Marco returned to his father’s barony and, the next day, received a visit from his neighbor Genevieve.

  The young woman arrived mid-morning in a modest but well-kept carriage. She wore a light blue suit, proper for a noble lady but without excess: a wide skirt, a corset embroidered with discreet floral motifs, and fitted sleeves that revealed white lace gloves. Her light brown hair, long and slightly wavy, was pulled back in an elaborate but youthful hairstyle, adorned with a simple silver ribbon. She had a delicate face, still with childish features, but her large, lively eyes showed that she was no longer a child.

  A few steps behind her walked her maid, Tilda, a clearly older woman: tall, with straight shoulders, her dark hair pulled back in a severe bun. Her dress was sober, in brown tones, and her attentive gaze didn’t stray from her lady for a second.

  “You didn’t come to my party,” Genevieve told him, arms crossed and brow furrowed, once they were seated in one of the estate’s parlors.

  Marco settled into the armchair across from her, keeping his back straight and his hands resting on his knees.

  “I wasn’t able to. It was only two days after the royal academy ball.”

  Genevieve looked away with a snort, toying with a fold of her skirt.

  She didn’t reproach him for not using a teleportation portal to arrive earlier, since these were extremely expensive. A baron usually couldn’t afford them.

  “And why didn’t you choose my party?” she insisted, fixing her eyes on him again. “It wasn’t just my birthday party, it was also my debut in society. I’m already fifteen. I can get married now. I came myself to bring you the invitation.”

  Marco felt a slight knot in his stomach.

  “But Genevieve, you’ve always come around here to see me since you were little. Besides, you know I was engaged. My fiancée’s ball wasn’t something I could miss.”

  She pressed her lips together, visibly hurt.

  “You’ve changed. Until recently she didn’t seem to matter to you much. I think...” She stopped abruptly, frowning. “Wait, did you say was?”

  Marco inhaled deeply and nodded slowly, avoiding her gaze.

  “Yes. Bianca broke up with me and got engaged to the second prince.”

  Genevieve’s youthful face cycled through a range of emotions: her eyes widened in surprise, then gleamed with an almost triumphant flash, and finally darkened with indignation.

  “How can she be so foolish?” she exclaimed. “If she had you...”

  Marco briefly covered his mouth and chin with one hand, visibly uncomfortable, and looked away toward a window.

  “Well... ours was an arranged marriage and, apparently, hers with the prince is love. It’s fine. My family has been more than compensated.”

  In fact, he had a not insignificant amount of gold with which he could finish fixing the economy of his father’s barony. He planned to use it to cultivate more fields. With that money, he could make offers that would attract peasants from nearby baronies.

  “Then you’re free to court me now,” the young woman stated, lifting her chin slightly, very smug.

  Marco glanced at the girl’s maid, who remained in a discreet background, hands folded in front of her stomach. She didn’t seem to react to Genevieve’s bold and unladylike words, though her eyes narrowed for barely an instant.

  Marco cleared his throat. He was increasingly uncomfortable. To him, his neighbor was like a little sister. He had never considered her any other way.

  “Genevieve, right now I’m focused on managing the barony. I don’t have time for romantic matters,” he assured her with a mixture of determination and sadness as he looked her in the eyes.

  He wanted that information to be clear to her.

  “And you have time to waste weeks going to and from a ball?” she replied, leaning forward.

  “I don’t think my affairs are something you have the right to judge,” Marco responded, with a hint of hardness in his voice. “I’m sorry if I ever gave you the wrong impression.”

  He had never expected this from his little neighbor and, certainly, didn’t want to hurt her.

  Not like Bianca had hurt him.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Besides, it was true he planned to use the pain of the breakup to focus even more on managing the barony, something he was passionate about.

  Judith, with whom he had managed to connect despite having only talked to her for one night, had told him it would be a great idea. The focusing on his crops thing. That with the passage of time, the pain would subside and he could think about getting married and starting a family again.

  Though he didn’t think it could be with his neighbor. Politically, his father would approve of her, but he had always seen her as a little sister to look after. He doubted he could change that.

  “What you’re saying is cruel,” she answered him, stamping the floor with the sole of her right foot, visibly grumpy. “And I don’t accept it. I plan to come back. You need distraction.”

  “Right now I have a lot of work.”

  “I’m not giving up.”

  Marco glanced again at the maid, a woman who must be around thirty, clearly more experienced than her lady, and who seemed about to intervene. Marco gave her a slight nod, wordlessly asking for help.

  Tilda stepped forward and bowed her head respectfully.

  “Miss, it’s late. We should return. Your mother will be waiting for you.”

  Genevieve clenched her fists, but finally stood up abruptly, making her skirt rustle.

  “If you’ll excuse me, Marco, I must go,” she said coldly. “I’ll come visit you again and you can tell me how your plans for your barony are going.”

  Marco said goodbye with a nod of his head and, once alone, went to pour himself a glass of strong liquor, an imported cognac he reserved for special occasions. He didn’t have too many servants, so he preferred to serve it himself.

  He downed it in one gulp, brow furrowed.

  The last thing he expected was for his little neighbor to become a headache.

  The next morning, before dawn, Berta woke me and helped me dress and do my hair for the duel. Here, being in the palace, I prefer to let her create a hairstyle appropriate to my status as the prince’s fiancée, plus I can’t put on one of those dresses that require a corset without her help.

  I’m not thrilled about it, but it is what it is.

  “Are you well-rested now, miss?” she asks me with some irony as she finishes my hair.

  Oh, I know. I called her a killjoy...

  “Yes, thank you, Berta. By the way, I forgot to thank you for keeping an eye on me and warning Vincent on the day of the ball.”

  “I’m at your service, miss.”

  “And why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I considered that your then-future fiancé could resolve the matter with greater diligence.”

  “Yeah, but next time warn me too, please.”

  “Of course, miss.”

  She places a hairpin with more force than usual. I look at her through the enormous polished silver mirror in my guest room, where the candlelight softens the contours of our reflection. My maid seems to be holding back a smile. Is she having fun?

  I start to shake my head, in my resigned gesture of denial, and stop immediately when I feel the pull.

  She’s still doing my updo.

  “Don’t move, miss. You won’t want me to have to start over.”

  “No, sorry.”

  I stay quiet and silent until Berta finishes. Then, I take a look at myself in the mirror.

  The dress is pretty, orange-colored, fitted at the torso, with a full skirt and puffed sleeves, made of richer fabric than I’m used to. It’s obviously one of the ones Berta brought me.

  To complete the ensemble, she’s chosen a matching winter cloak, made of thick fabric soft to the touch, lined inside to retain warmth and closed at the neck with a discreet but elegant brooch. I’ll need it at the dueling arena, which, although it has braziers to warm the seating area, remains open to the outdoors and is unforgiving at this time of morning.

  I leave my room and meet Vincent for breakfast. We’re alone. The palace is still sleeping and the servants move with silent steps. Once we’ve finished, we head to the arena.

  Both Berta and his valet accompany us to the inner courtyard. There a closed carriage awaits us, with the royal coat of arms engraved on the doors. Vincent helps me climb in and takes a seat across from me. The interior is comfortable and cushioned, but very luxurious. I imagine it’s what the queen thinks is appropriate for the royal family.

  The carriage sets off with a gentle rattle. Through the window I see the sky beginning to lighten little by little, still dominated by dark blue tones. The streets are almost empty, though here and there groups of people can be made out walking in the same direction as us. Some are well bundled up and silent; others murmur with evident expectation.

  Honestly? I feel relieved that no one tries to stop the carriage to greet us. I think the other time traumatized me a little bit.

  In any case, we don’t take too long to arrive.

  The dueling arena rises near the inner wall of the city, a circular stone structure, similar to an amphitheater, with stands surrounding a wide circle of sand in the center. Several torches are still lit, though the light of dawn is beginning to prevail.

  The carriage stops at one of the reserved accesses. Vincent descends first and offers me his hand. As I step down, the murmur of the crowd immediately envelops me. There are nobles occupying the upper levels, wrapped in elegant cloaks, and commoners in the lower stands, some standing, others sitting directly on the cold stone.

  From inside I make out Darius, already in the arena, preparing for the duel. He’s removed his cloak and is checking his equipment with measured movements, concentrated, oblivious to the gazes falling on him.

  “Over here!” I suddenly hear.

  I look up and see Karina’s blonde head, seated in the stands, leaning forward to make herself visible. She waves at us, clearly happy to recognize us among the crowd.

  I return the gesture before turning my attention back to the arena. The sky finishes lightening, and the first rays of sun fall on the central circle, drawing golden gleams from the trampled sand.

  Darius’s opponent is in front of him. Also preparing. For now, I don’t see the mounts.

  Then some footmen bring the count’s mount, which looks more like a black beast than a horse. It’s tall and powerful, with a broad chest and firm haunches. Its tense muscles gleam under the jet-black coat, and its hooves strike the stone with authority. The mane falls like a dark mantle, and its eyes, a dark brown, shine with contained fire, ready for battle. I see how the horse observes the surroundings with unsettling calm, and when it snorts it expels clouds of steam from its nostrils. It’s also partially covered by riveted leather barding.

  I can’t help but shudder. It’s truly imposing. There are no wars here, but the count has a warhorse that, without a doubt, he’s trained to crush his rivals in the dueling arena.

  Then two of Darius’s servants bring in the gigantic zombie scorpion.

  I smile as I hear the spectators’ stifled screams.

  The fun is about to begin.