"I wasn't born to be a fighter. I wasn't born to handle a sword. But here I am—bleeding knuckles, bruised ribs, sweat stinging my eyes—defacing everything my mother spent years shaping in me."
She had taught me grace. Composure. The steady hand of a lady. The mind of someone meant to build peace, not break bones.
But now my palms were calloused, fingers wrapped in rough leather, clenched around a blade I still held too tightly. The hilt was slick with sweat and dried blood—some of it mine, some not.
From the edge of the ring, the voice I deeply knew barked again, loud and unrelenting.
"Get in there, Ria! What did we learn?"
I staggered forward, heart pounding like war drums. My breath came in short, panicked bursts. Around me, the training circle felt too small, like the air itself was pressing in. I could feel eyes watching—other trainers, swordsmen, and soldiers. Some curious. Others disgusted.
The clash of steel snapped me back to the present. My opponent—a broad-shouldered boy with a cruel grin—swung at me again. I dodged, barely. My footing was off. My balance, wrong. I was moving like someone fighting their own skin.
But all I could hear was my fathers's voice, gentle and calm in my mind, "You have a mind like a true Raven—meant to outsmart, not fail."
So I forced down the burn in my lungs. I silenced my doubt. I lunged.
And as our blades met again with a crack that rang across the courtyard, a quiet voice within me whispered:
"You may be a woman in this world, but that doesn't mean you fight like one."
Something in me snapped. Not in rage—but in clarity. As if all the fear, all the doubt, all the aching to be enough burned away in a single breath. The boy had been faster, stronger, trained longer—but he wasn't ready for me.
Not the version of me that had nothing left to lose.
I shifted my weight, dropping low, twisting my body in a move drilled into me a hundred times but never executed quite like this. My blade swept his legs with a clean arc, and before he could recover, I rose and drove the hilt hard into his shoulder. He hit the ground with a gasp, his sword clattering beside him.
Silence fell like a heavy curtain across the ring.
Only the sound of my own breathing remained—loud in my ears, harsh in my throat. My lungs burned, a fire deep inside my chest that begged me to stop. But I wouldn't. I couldn't. The sting in my eyes grew sharper, the pressure behind them unbearable.
But I will not let the tears fall.
They are watching— All waiting to see the girl falter. Waiting to see the princess crumble under the weight of a world built for men and monsters.
But I stand.
I plant my boots into the sand that covers the ring, steadying my legs even as they tremble. My arms ache, my grip falters for a moment before I adjust. The sword feels like it weighs more than the crown I've been trained my whole life to wear.
But still, I hold it.
I raise my chin, my jaw tight with the effort of swallowing every sob, every scream, every ounce of pain. My chest rises and falls in heavy, rhythmic beats—each breath a declaration.
I am here.
I am not soft.
I am not fragile.
I feel the blood on my lip, the pulse pounding at my temple, the echo of every doubt I've ever heard ricocheting in my skull.
"She's too delicate."
"A lady shouldn't fight."
"She's royalty—she doesn't need to."
They don't understand. I'm not here because I want to prove something.
I'm here because I have to.
Because no crown will save me when the blade is at my throat. No lineage, no etiquette, no silken gown will protect me when war comes crashing through our gates.
So I let them stare.
Let them see the sweat-soaked girl with bruised skin and bleeding knuckles. Let them see the wildness in my eyes—the storm that my mother tried to calm with lullabies and courtly lessons.
Let them see me for what I truly am.
Not a perfect princess.
Not a bride.
But a weapon, still forging herself in fire and fury.
And as I lower my blade, the trainer gives a single nod—barely perceptible, but enough.
The ring remains silent.
But I... I am louder than ever before.
-
-
I travel to my chamber in the northeast of the castle, still battered and bruised from the arena. My limbs ache with every step, but I force myself to walk tall, even through empty halls. The castle's stone walls seem colder tonight, the torchlight flickering against their timeworn faces like shadows of judgment.
When I finally reach my room, I push the door open and step into a world that doesn't feel like mine.
There are no swords mounted above the hearth, no armor stands or faded battle maps. Instead, the room is dressed in velvet and lace. Dresses in pale hues hang in a neat line, their delicate embroidery catching the moonlight like frost on glass. Bejeweled circlets glint from a glass case near the wall, arranged like trophies I've never wanted to win. Everything smells faintly of rosewater and lavender—a scent I used to love, now sickeningly sweet after hours spent tasting blood and grit.
The only things I don't complain about are the pitcher of fresh flowers on my writing desk—lilies this time, soft and white, likely replaced by the maids while I was gone—my bookshelf, filled with worn spines and cracked covers of legends, war stories, and forbidden histories... and my bed. Always, my bed.
It stands near the window, draped in dark navy silk that pools to the floor like a midnight tide. The pillows are fluffed out, arranged perfectly as if they hadn't been smashed and tossed in a night's worth of restless turning. It's the only softness I've earned.
I drop my sword with a dull clatter against the wardrobe. The sound seems wrong here, almost offensive—like it doesn't belong. Like I don't belong.
My legs give out before my pride does, and I sink into the chair by my hand-made vanity. It's carved from dark oak, old enough that I can still remember sitting at it as a girl while my mother braided ribbons into my hair, whispering about duty and grace. Now it sits silent, its mirror watching me with quiet judgment.
I lean in, elbows on the tabletop, and look at myself.
Really look.
My face is flushed from the heat of the fight, skin pale but touched with a raw rosiness on my cheeks and nose. Dirt clings to my jawline where a blow had nearly knocked me down. A faint line of blood is drying at the corner of my mouth. My eyes—wide, vivid blue—stare back, tired but unbroken.
There's a defiance in them. A sharpness that wasn't there before.
I reach up, my fingers brushing against a bruise blooming along my collarbone. Beneath it, my skin is soft, fragile-looking. But I know better now. I know what I've endured to wear that bruise like armor.
Then I see my hair—long and wavy, still half-pinned from earlier, the rest falling messily around my shoulders. Ash brown, just like my father's. He used to run his fingers through it when I was a child, calling it "stormlight silk." I always liked that.
I run a hand through it now, and it snags on dried sweat and tangled strands. There's something jarring about it—this war-torn girl wearing a crown of noble hair.
I should wash. Change. Put on something that doesn't reek of dirt and defiance.
But I don't move.
Because for once, in the silence, I'm not ashamed of the girl staring back at me. I don't see weakness, or failure, or the hollow shell of a princess waiting to be filled with someone else's expectations.
I see me. Bruised, bloodied, aching. But unyielding.
And slowly, against everything I've been taught, a ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of my lips.
Tomorrow, they'll try to polish me again—dress me in silk, paint me in rosewater, tuck swords out of sight. But for now, in this quiet moment, I get to exist in between the lines.
Not princess. Not soldier. Just a girl learning how to be both.
I hear knocking at the door, sharp but hesitant, and for a moment, dread coils in my stomach like a cold serpent. I already know who I expect it to be—my mother, come to deliver another quiet scolding behind painted lips. Another reminder that I am a disappointment wrapped in silk. That I am not what she carved me to be.
She would stand in the doorway with her perfect posture, her gowns trailing behind her like she was gliding rather than walking. Always so polished, so poised, never a strand of hair out of place. She was a beautiful girl, my mother, the kind that men turned their heads for and women whispered about. But that beauty was built like a weapon—sharp, cold, and wielded with precision. And beneath it all, she carried her beliefs like a crown she never took off.
"It's not a woman's job to read maps or wage war," she once told me, waving her jeweled fingers through the air like battle plans were smoke to be dismissed.
"Books are for scholars and soldiers, not for wives. Reading is useless when you're meant to be looked at, not listened to."
Even as a child, I'd thought that was a load of shit.
Why should a woman be made to be nothing more than a decoration? Why must she stand on the sidelines, perfectly painted, while men bled and burned for kingdoms she could've saved? Why was her worth sewn into her hemline and not her spine?
I never understood why she couldn't understand him—my father.
Maybe it was because she came from a different family, a different world entirely, with their pearls and pretenses, where silence was praised and strength was shameful. But his family... they were different. In his family, women rode into battle with blades on their backs and steel in their bones. They led charges. They commanded respect. They fought. And though he never pushed me to follow that path—perhaps out of deference to her—he never told me I couldn't, either.
Still, he stepped back, dulled his fire for the sake of her peace. And maybe I hated him a little for that. But maybe I understood, too.
The knock comes again, and I snap out of the spiral. I sluggishly stand, my body protesting with every move. My legs feel like iron, and my ribs flare with pain as I take each step toward the door. I swipe my sleeve across my cheek, catching a smear of dried blood. With trembling fingers, I brush my hair back, trying to look less like the daughter she loathes.
I open the door, bracing myself for her silhouette.
But it's not her.
It's him.
"Dad," I breathe, a small smile slipping through before I can stop it. Relief washes over me like warm rain. It's like staring into a reflection—not of how I appear, but of who I am. The part of me that doesn't apologize for the dirt under my nails or the fire behind my eyes.
He's still in his riding leathers, dust clinging to the edges of his cloak, his dark hair swept back but windswept. His eyes—sharp and blue like mine—scan me instantly. Not with judgment, but with concern. Quiet understanding. The kind that doesn't need words.
He doesn't ask if I'm alright. He knows better. Instead, he glances at the bruising along my collarbone and the blood I missed at the corner of my lip.
"You held back your left foot again," he murmurs.
I huff a tired laugh, rubbing the back of my neck. "Old habit."
"You'll break that habit," he replies, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. He always does that—like he owns space simply by existing in it. Not with arrogance, but with that calm, undeniable presence that makes even kings second-guess themselves.
He closes the door gently behind him, then looks around the room with a raised brow. His eyes settle on the gowns in the corner, the jewelry on display, the lace curtains fluttering in the breeze.
"This room still doesn't suit you," he says quietly, almost to himself.
"No. It never did."
He walks toward my bookshelf and runs his fingers across the spines, pausing at The Art of Siege Warfare.
"She made me hide these when you were younger," he says without looking at me.
"You hid them under my mattress until I was twelve," I say, stepping beside him. "She thought I was reading poetry."
He chuckles, but there's a sadness in it.
"I'm sorry I didn't do more," he says, voice low. "To stop her from... shaping you in her image."
I shake my head. "You didn't need to. I never let her succeed."
He turns to me, and for the first time tonight, I see pride—not the kind that's put on display at banquets and coronations, but something deeper. Something raw. A father's pride, quiet and real and sacred.
"You didn't," he says.
And for a while, we just stand there, two reflections of the same storm. He, the man who chose peace for the sake of love. Me, the daughter who chose fire for the sake of truth.
My dad is a powerful man. He's a king—Kaercineach Black-Wood, though most call him Kaercin. The name alone carries weight, like steel in the bones of the land. He's the ruler of Riachience, the northern kingdom carved into the cliffs and clouds, veiled in ravens and myth. Our people call us the House of the Ravens, not just for the sigil stitched across our banners, but because we are their very blood—descendants of the Great Raven, the ancient sentinel of the skies, keeper of knowledge, guardian of the unseen.
He named me after our kingdom—Ria—a name not just of place, but of purpose. A birthright. A burden. A beacon.
The perks of being the firstborn daughter of a warrior-king.
My uncles, Kenin and Jamier, were legends in their own right. I grew up hearing stories of their exploits—how the three of them, bound by blood and loyalty, were unstoppable on the battlefield. Kenin with his jagged twin blades and reckless courage, Jamier with the axe that could fell a tree in one swing, and my father... sharp-eyed, iron-willed, and terrifyingly calm, even with the world burning around him.
They didn't just win wars—they defined them. Drove back the flame-riders of Voltraine, tore through the stone legion of Hel's Cradle, and broke the siege of Myrrn with nothing but a hundred men and a midnight storm.
Until Breezewood.
It was supposed to be a routine march—secure a trade path, inspect the outposts. But they were ambushed. An army cloaked in silence and shadows, hired blades from the southern kingdoms. It was a trap, set with precision and cruelty. My father told me later—eyes heavy, voice thick with things left unsaid—that it was the only time he had ever felt death's hand reaching for him.
Kenin made the choice.
He fought like a god possessed, giving my father the seconds he needed to flee. He threw himself into the chaos, shield raised, blades flashing, blood painting the trees red. And when it was over—when the sun rose and the crows began to circle—Kenin lay still among a hundred bodies. His armor broken. His face turned skyward, as if watching one final raven pass overhead.
He didn't do it for the glory. Not even for the kingdom.
He did it for me.
Because he knew, more than anyone, just how much my father loved me.
Not my mother. Not the court. Me.
Before my two brothers and my sister, before the council and the throne and all the duties of a king, I was all he had. A newborn in a cradle built from darkwood, with my father standing over me like a shadow and a shield. He told me once, during a stormy night after my first battle, that when he first held me, he saw something strange in my eyes—like wind and winter, like the sky before lightning.
"I knew you were mine, Ria," he said, voice low. "Not just by blood, but by spirit."
I carry that with me. Always.
Because I am just like him. Not the version the court sees, not the king in polished armor and embroidered cloaks, but the man beneath—the strategist, the fighter, the storm-bearer. He never needed to tell me I belonged beside him in the war room. I knew, even when I was small, sitting in his lap while he traced lines across old maps and murmured names I'd come to know.
He let me be there. Let me listen. Let me learn.
And now, every time I lift a sword, every time I refuse to bow when they call me girl, I feel like I'm answering Kenin's sacrifice. Proving that he made the right choice.
That I was worth it.
That the blood of ravens still runs fierce in our family.
-
He stands in the middle of my room, eyes scanning the familiar space—bookshelves, scattered scrolls, my training gear tossed in the corner like an afterthought. He doesn't speak right away. He never does when it's something he'd rather not say.
The candlelight flickers across the lines in his face, shadows dancing in the creases around his eyes. He shifts his weight slightly, his hand resting absently on the dagger at his side. Not out of threat, but habit. A man like him is never truly at ease. Not even here.
I shut the door behind me and lean back against it, crossing my arms.
"Well?" I ask, already guessing this isn't a casual visit.
He sighs through his nose, gaze lowering for a moment before meeting mine again.
"Your mother wants to speak with you," he says finally.
I blink. "...That's it?"
He nods once, slow. "She's waiting in the common room."
A beat of silence stretches between us.
Of course. Of course it's her. After the arena today, after standing bloodied and victorious in front of half the training yard, I knew it was only a matter of time. Still, I hoped I could escape it—just one night without the reminder that my victories are her disappointments.
I let out a slow breath. "So she's decided to descend from her throne of pearls and pettiness."
My father doesn't smile, but there's the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. He doesn't scold me for the comment—he never does. Not about her. I think, deep down, he understands why I bite the way I do.
"She asked for you by name," he says carefully. "That usually means she's already rehearsed the speech three times in her head."
I huff a dry laugh, but there's no humor in it. "Let me guess—'a lady doesn't fight with blood on her cheeks,' or 'no man will marry a woman who carries herself like a soldier.'"
"Likely something in that vein," he admits. "But she's your mother, Ria."
"She's a mirror that keeps trying to show me someone I'm not."
He falls quiet. Not because he disagrees—no, never that—but because he knows this is a war he can't fight for me.
I push off from the door, walking past him toward the tall mirror across the room. I catch a glimpse of myself—tired eyes, disheveled hair, collarbone marked with bruises and the faint trail of dried blood I missed earlier. A princess, yes. But not the kind my mother wants.
I glance back at him, the firelight catching the edge of my jaw. "Why didn't you tell her no?"
His answer comes slow. Honest. "Because I think this time, you need to."
That stops me.
He walks toward the door, but pauses before opening it. "She'll be waiting. But don't let her words shake you, Ria. You choose what kind of woman you are. Not her. Not me. Just you."
Then, softer, he adds, "I'll be nearby if you need me."
And with that, he's gone—his cloak sweeping the floor, his presence like wind before a storm.
I'm left alone again, staring into the mirror at a girl dressed in defiance, shaped by steel, born of both storm and shadow.
And now... summoned by the queen of silken chains.
I sigh, square my shoulders, and reach for the comb beside the vanity—not to look pretty, but to look ready.
Let the games begin.
-
I walk down the eastern corridor, blood still humming in my veins from the arena, jaw clenched tight. The bruises on my ribs throb with every step, but I ignore them. What's one more wound?
The common room doors loom ahead—half open, candlelight spilling into the hallway like it's trying to escape.
I push them open harder than I should. The wood creaks, slamming gently into the stone wall.
And there she is.
My mother, standing like a statue at the end of the long table, posture perfect, not a hair out of place. Her long blonde curls cascade over her violet gown, and her eyes—those cold, calculating green eyes—narrow the moment she sees me.
"You're late," she says.
"You're lucky I came," I shoot back, stepping into the room.
She arches a brow. "And you are lucky I didn't drag you here by your filthy tunic."
"Please do. That would've completed the performance," I say, throwing my arms wide. "I'm sure the whole castle would love to see their queen stoop to grabbing her daughter by the collar like a street mutt."
Her lips tighten. "That's exactly what you looked like today. Bleeding in front of the court like some common brawler."
"I was winning," I bark. "I didn't see you complaining when Father came home with blood on his face."
"You are not your father!"
The words slam into the room like a thrown goblet. The air snaps between us, charged and wild.
"And thank the stars you're not," she continues, stepping closer, fury now cracking through her mask. "He's spent years burying his violence behind politics and diplomacy, and you—you want to dig it up like it's your birthright!"
I laugh, sharp and bitter. "You mean he buried it because of you. Because you married him and told him to play nice while the world sharpened its teeth."
She rounds the table. "Do you think you're clever? That you're the only one who's ever been angry, or brave? I was strong, Ria. I survived this court. I thrived in it. Not by picking fights, but by being smart enough to know when to keep my mouth shut."
"Maybe if you'd spoken up, your daughters wouldn't be treated like chess pieces."
She slaps the table so hard it rattles the candleholders. "You are not a victim, Ria! You are the heir to this House! But you want to throw that away for what? A sword and a bloody nose?"
"I want to be me," I scream. "Not whatever doll you keep trying to sew into that damned purple gown!"
She glares at me, breath shallow. "You're becoming a disgrace."
"And you," I hiss, taking a step forward, "are a coward in silk."
That lands. I see it in her eyes—the flicker of something old, something cracked and hidden.
She straightens. Her voice drops to a deadly whisper. "You will not speak to me like that again."
"And you will not summon me like I'm some servant in your hall of mirrors."
The room falls silent except for our breathing—ragged, heated, sharp.
She looks at me like she's searching for something, maybe the child she once held. But I'm not that girl anymore.
I never will be.
Then her voice softens—not out of kindness, but steel beneath silk.
"You will be at tomorrow's breakfast. In a dress. With your hair brushed. You will smile. You will be what this House demands of you."
I stare at her. "And if I don't?"
Her chin lifts. "Then don't bother coming back to this castle at all."
A muscle in my jaw ticks. My fists clench, trembling.
She doesn't wait for my answer. She turns and walks past me, skirts whispering like knives.
As she reaches the door, she stops.
"You think strength is shouting and swinging a blade," she says, without turning. "But one day, you'll learn—real power is quieter. It's the hand that writes the laws, not the one that spills blood."
And then she's gone.
The door shuts behind her with a dull thud, like a final word I'm not ready to accept.
I stand there, chest rising and falling, staring at the flames on the table.
My blood boils.
But underneath all of it, there's a strange ache. Something small and silent. Something that almost sounds like grief.
The door shuts behind her like a blade sliding into its sheath—clean, final, and leaving something broken behind.
I don't move.
Not right away.
My fists are still clenched at my sides, but the strength in them fades. My shoulders fall. My chest aches in a way that no sword or training ever prepared me for.
The room is quiet now, but her words still echo like war drums in my skull.
Disgrace.
Coward in silk.
Don't bother coming back.
I press my hands against the edge of the table, digging my fingers into the wood like it'll hold me together. But it doesn't.
The burn starts behind my eyes—sharp, uninvited. I blink fast, hard, but it's useless. One tear slips free, carving a warm line down my cheek, and then another follows. And another.
I swipe them away roughly, angry at myself for letting her get to me like this.
She doesn't see it. She never has.
She doesn't see that I don't fight to rebel. I don't train for sport. I don't walk into the arena with bloodlust.
I do it because I want to matter.
Because I want to be seen.
Not for my gowns or my hair or the curve of my smile. But for my worth. My will. The strength in my back when I stand tall against a world that wants to push me into the margins.
She thinks I want to burn the court down out of spite. But the truth is, I want to stand in it and show them a woman doesn't have to be caged in silk to hold power. That I can be steel and softness. Bruised and brilliant. Fierce and full of grace—on my terms.
I stare down at my reflection in the polished wood—eyes red, hair tangled, cheeks flushed with shame and fury. I look like a mess. A fighter. A daughter caught between two impossible worlds.
"I don't want to hurt anyone..." I whisper to no one, voice shaking, "I just don't want to disappear."
The tears come faster now, hot and unrelenting. I sink into the nearest chair, arms wrapped around myself like armor.
All I've ever wanted was to make them proud.
To make her proud.
But how do you become someone's pride when everything they value is the opposite of who you are?
I rest my head on the table, the wood cool against my skin. I breathe in deep and slow, trying to steady the storm inside. But the weight in my chest is too heavy. The silence too loud.
For a moment, I let myself break.
Not as a warrior.
Not as a princess.
Just as a girl.
A girl who's tired of proving that she belongs in a world that keeps trying to cut her down to size.
-
The cold of the corridor follows me back to my chambers, trailing behind like a shadow I can't shake. My boots feel heavier with every step, each one echoing off the stone walls like a reminder: bend, not break. Just once. Just this once.
I close the door behind me with a soft click and lean back against it, eyes drifting around the room that's never felt like mine. The soft gowns hanging untouched. The jewelry glinting in their velvet-lined boxes. The lace gloves I've never worn.
I move slowly to the wardrobe, dragging my fingertips along the polished wood. I open it and scan the rows of dresses, each one more delicate than the last—embroidered silks, pastels and creams, necklines and bodices stitched for elegance and submission.
But then, tucked at the very back, I see it.
Blue.
Not soft sky blue like my mother prefers, but deep—midnight blue, the color of storms over the sea. It's simple, not heavy with jewels or lace. The sleeves are long, the neckline square and sharp. There's strength in it. Stillness. Like it was made for a woman who watches the world and dares it to challenge her.
I pull it from the wardrobe and lay it across my bed. My bruises ache as I move, but I don't wince.
At the vanity, I brush my hair in silence. The tangles give way to soft waves. I don't pin it up, don't twist it into some courtly knot. I let it fall over my shoulders like ash and shadow—just like Father's.
When I finally look at myself in the mirror, something in me still burns. My eyes are tired, but focused. My face soft, but set with quiet determination.
I don't look like my mother's daughter.
And I'm proud of that.
Morning.
The doors of the Great Hall loom before me like the jaws of some ancient beast. I take a breath.
Then I push them open.
Conversations still. Heads turn. I keep my gaze forward, letting the soft rustle of my dress follow behind like a second heartbeat.
The hall is glowing with morning sun, light bouncing off silver goblets and polished armor. At the long table sit the Lords and Ladies of both House Raven and House Dragon—my house, and the one we're supposed to call ally. Or maybe something less stable than that.
The Dragon Lords are easy to spot—rich reds, gold-stitched cloaks, fire etched into their rings and sigils. Across from them, my kin—cloaked in slate and charcoal, embroidered with feather and wisdom. Both houses sit like predators circling the same meal, and I'm walking straight into the center.
My father is already at the head of the table, hands folded before him. He looks calm, but I know better. He's watching everyone, always. And then there's my mother—perched like a queen carved from glass, face unreadable. A flash of satisfaction flickers in her eyes when she sees me.
I don't look at her again.
I walk the full length of the table without flinching. I can feel their eyes on me, weighing me, wondering what version of me showed up today.
Let them guess.
I take my seat beside my father. My mother doesn't speak. Neither do I.
Until the Dragon Lord across from me does.
He leans forward, fingers adorned in gold, and smiles like a man who enjoys toying with his food.
"You clean up well, Princess," he says, voice slick with amusement. "Though I did hear you nearly broke Lord Alder's sons nose in yesterday's training."
My jaw tightens. He wants to laugh. He wants to provoke me into being the savage girl in a soldier's boots.
So I give him exactly what he's not expecting.
I tilt my head slightly, smile just enough to be dangerous.
"I did break it," I say. "But he'll recover."
The room ripples with quiet laughter. Not mockery—surprise.
A few of the younger Lords nod. One of the Dragon heirs grins into his wine cup. Even a Raven uncle down the table raises his brow.
The Dragon Lord laughs. "Bold," he says. "I like that."
I smile again—calm, polished, cold.
"Good. You'll see more of it."
My mother shifts beside my father. I don't have to look to know she's biting her tongue.
But my father—he hides his expression well. Still, I catch the barest glance from him.
Not judgment.
Not concern.
Something else.
Pride.
I sit straighter.
Let them see what kind of woman I am. Let them whisper. Let them watch.
Because I am not just a girl in a dress.
I am Ria of the House of Ravens.
And I am done being underestimated.