he exhaled through his nose. He didn't raise his eyes.
Is she challenging me… because I looked at her?
He felt a twinge of regret crawl up his spine.
I shouldn't have come here. Not with these bastards.
He slowly stood, setting his cup aside without a sound. His voice was calm, even, but slightly colder than usual.
"Sorry," Arthur said, eyes flicking up to meet Nyssara's for a heartbeat before moving past her.
"I wasn't looking at you. I was looking behind you. That's all."
A pause. Tension hung like wire between them.
Nyssara tilted her head slightly, eyes unblinking.
"I don't care," she said flatly.
"All the boys look at me."
Her gaze sharpened.
"I didn't come here for your attention. I came to challenge you. I want to see your swordsmanship. The one from that day."
Arthur's jaw tightened.
Jullian blinked, caught between concern and curiosity.
But Saryn leaned in with a grin that only spelled trouble.
"Hey, Arthur," he drawled, elbowing him.
"She wants to see yours."
There was a half-second of stunned silence.
And then—
CRACK.
Saryn's head snapped sideways as Nyssara's fist landed squarely on his cheek, sending him stumbling into the edge of the table.
"Idiot," she muttered, shaking her hand.
Jullian choked on his drink. Saryn groaned, rubbing his jaw with tears in his eyes.
Arthur, however, didn't flinch. His eyes never left hers.
"Will you accept, or not?" Nyssara asked, her tone firm now.
"Or are you afraid?"
The corner of Arthur's mouth twitched.
"Fine."
Just one word, but it struck like a bell.
⸻
Within minutes, the four of them — Arthur, Nyssara, Saryn (still rubbing his face), and Jullian — made their way through the winding corridors of Erinoguard, finally reaching one of the reserved training arenas deep below the surface.
It was empty. Quiet. Still.
No audience. No applause. Just the sound of boots on stone and the breath before a storm.
Here, they weren't royalty. Not prodigies. Not chosen heirs of nations.
Just two swordsmen.
About to clash.