Chapter 379: A Maiden’s Decision

Ophelia had no idea how this happened. All she knew was that she hoped nobody would blame her once somebody got stabbed. 

Because somehow, that was always her fault.

Displaying her elegant footwork and graceful posture, she twirled, skipped and spun, all the while the farmers, shopkeepers and pilgrims followed. 

None did it as nicely as her, of course. She was finesse defined, her silver hair and new dress billowing in the breeze as she painted the image of an elven maiden dancing in a meadow engulfed by moonlight. 

In truth, she was just trying not to gain another bump on her head.

Because right now–

Swish.

Ophelia was pretty sure the elderly lady was trying to murder her.

Amidst the laughter and the carnival atmosphere, a swipe came in the form of a wooden cane, brushing at the strands of her hair where her delicate forehead was just a moment ago. 

And then came another. And another.

A wallop at her nose. A poke at her back. A jab at her knee.

As a curtain of stars painted the night sky and all the world enjoyed a moment of frivolousness devoid of the petty squabbles of yesterday, Ophelia was a mirage of elegant footwork.

The more she dodged, the more the cheers rose, encouraged by the copious amounts of alcohol which were now rolling in by the cartload.

As though a call to arms had been sounded, all the barkeepers of Triese had turned up to do business. And with them came the musicians. Bards with flutes against their lips and coins already in their purses playing away into the night, none realising that Ophelia wasn’t actually dancing to their songs.

She was simply trying to survive.

The elderly lady stalked around her like a panther eyeing its prey. 

Her cane prodded and poked to test her victim. And so far, she’d seen just enough not to lunge forwards and eat her. 

“You’ve some talent,” she noted, sounding neither impressed nor displeased. “But perhaps this should be no surprise. Elves are famed for their contribution to dance as an art form.”

Ophelia almost snorted.

That was just propaganda. Elves didn’t dance. They frolicked. There was a difference. And if someone ever saw what elven dancing looked like, they’d remember it. 

Mostly because of the blood. So much blood.

Fortunately, that wasn’t required this evening.

Ophelia had seen enough non-bloody dance from all the times she’d been invited to Aquina’s court because something important was happening. 

And that always meant dancing. 

And a free buffet.

“Yup! That’s me. Ophelia the Snow Dancer. Classically trained in all the secret elven arts. Plus, could you imagine how embarrassing it’d be for someone named the Snow Dancer if they couldn’t dance?”

“I simply said talented. That by itself is not sufficient. Yours is not the correct form for use in a soirée. Less twirling, more swaying is required. Presenting a princess with the back of your head is one thing. But a bundle of your hair in her face is quite another.”

Ophelia wanted to protest. 

Her hair was lovely. Anybody would want it in their face.

Swish.

Instead … the cane threatened to wallop her knee. She skipped away from it.

Strangely, it wasn’t easy. 

Ophelia could dodge most things directed against her. But while the walking cane wasn’t as swift as a flying arrow, she had to constantly remind herself that it was even there.

The elderly lady had a commanding presence. Her gaze alone was like a seasoned rogue’s misdirection technique, relentlessly drawing her attention. That was a powerful skill. 

Naturally, Ophelia had questions–all of them concerning why she was currently evading a wooden stick. 

Although she wasn’t an expert in ballroom dancing, she suspected that this wasn’t really part of the usual routine … nor, indeed, the ankle as it slyly stuck out to unravel her.

Ophelia reacted at once.

As the memories returned of tripping over a certain princess’s foot and flying into a pillar of stone, she avoided the swinging cane and the opportunistic ankle by somersaulting over both, drawing an ‘Ooooh’ from those in the crowd not drunk enough to forget they were there.  

“Hm. You’re slippery,” said the elderly lady, in what was one of the least obvious compliments she’d ever received. “That’s useful. To dance is to converse with movement. In order to convey it properly, you must maintain balance no matter what seeks to interrupt you.”

“... You mean like people throwing canes around whenever a princess is dancing?”

“Worse. They throw elbows, fists and foreheads. A soirée is a constant melee. A brawl disguised as a dance. Whatever you think a tavern can boast, a royal court can do it worse.”

Ophelia was shocked. 

She had no idea soirées could be so fun.

“However,” continued the elderly lady, lifting her cane like a finger. “To simply remain on your feet is not enough. You must ensure your partner also stays on hers. A princess must be allowed to shine. And there are few better ways to sabotage this than by an elbow to the nose. You must always be on guard.”

“Oh, that’s easy. I’m always on guard. You won’t believe the number of things which try to kidnap my ducks when I’m not looking.”

“I’m certain I won’t. But much like whatever underwater horrors stalk your ducks, you shall also find the lowest inhabitants of the underworld circling the edges of the royal court. And in a soirée, you will also just as likely find a blade in the dark as a wayward elbow.” 

“Stop. You’ve already sold me. You don’t need to anymore. When is the next soirée?”

The elderly lady briefly closed her eyes.

“Your enthusiasm should be tempered,” she said, pretending she hadn’t just hesitated. “To dance with a princess is a high favour with an equal amount of danger. You yourself would be targeted in the middle of your finest twirl, with no thought given to letting your talents be showcased.”

“Now that’s just rude. Even I’d wait for someone to finish twirling before doing what I normally do. Which definitely isn’t always violent.”

“An honourable gesture. And also unlikely to be returned. For those in the shadows, every distraction is an opportunity. There is, however, one important positive note regarding assassins.”

She paused for just a moment, her cane finding the ground as though to stamp home a point.

“... When every distraction is an opportunity, they also become wildly predictable.”

Ophelia sensed it before she saw it.

A glint of iron as a dagger flew through the air.

Without hesitation, she swept up her leg, catching the thrown weapon with the end of her sharp heel. 

Panicked movement from within the crowd revealed the culprit. 

As a man dressed as a common merchant began to scamper away, Ophelia took off her shoe altogether … before returning his throw with her own. 

Her shoe flew with unerring precision, neatly catching the back of the assailant’s head. The cry as he thudded to the ground was so foreign it caused the music from the bards to slow.

A moment later–

It ceased entirely.

They came as though they’d been lying in wait.

A dozen men armed with heavy warbows revealed themselves beneath the moonlight. Their figures looming imposingly from atop the waterfall’s precipice. Each wore the same black expression, matching the armour almost hidden by the backdrop of the night sky. 

Ophelia was impressed.

They were pretending their boots weren’t already soaking wet from the stream they were standing in.

That was commitment. As were the perfectly matching armaments.

Paid killers. Likely archers from one of Granholtz’s endless mercenary companies plying their trade in this land of rivalry and wealth. Once they left, there’d probably be a piece of evidence accidentally linking them to whatever would be corroborated by all the present witnesses.

Whoever hired them, it wasn’t for discretion.

“Heh … and to think we got paid extra to find you,” said the leader with a shameless smile, his voice stilling everything but the gasps of horror which rose at the sight of so many armed men. “It’s not often I feel like I’ve ripped someone off. You’ve my appreciation for making this even easier.” 

Ophelia blinked. 

The eyes of every archer were focused in her direction.

She pointed at herself.

“Me?”

“What? … No, not you. Her.” The leader of the mercenaries deliberately pointed just a bit too much to the side. “The grandma.”

The grandma in question responded by doing very little.

Her eyes neither narrowed in ire nor widened in shock. She simply looked upwards without expression, as though seeing something so ordinary it wasn’t worth any emotion one way or the other.

The mercenary leader waited, clearly expecting something more substantial.

“A-Ahem … I’m sorry to say, but you should have picked a quieter hiding spot. Few match your description. I don’t know who you are or what you did when you were younger, but you’ve made enemies with long memories and deep purses. The Falcon’s Talon Company is not for all to hire.”

Ophelia groaned as the first of the arrows were notched.

They were doing so well. Now they’d gotten their feet wet and clammy for no reason. 

There was no point making an entrance if they were just going to say who they were. Mystique was half the reason any of them were hired. An amateur mistake.

The elderly lady was in agreement. 

She idly turned to Ophelia, having expended all the few seconds of attention she was willing to offer. 

“These will do,” she said, as if nibbling on the mille-feuille which was definitely better than that. “... Assume I am a princess. Bearing in mind the watching audience, what they will say and the need to maintain both my life and dignity, what do you do?”

Ophelia hummed as the bows were theatrically drawn in synchronisation.

She knew there was a right answer somewhere. But she also knew they were probably dumb answers as well. Because if she found a row of assassins presenting themselves on the high ground while doing the whole smug thing, she returned the smugness by bringing them closer to home.

Normally, that is.

“Say, do you have a sword?” asked Ophelia. “I don’t actually have one right now. I threw mine away.” 

The elderly lady raised an eyebrow, making it clear that the sword saint without a sword had just lost several points.

Then, she twisted the end of her cane, drawing forth a blade so fine that it perfectly reflected the moonlight. Ophelia offered her admiration as it was duly handed over to her.

“Fortunately, this is an open contract,” continued the mercenary leader, his hand raised like an emperor ready to lower or wave away. “As professionals, we are willing to negotiate a possible–”

“From the heart of winter’s sky, the path of light is severed … Snow Helix Form, 3rd Stance … [Aurora Divide].”

Whatever the mercenary leader hoped to say, it was replaced by a look of surprise as Ophelia suddenly sliced the air before her, leaving only a fine trail reminiscent of stardust in the blade’s wake.

And then … nothing happened.

“... Showing off, eh?” The mercenary leader chuckled. “Sadly for you, arrows beat swords.”

Bowstrings tightened as a hand was raised once more. Not to drop, but to notch an arrow for himself. 

He never made it.

Bwooooooooooooooooooooosh.

The shape of the waterfall changed as the very cliff behind it shattered. 

Stone and dirt crumbled, and all upon it were left to flounder and scream as they fell like specks of a landslide down into the waiting body of water. Bows sank at once as their wielders fought to not do the same, consumed by the weight of their leather armour now as sodden as their boots. 

Desperation filled the air at once, the sound of spluttering and hands clawing at the water disturbed only by the quacking of a pair of ducks who floated by them. 

“Ooooooooooooooooooooooh!!”

A heartbeat later, even they were drowned out.

Cheers erupted, the mirth so loud that all of Triese would soon arrive. 

Calls for more ale came thick and fast, the song of flutes resuming as every patron received their annual dose of entertainment in a single day and evening.

Ophelia, in the meanwhile, nodded in satisfaction. It’d been a while since she’d sliced off a cliff, but she knew this was a new record. Her [Aurora Divide] had become stronger.

Nor was she the only one to think so.

“Casual disregard.” The elderly lady’s lips almost twisted into a smile. “A single strike. Neither movements nor words wasted. An appropriate response, Snow Dancer. Your tale speaks truly … save for a single falsehood.”

“Really? I mean, it’s not like I write it. Or care. Much. What’s not true?”

In response, the elderly lady dipped her hand past the folds of her jacket.

She retrieved a small notebook from the inner lining. 

Opening it, she turned to a blank page, an enchanted quill already in her hand as she began to write. Even without seeing what words were being scribbled, Ophelia could tell from the fine movements that the handwriting was exceptional. 

A moment later … she was allowed to admire it as the page was torn away and presented to her.

I hereby assign Ophelia the Snow Dancer the rank of ‘S’.

Eliana Contzen, 

The Queen Emerita of the Kingdom of Tirea.

“Your rank required updating,” said the former queen simply.

Ophelia stared.

She blinked several times at the short, but beautifully written message now in her hands. She then did the same towards the writer.

“Oh,” she said, hoping she hadn’t said something illegal. “... Can you do that?”

“I am a former queen. I can do anything. Even more so now I’m retired. And fortunately for you, my judgement carries more weight than any swordmaster you could appease. Amusing me is far harder than killing a dragon.”

Ophelia looked between the page and the retired queen of the Kingdom of Tirea. She continued to blink while ignoring the calls for help behind her.

Eliana Contzen.

The mother of the current queen.

And also that crazy princess’s grandmother.

Then … she peered up at a nearby cliff she’d climbed multiple times just to fetch feathers for a cushion, before glancing at a table stacked with all the things she’d made with her sweat and blood. But mostly sweat.

Ophelia was pretty sure killing a dragon was also easier.

“Wooooooooooooo!”

Regardless, she lifted the makeshift certificate to the night sky … just before scooting over to the unconscious man she’d knocked out with her shoe. 

She stuffed it back on, then drew another raised eyebrow as she nodded towards the elderly lady.

“Okay! That’s step 1 done! … Now to do step 2!”

“Oh? Are you leaving already?”

“Sure! After all, I’ve made my decision.”

“Your decision … regarding what?”

Ophelia the Snow Dancer gave a maiden’s smile. 

She turned towards the direction where she’d come from. It was time to head back.

“Whether to marry or murder a princess.”