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and
    they’ll change your nickname to
    “Mathilda St. Ives—Spinster Flower
    of the East,” Isolde chuckled and
    Jaisyn tried to hide the smile forming
    at her lips.
    Mathilda
    only
    frowned
    and
    countered, “You’re just jealous,
    Isolde, that I have a nickname and you
    don’t.”
    Isolde’s laughter died and knowing
    that her sister was about to say
    something that would send Mathilda
    into another bout of hysterics, Jaisyn
    decided to change the topic. “What do
    you think of the new dresses from
    Gisbon?” She referred to a new
    shipment of clothing that had come
    from the dressmakers of one of their
    cities though she had little interest in
    such things.
    “They’re exquisite. How the Gisbon
    women blend those colors, we will
    never know. And the riding habits—
    how absolutely beautiful. And of
    course, there are those hats…even the
    Mitherie women admire our hats.”
    Isolde was the first to reply and the
    conversation returned to safe ground.
    As they chattered away, Jaisyn stared
    at her reflection in the mirror. She
    now stood at five feet eight and a half
    inches, and because she’d continued
    her training, was lean and lightly
    muscled, with feminine curves where
    nature willed it.
    Unlike her sisters, she wasn’t soft or
    necessarily receptive, and at times,
    could be even more blunt and forward
    than Isolde. She ran the comb through
    her curls once more before grabbing
    one of her many leather bands and
    pulling her thick hair into a bun. On
    her body was a simple, high necked,
    blue gown of the previous collection
    by the Gisbon women that enhanced
    the dark bronze of her complexion
    and set a stark contrast to the vivid
    gold of her eyes. Although her father
    constantly told her she reminded him
    of her mother, she saw more of
    Wilhelm in herself than her mother.
    Her face was more oval than round,
    with thin yet pouty lips, high
    cheekbones, a very regal nose and
    eyes that slanted up slightly.
    Jaisyn didn’t consider herself a great
    beauty; she left that for Isolde and
    Mathilda to fight over. What she knew
    was that she was a good fighter. Even
    her father’s generals complimented
    her skill with the sword. While Isolde
    had perfected playing the harp and
    Mathilda had perfected her voice,
    Jaisyn had perfected her sword arm.
    Jaisyn’s biggest regret was that she
    had not been this good five years ago.
    Had she been, her brother might have
    lived...
    She stopped. Not today. She’d
    thought about that day obsessively for
    years and finally, finally, she’d
    stopped. Not today. Tomorrow was
    soon enough.

    ***

    One month later…

    Jaisyn fell with a thud upon the hard
    earth, grimacing as the breath was
    knocked from her straining lungs. A
    collective groan came from the
    gathered crowd as she struggled to
    force air into her body. Through the
    visor of her helmet, she saw her larger
    opponent advance. The high sunlight
    glinted off his sword as he lifted it.
    Although aware he fought a princess,
    he was merciless. His movements
    were quick and precise, and before
    she could move, the sword was
    pressed to Jaisyn’s leather-covered
    throat. A deafening cheer rang up
    from the small crowd of warriors and
    soldiers who’d taken a break from
    their training to watch the duel.
    “Yield?” he asked, his breaths
    coming hard and fast. Jaisyn analyzed
    her situation and decided surrendering
    wasn’t in her nature. She feigned
    surrender by turning her head to the
    side and when he relaxed, brought her
    knees up—glad she was only dressed
    in chain mail and protective leathers
    and not heavy armor—and shoved
    hard.
    He fell backwards and as he
    tumbled
    to
    the
    ground,
    Jaisyn
    pounced, pressing her sword against
    his uncovered neck.
    “Yield?” she taunted and when he
    didn’t answer soon enough for her,
    she pushed the sword further into his
    skin. If not for the helmet covering his
    face, she knew she would see his eyes
    widen then narrow.
    Malcolm was a few years older,