Chapter 4: Dinner
The dress was a prison. The maids had descended upon her chamber like a flock of chattering, efficient birds, bearing silk the color of a dull sky. They’d laced her into it before she could fully muster a protest, the fabric whispering against her skin like trapped secrets. It was beautiful, in a placid, useless way. The sleeves were too long, the neckline too high, and it flowed where she was built for angles.
Her axe, Oil-Giver, leaned against the stone wall by the hearth, looking strangely forlorn. Leaving it felt like leaving a limb behind. She ran a hand over its familiar, worn haft, then turned to the small, decorative mirror.
A stranger stared back. Her auburn hair had been wrestled from its practical braids into an intricate cascade pinned with silver combs. Her face, usually smudged with earth or wind-burned, looked pale and strangely exposed. Only her eyes were familiar—that sharp, wary green.
She bent, the movement restricted by the dress and the wrapping around her ribs. From beneath the thin mattress, she retrieved her dagger. Its leather sheath was worn smooth. She strapped it to her thigh, the cool weight a secret against her skin, hidden by the generous fall of the skirt. A sliver of her true self, carried into the enemy’s feast.
A soft knock came at the door. It was not a maid.
Caius stood in the corridor, transformed. He wore a doublet of deep blue velvet, slashed with silver thread that caught the torchlight. His dark curls were artfully disheveled, and the perpetually amused expression was dialed to a polite, formal warmth. His eyes swept over her, and for a flicker, the amusement turned genuine.
“You look,” he began.
“If you say ‘radiant’, I will show you the dagger I’m not supposed to have.”
“I was going to say ‘uncomfortable’. But in a noble, long-suffering way. The color suits you. It almost matches the grey of your glare.” He offered his arm. “Shall we? The vultures are circling.”
She ignored his elbow and matched his step, her skirts swishing unnaturally. “Vultures?”
“Courtiers. They’ve been salivating for a glimpse of you since the gates opened. My mother has kept them at bay, but a public dinner is where the carrion feed. They’ll want to see if you eat with your hands or know what a fork is.”
“We have forks in Nordane. We use them to pitch hay and occasionally stab people who misjudge us.”
“See? You’ll be fine. Just repurpose the hay-pitching stories.”
The walk through the castle was a journey through a living museum. Tapestries depicting Eldoria’s triumph in wars Nordane had barely participated in lined the walls. Courtiers in rich silks congregated in murmuring clusters, their conversations dying as they passed, only to swell again in their wake. Astrid felt their eyes like physical touches—assessing, curious, mocking.
“Lord Daeris, by the marble bust,” Caius murmured, barely moving his lips. “He’ll ask you about snowfall yields. Ignore him. Lady Tereza in the yellow. She’ll compliment your hair and ask where you got the combs. They’re hers. She donated them to the ‘cause’. She’ll want you to be grateful.”
Astrid kept her chin level, her gaze fixed ahead. “I feel like a prize goat at a market.”
“A very combat-ready goat. It unnerves them. Lean into it.”
The doors to the family hall were immense, carved with a sprawling sun motif. Two guards swung them open, and a wave of sound, heat, and scent rolled out—roasting meat, spiced wine, perfume, and the babble of a hundred voices.
The hall was long, with a high, beamed ceiling. A table ran its length on a low dais, where Queen Elara already sat at the center, looking like a queen carved from ice and granite. The lower tables were packed with the bright-plumed birds of the court.
The chatter dimmed, then rallied with renewed, whispered intensity.
Caius led her up to the high table. He held her chair. This time, with every eye upon them, she had no choice. She sat, the movement stiff, the dagger a reassuring pressure against her leg. He took the seat between her and his mother.
“You survived Linus,” Elara said, not looking at her, her attention seeming to be on the arrangement of her cutlery. “And you’re only ten minutes late. A promising start.”
Servants descended with wine. Astrid took the goblet, the metal cold and heavy. She sipped. It was sweet and complex, nothing like the sharp, clear spirits of home.
The feast began. Dish after dish was paraded past: stuffed songbirds in glazes, gelatinous meats in shimmering sauces, towers of pastries that defied gravity. Astrid ate what she recognized, pushing the more confounding items discreetly to the side of her plate. She used the fork, though her grip felt clumsy.
The conversations around her were a minefield of subtle barbs and coded language. A florid man to her left, Lord Something of Somewhere, tried to engage her on the architectural philosophy of Eldorian bridges.
“We use rocks,” Astrid said, after a moment of watching a drip of sauce inch down his chin. “Big ones. The philosophy is: don’t fall down.”
Caius choked softly on his wine beside her.
As the third course was cleared, a man stood from the lower tables. He was broad-shouldered, with a military bearing and a face that seemed permanently set in a scowl. He walked to the open space before the dais and bowed to the Queen.
“Your Grace. In honor of our northern guest, and to celebrate the Prince’s safe return, I would propose a display of skill! A bit of friendly sparring to stir the blood after such fine food.”
The room tittered with excitement. Queen Elara’s expression didn’t change. “Your sentiment is noted, Lord Daeris. But our guest is recuperating from her journey.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of imposing upon the Princess!” Daeris said, his smile not reaching his eyes. He was the one Caius had pointed out. “I meant myself, against one of her famed Nordane guards. Let us show the court the mettle of our new allies! A test of strength, of style.”
It was a direct challenge, cleverly framed as homage. All eyes swung to Astrid. Her two remaining guards, Olaf and Gunnar, sat at a lower table, their faces like thunderclouds. They were warriors, not court performers.
Caius leaned close, his shoulder brushing hers. The contact was fleeting, a whisper of velvet against silk. “He’s my mother’s Master of Arms. He uses a hammer. He’ll break one of your men to make a point about northern… simplicity.”
Astrid’s blood went cold, then hot. She saw the calculation in Daeris’s eyes. He wanted a public victory, a brutal demonstration of Eldorian superiority. He would maim Olaf, and call it sport.
She set her goblet down with a quiet, precise click. The sound carried.
“Lord Daeris,” she said, her voice cutting through the murmur. It didn’t sound like her voice in the dress; it was lower, flatter, the voice from the training grounds. “My men are tired. And you are too eager. If you wish for a ‘display’, I will give you one.”
A shocked rustle moved through the hall. Caius went very still beside her. Queen Elara’s eyebrows lifted a fraction.
Daeris’s smile turned patronizing. “My lady, I could not possibly—”
“You challenged the strength of Nordane. I am Nordane.” She stood, the chair scraping back. The weight of the hidden dagger was nothing; the weight of the dress was everything. She met the Queen’s gaze. “With your permission, Your Grace. A simple contest. First yield. No live steel, if it pleases the court.” She said the last part with a faint, deliberate twist, catching Caius’s eye for a half-second—a callback to their private bargain.
Elara considered her for a long, silent moment. The tension in the hall was a wire pulled taut. Then, she gave a single, slow nod. “Very well. Let it be a demonstration of fellowship. Blunted weapons only. To first yield.”
Daeris bowed, his confidence returning. He hadn’t wanted the princess, but beating her would be an even sweeter message. “As you command.”
Astrid walked down from the dais, the silk whispering treacherously around her legs. She passed Olaf, whose face was a mask of anxiety. “My axe,” she muttered from the corner of her mouth.
“Princess, your ribs—”
“Now, Olaf.”
He hurried out. The crowd parted, creating a wide circle in the center of the hall. Servants scrambled to move tables. The air fizzed with anticipation.
Daeris was handed a large, blunt warhammer, its head coated in chalk to mark blows. He swung it easily, the air whistling.
Olaf returned, breathing hard, carrying Oil-Giver. But he also carried a practice axe, its edge thick and rounded. He offered both, his eyes pleading.
Astrid took the practice axe. Its balance was off, its heft wrong. It felt like a toy. She looked at it, then at Daeris, who was rolling his shoulders, a bull preparing for a goring.
She handed the practice axe back to Olaf.
Then, gathering two fistfuls of the delicate, sky-blue silk at her knees, she ripped. The sound was shockingly loud in the hushed hall. A long tear raced up the skirt, revealing the rough trousers she’d refused to remove beneath. She did it again on the other side, freeing her legs. She shrugged off the overdress’s restrictive outer layer, letting it puddle at her feet, standing now in the simpler, sleeveless underdress, her arms and legs unencumbered.
The court gasped. Caius, watching from the table, let out a soft, disbelieving laugh.
Astrid held out her hand. Olaf, a fierce grin breaking through his worry, placed Oil-Giver’s haft in her palm.
The familiar grip was a bolt of lightning up her arm. She hefted her true axe, feeling its honest weight, and walked to the center of the circle. She moved differently now, not the hesitant glide of a court lady, but the prowl of a hunter.
Daeris’s smirk had faded. He was looking at a warrior, not a princess in a costume.
“You have your hammer,” Astrid said, her voice clear in the silent room. “I have my axe. Let us demonstrate our styles.”
The Queen gave the signal.
Daeris came forward fast, underestimating her, the hammer sweeping in a low, powerful arc meant to shatter her knee. She didn’t block. She pivoted on her left foot, letting the hammerhead blur past, so close it stirred the torn fabric of her underdress. Before he could recover, she stepped in, not swinging the axe, but driving the heavy metal pommel into his ribcage.
He grunted, stumbling back. The crowd roared.
He came again, more cautious now, using his greater reach and strength. Hammer blows rained down, each one a bone-crusher. She deflected one with the haft of her axe, the impact singing up her arms, jarring her healing ribs. Pain flashed white behind her eyes, but she used the momentum, spinning out of the way of the next blow.
She was faster. She had to be. Her world narrowed to the circling of their feet on the flagstones, the whistle of the hammer, the spark of steel on steel when she parried. He was a battering ram. She was the falcon, diving, striking, fleeing.
He grew frustrated, his attacks becoming wilder. A great overheard smash sheathed his hammerhead in the rushes on the floor for a crucial second. Astrid moved.
She didn’t strike for his body. She hooked the beard of her axe behind the hammer’s haft, yanked hard, and using his own off-balance weight, twisted. The hammer tore from his grasp and clattered across the stone.
Before he could react, she was inside his guard. She dropped her own axe, the thud final. Her hands locked onto his wrist and forearm. She turned her hips, planted a foot behind his, and used his own charging momentum to throw him over her shoulder.
Lord Daeris, Master of Arms of Eldoria, hit the ground with a crash that shook the nearest goblets.
Astrid stood over him, breathing hard, the pain in her side a bright, demanding fire. She placed a boot lightly on his chest, not pressing down, just marking the victory. She leaned down, close enough so only he could hear.
“The philosophy is,” she said quietly, “don’t fall down.”
She straightened, lifted her foot, and offered him a hand up.
He stared at it, his face a tumult of fury and shame. For a terrible second, she thought he’d refuse, creating a second, graver scandal. Then, with stiff dignity, he took her hand and let her haul him to his feet.
The hall was utterly silent for three heartbeats.
Then Prince Caius began to clap. Slow, measured, resonant claps from the high table. It was joined by another, then another, until the room erupted in applause—some excited, some merely polite, all acknowledging the undeniable fact in their midst.
Astrid retrieved Oil-Giver, her body screaming from the effort. She walked back to the dais, the torn underdress clinging to her, the axe resting on her shoulder. She met Queen Elara’ show. That solved one problem and created about fifty new ones. You have a gift.”
"I have an axe," Astrid corrected, sinking into her chair. The adrenaline was receding, leaving a vast, trembling exhaustion in its wake.
Queen Elara’s lips tightened in something that wasn’t quite a smile. "So I see. Let us hope you don't have to use it on every problem here." She resumed eating as if nothing had happened.
Caius refilled Astrid’s goblet himself. "Well," he said, his voice low, simmering with something between awe and sheer exasperation. "At least no one will ask you about bridge philosophy again."
He leaned back, his light blue eyes tracking the murmuring, staring crowd. Astrid took a long drink of wine, her hand steady now, the taste of victory and impending trouble equally sharp on her tongue. The dagger still pressed reassuringly against her thigh, a secret kept, while her axe-bare for all the world to see-had just done all the talking that was needed.