The Queen's Mage

The winter sun hung low over the practice yard.

Steel rang against steel.

Allandra ducked beneath Hagen's sweeping strike, pivoted, and drove her shoulder into his chest.

He stumbled back a pace, laughing even as he recovered. "There she is."

"I've been here the entire time."

"No."

His grin widened. "There is the sister who solves problems by trying to knock me over."

"You remained standing."

"A temporary administrative error."

Their practice swords met again.

Sunlight flared.

Hagen's affinity burst across the yard in a broad golden wave, dazzling enough to force space between them.

Allandra answered differently.

Rather than meeting brilliance with brilliance, she gathered the light into a narrow ribbon that ran the length of her blade.

Where Hagen's magic overwhelmed...

Hers refined.

She stepped through the fading glow with practiced ease and tapped the flat of her sword against his shoulder.

"You rely too much on spectacle."

"It has served me admirably."

"It has served everyone watching admirably."

She smiled.

Not because she'd scored the point.

Because this—

This still worked.

For all that had changed over the last two years… This remained.

The Crown did not exist inside the practice ring. The council did not exist. Trade agreements did not exist. The endless procession of petitions waiting on her desk did not exist.

There were no ambassadors. No ministers. No carefully measured words.

Just footwork.

Timing.

Instinct.

Just the familiar language of crossed blades they'd been speaking since they were children.

Their parents had preferred embroidery lessons. Court dances. Music.

Anything remotely suitable for a princess.

Hagen had ignored every suggestion. He had simply appeared outside her rooms each morning carrying two practice swords.

"Come on, before Mother notices."

She had followed every time.

Now, as Queen, she found fewer opportunities than ever to train.

There was always another meeting. Another document. Another crisis.

Some days she realized, with faint horror, that a week had passed since she'd last held a sword.

Every time that happened, Hagen somehow knew.

He simply appeared.

As though he could sense it.

Their blades met again.

Gold flashed.

She laughed.

Actually laughed.

The sound surprised even her.

Hagen noticed.

Of course he did.

"You've been neglecting your training."

"I've been governing."

"I fail to see the contradiction."

"There are only so many hours in the day."

"There would be more if you delegated."

"I delegate."

"You absolutely do not."

She feinted left.

He didn't take it.

She swept his legs anyway.

He narrowly hopped over the strike. "I maintain that was undignified."

"You've never valued dignity."

"I value my dignity."

"Only after you've lost it."

They reset.

Breathing a little harder now. Comfortable. Easy.

She hadn't realized how much she'd missed this until they were already doing it.

It was one of the few places left where they could simply… Be.

No careful conversations about succession. No pretending the Crown hadn't changed everything between them. No wondering whether he regretted the mantle had chosen her instead.

The practice yard had always been the one place those things quietly fell away.

Which was precisely why she frowned when Hagen spoke.

"So."

She sighed immediately. "...Don't."

"I haven't said anything."

"You've said 'so.'"

"It was conversational."

"It was dangerous."

He smiled. "How is Serali?"

Allandra groaned. "Hagen."

"What?"

"This is supposed to be the one place where we don't discuss politics."

"I wasn't discussing politics."

"You asked about my Royal Mage."

"I asked about Serali."

"They are currently the same person."

"Convenient."

She lowered her sword. "You've ruined it."

"I've ruined sparring?"

"You've reminded me I have responsibilities."

"I was under the impression those generally followed you around."

"They do."

She pointed her practice sword at him accusingly. "I was enjoying pretending they didn't."

For once...

Hagen's smile softened.

"I know."

That was all he said.

And somehow it made her feel understood.

Later, a palace guard approached, bowing.

"Your Majesty. Royal Mage Serali's assessment has begun."

Allandra nodded. "Thank you."

After the guard departed, she reached for the training coat she'd discarded earlier.

"I think I'll stop by."

Hagen looked up. "I'll come."

She arched an eyebrow. "Don't you have anything better to do?"

He gave her a look. "Does the Queen?"

She opened her mouth.

Closed it again. "...Possibly."

"And yet."

He slid his own practice sword into its scabbard. "Here we are."

She sighed with theatrical resignation. "You're impossible."

"I've found consistency comforting."

"You simply want an excuse to avoid paperwork."

"I resent that."

"You should."

"It is entirely accurate."

She laughed despite herself. "Come along then."

He fell into step beside her.

The easy silence returned almost immediately.

The final magical assessment was supposed to be routine.

Taken from NovelFire, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Serali found this deeply offensive.

Important things, in her opinion, should happen on storm nights, battlefield mornings, eclipses, funerals, coronations, or at least during sufficiently dramatic weather. Not on a clear, freezing Thursday afternoon in the royal training yard while six guards were pretending not to stare and Marielle was measuring chalk lines with a piece of string.

The sky was a hard winter blue.

The sand had been raked flat that morning and had already begun to crust at the edges where frost lingered in the shade. Beyond the low garden wall, the roses had been cut down to thorny winter canes, their beds tucked beneath straw and frost cloth.

It was indecently ordinary.

And very cold.

“This is unnecessary,” Serali said.

Lia, seated beneath the western awning in a fur-lined cloak with her healer’s case closed beside her, did not look up from her notes. “You say that often.”

“Because I am often correct.”

“You say that often too.”

Daravan stood near the center of the yard, holding a wooden training blade and wearing the expression of a man who had been persuaded by several competent women that allowing six palace guards to attack a recovering mage simultaneously was a reasonable medical exercise.

He did not appear comforted.

Three guards held padded staves. Two had blunt practice darts. The sixth had been entrusted with a weighted net and was gripping it with the grim uncertainty of a man who had begun to reconsider every decision that had led him here.

Mara stood beneath the awning beside Lia, wrapped in a dark wool cloak and holding Serali’s outer coat over one arm. She had made it clear that she considered the exercise unnecessary, the weather insulting, and the net personally suspicious.

Marielle crouched near the chalked practice circle, squinting at the ground.

“No iron?” Serali asked.

Marielle did not look up. “No iron.”

“No binding powder?”

“No.”

“No sun-glass?”

“No.”

“No secret test designed by Verya to see whether I violate the oath?”

Marielle glanced over. “Verya would not design a secret test. She would design an obvious test with hidden consequences.”

Serali paused. “Fair.”

Marielle returned to the chalk line. “This is limestone, salt, ash, and ground pearl.”

“Why pearl?”

“It catches residue beautifully.”

“Of course it does.”

“Also, I had some.”

Lia made a note. “Marielle.”

“What? That is a valid procurement category.”

“It is not.”

“It should be.”

Serali looked toward Daravan. “Are you going to allow this?”

Daravan’s brows lifted. “Which part?”

“The pearl-based nonsense.”

“I have chosen not to intervene in engineering unless something smokes, screams, or petitions me by rank.”

Marielle pointed at him without looking. “Healthy boundary.”

“Hard-earned.”

Marielle looked pleased.

Serali sighed and stepped into the circle.

The chalk line sat pale against the packed sand of the training yard. Around them, the palace walls rose in warm stone, broken by archways and practice galleries. The main yard had been cleared for privacy, though privacy, Serali had learned, meant something different in a palace. The moment anything became unusual, people developed errands near windows.

There were already three pages lingering near the armory arch, two off-duty soldiers watching from the far steps, and someone in the upper gallery who had hidden very badly behind a column.

Serali turned her head. “Is that Yvander?”

Daravan looked up. “Yes.”

“What is he doing here?”

“Inspecting grain transport routes, according to the lie he told me.”

Marielle stood and shaded her eyes. “He probably heard I was using pearl.”

“That would do it,” Daravan said.

Serali closed her eyes. “Wonderful. An audience.”

“You need the assessment,” Lia said.

“I need fewer witnesses.”

“No,” Marielle said cheerfully. “Witnesses are useful. They help distinguish event from hallucination.”

“That sentence has a history.”

“A productive one.”

The truth was, Serali had come because Marielle refused to conclude weeks of increasingly ridiculous experiments without “one properly documented final assessment.”

The final assessment, Marielle had explained, would test divided attention, automatic defense, threat recognition, sustained constructs, and Serali’s ability to refrain from accidentally disarming Daravan.

Daravan had objected to the word accidentally.

Marielle had refused to amend the record.

Serali rolled her shoulders and flexed her fingers.

Power stirred beneath her skin at once.

No ache. No numbness. No terrible delay between intention and answer.

Only the familiar coolness of shadow waiting to be shaped.

Daravan lifted his training blade.

“Same rules as Tuesday,” he said. “Low force. Shielding only. No binding, no disarming, no throwing anyone into a wall.”

Serali looked at the guards surrounding her. “You make that sound less like a restriction and more like a challenge.”

“It is not.”

“One could interpret it that way.”

“No one should.”

Lia said, “If I say stop, everyone stops.”

Mara adjusted Serali’s coat over her arm. “And if Serali says stop?”

Daravan’s expression sobered. “Everyone stops.”

Good answer.

Annoying how much good answers mattered.

Serali stepped into the center of the chalk circle.

The guards spread out around her.

Two in front. One to either side. One behind.

The man with the net waited several paces back, watching Daravan for his cue.

Daravan settled directly opposite Serali, his wooden blade held low. “Ready?”

“No.”

He attacked.

She had expected that.

Daravan came straight through the center, blade sweeping toward her shoulder.

The guards moved with him.

A staff came from the left.

A dart flew from the right.

The second staff wielder circled behind her.

The net rose overhead.

Shadow answered.

A curved shield appeared between Serali and Daravan, black at the center and silver along the edges. His blade struck it and glanced aside.

At the same instant, a narrow plane of darkness caught the dart.

A ribbon peeled away from the shield, hooked beneath the incoming staff, and redirected it harmlessly past Serali’s ribs.

The second guard struck from behind.

Serali did not turn. A shield bloomed at her back before the padded staff reached her.

Marielle’s pencil raced across the page. “Rear response without visual confirmation.”

“I heard him,” Serali said.

The net descended. Black threads rose through its weighted edges, caught it in midair, and folded it neatly in half.

The guard holding the remaining dart hesitated.

Daravan recovered first.

He shifted his footing and feinted left.

Serali moved a shield to follow him.

The waiting dart came from her right.

Her shadow split.

One plane remained before Daravan.

Another appeared beside Serali’s head and stopped the dart so cleanly that it hung for a moment against the shadow before dropping into the sand.

The leftmost guard attacked again.

A hooked ribbon wrapped around the padded staff.

Serali felt the instinct to pull. To twist. To take the weapon from his hands.

She stopped herself. Mostly.

The ribbon released.

The guard stumbled forward two steps anyway.

Daravan pointed his training blade at her. “No disarming.”

“I did not disarm him.”

“You considered it.”

“That is not yet illegal.”

Verya’s junior assistant, who was pretending to inspect a gallery window latch, looked down sharply.

Daravan glanced up. “Do not encourage her.”

The assistant disappeared behind the column.

The third guard came from behind again.

Serali’s shadow caught the staff, slid along its length, and stopped just short of the guard’s hands.

The construct trembled there.

Waiting.

Serali released it.

The guard stepped back.

The net, still suspended overhead, began to sag toward the chalk line.

Without Serali looking, a second set of shadow threads tightened and lowered it carefully outside the circle.

Marielle made a small, delighted sound.

Serali pointed toward her without taking her eyes from Daravan. “Do not.”

“I said nothing.”

“You made a noise.”

“It was scientific.”

“There is no such category.”

“There should be.”

Daravan attacked again.

This time he pressed harder.

Not enough to hurt. Enough to demand Serali’s full attention.

His blade struck once, twice, three times against the curved shield. Each impact sent silver ripples across the dark surface.

The guards moved around him in practiced rhythm.

Staff from the left.

Dart from the right.

Feint behind.

Serali held the central shield and let the rest of the magic move without direct command.

One ribbon caught the staff.

One plane blocked the dart.

A crescent of shadow rose behind her before the feint became an attack.

None of it required thought. Not in the way it once had.

She knew where each construct was.

Knew what it touched.

Knew when it was no longer needed.

The awareness sat beneath conscious thought, broad and quiet, like feeling the position of her own hands in darkness.

Daravan stepped back.

The guards froze.

“Hold.”

Every construct remained in place.

The central shield stood between Serali and Daravan.

The crescent guarded her back.

Two ribbons hovered near the staff wielders.

The folded net rested beyond the chalk line.

A final narrow pane remained suspended where the last dart had struck.

Marielle lowered her pencil. “Six simultaneous defensive responses.”

“Five,” Serali said.

Marielle pointed toward the net. “Six.”

“The net was already contained.”

“You adjusted it while maintaining the others.”

“That hardly counts.”

“It does if I write it down.”

“Everything counts if you write it down.”

“Yes.”

Daravan walked slowly around the circle.

Serali tracked him without turning.

The central shield shifted with him.

Not sharply.

Not as though following a threat.

Simply maintaining position between them.

He stopped.

The shield stopped.

Daravan stepped left.

It moved left.

He stepped right.

It followed.

Mara watched from beneath the awning.

“It likes you,” she said.

Daravan looked at the shield. “I am unconvinced.”

“It has not struck you.”

“An inspiring standard.”

Serali released the constructs.

The shields dissolved first, thinning into smoke-dark strands before sinking into the shadows cast across the sand. The ribbons followed. The silver-edged crescent lingered half a heartbeat longer than the rest, then vanished.

The yard quieted.

Serali became aware of her breathing.

Elevated.

Even.

Nothing hurt.

Lia watched her for a moment, then returned to her notes without comment.

That, more than any question, told Serali how far they had come.

Before, when Lia had watched her cast, every breath had been examined.

Every hesitation. Every change in color.

Now Lia merely recorded the result.

Marielle stepped to the edge of the circle and inspected the pearl-laced chalk. “No breach.”

Daravan lowered his sword. “Good.”

“No scorching.”

“Also good.”

“No visible structural distortion.”

Daravan looked at her. “Was that expected?”

“No.”

“Then why mention it?”

“Completeness.”

Mara approached with Serali’s coat.

Serali held out one hand, and Mara passed it to her without ceremony. Serali slipped it around her shoulders.

The cold had sharpened while they worked.

Or perhaps she had only begun noticing it again.

One of the guards retrieved the darts. Another unfolded the net and shook sand from its cords.

The guard Serali had nearly disarmed tested his grip on the padded staff.

Serali looked at him. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, Royal Mage.”

“Truth.”

He flexed his fingers. “Pulled my shoulder a little.”

Daravan’s gaze snapped toward her.

“A little,” the guard repeated quickly. “Less than training with Captain Daravan.”

“That is not reassuring,” Serali said.

“It was meant to be.”

Mara offered Serali a cup. She drank.

Marielle paced the circumference of the circle, reading her own notes as though they might have changed since she wrote them.

“Response time has improved again.”

Daravan rested the point of his practice blade against the sand. “By how much?”

“Enough.”

“That is not a measurement.”

“It is when I am impressed.”

Serali lowered the cup. “I dislike when she says that.”

Lia looked up. “You dislike when she says most things.”

“Because she says them like the world has just become more expensive.”

From the gallery, Yvander called, “Has it?”

Marielle looked up. “Possibly.”

Yvander muttered something about budgets and disappeared behind the column.

Daravan gestured toward the circle. “We reset.”

The guards returned to their places.

This time Daravan adjusted the formation.

One staff wielder moved farther left. The second took the rear. The guards with darts stood at opposing angles. The man with the net shifted closer, gathering the weighted edge in both hands.

Marielle erased two timing marks from her slate and redrew them.

Mara took Serali’s cup and coat.

Lia remained seated beneath the awning, calm enough now that her healer’s case stayed closed.

Serali stepped back into the circle.

The shadows gathered naturally around her boots.

Daravan settled into position at the center.

“Same sequence,” he said. “Faster.”

Serali looked around at the waiting guards. “That seems unkind.”

“Yes.”

Marielle lifted her pencil.

Daravan raised his blade.

Then his attention shifted past Serali toward the entrance of the yard.

His expression changed.

He lifted one hand.

"Hold—"

The guards were already committed.

The first dart had left the guard's hand.

The staff wielder on Serali's left had already stepped through the strike. Behind her, another guard closed the distance. The weighted net blossomed overhead.

Daravan swore.

"I hope we are not interrupting."

Serali knew the voice.

She looked up.

Allandra stood beneath the archway, Hagen beside her.

Still dressed for sparring.

Still carrying the bright, clean exhilaration that always lingered after she'd spent an afternoon with a sword in her hand.

She smiled automatically when she found Serali.

Then she saw the six guards.

The smile vanished.

Serali felt it.

Not through sight. Through the bond.

Surprise. Concern.

The fierce instinctive certainty that Serali was surrounded.

At exactly the same instant—

Shadow surged.

Sunlight answered.

Neither woman moved.

Serali's affinity exploded outward in ribbons of darkness, intercepting the incoming staff, the dart, the second staff behind her, the falling net.

Across the yard, golden light burst from Allandra's hands with equal violence.

Not gathered.

Not summoned.

Simply there.

Daravan stopped dead.

Lia was already on her feet. "Majesty—"

Too late.

The sunlight crossed the yard even as the shadows spread to meet it.

Neither affinity hesitated.

They found each other. Gold threaded through black. Shadow wrapped around light.

The separate strands crossed and recrossed with impossible precision, each affinity moving as though it already knew what the other intended. Light ran along the edges of Serali’s shields. Shadow narrowed the sunlight into brilliant lines.

The pattern spread outward.

A lattice unfurled above the training circle, black and gold lines climbing into the air and joining overhead.

Serali could not breathe.

The bond stood open between them.

Not forced.

Not invaded.

Blown wide by surprise and instinct and the sudden recognition of one affinity reaching for another.

Across the yard, Allandra’s eyes locked on hers.

Serali felt the exact instant Allandra understood that she had not done this deliberately.

Allandra felt the same from her.

The realization passed between them without words.

Neither had cast.

Their magic had answered the bond.

The lattice pulsed once. Warmth struck the yard in a silent wave.

Frost vanished from the packed sand.

The braziers flared.

The chalk circle beneath Serali’s boots darkened, the pearl powder along its edge catching gold until the entire ring shone.

One of the practice dummies split neatly down the center.

Then another.

The guards stepped back.

The weapons fell from the shadows holding them.

The dart dropped into the sand.

The padded staffs struck the ground.

The net folded in midair and landed in a neat heap beside the circle.

The lattice remained.