As the saying goes, if you want the crown, you bear its iron weight, like a circlet lined with thorns.
As Ariex’s princess, Kelor frayed nerves like wind rattling shutters, yet for duty she burned like a candle down to ash.
But today, she needed a pause, like a tired hawk folding its wings over a winter field.
Two months ago, she rose from a sea of paperwork, only to catch the Emperor’s northbound order like a cold spear.
He sent her to inspect the salt routes, to clear and re‑lay those arteries like channels cut through packed snow.
When the works finished, she galloped palace‑bound, and assassins leapt from shadow like knives flashing in sleet.
Back at the palace, no laurels and petals awaited her, only a mountain of files stacked like gray cliffs.
Even a random pull from that stack was a skull‑splitting knot, a briar tangled tight around the state’s throat.
In truth, that pile was a hive of every major trouble in the land, buzzing like hornets under a lid.
Local officials could toss thorns uphill, but with Kelor the path dead‑ended, like a wall of stone at a canyon’s head.
If she couldn’t unknot them, who could she hand the hot coal to, when the brazier was already in her lap?
Walking the capital’s market street, Kelor drank a deep breath, like smoke and spice rising from a hundred warm pans.
…Bliss, she murmured, like cool spring water touching a cracked lip.
Work that won’t vanish in an hour can sit like a stubborn mountain; I’m not its ox anymore, not today.
Gripes were gripes, oaths were oaths; even so, her feet turned, carrying her into a fountain pen shop like a small stream.
She had few hobbies; pens held her heart like the moon mirrored on calm water.
Fountain pens and dip pens, the tools of her daily grind, lined her days like beads on a cord.
In her room, display cases stood by brand and type, like ranks on parade under a quiet banner.
Nib styles split to open, semi‑hooded, hooded—blades under cloth in tidy rows.
Materials sorted to stainless steel and iridium gold—metals sleeping in paired cots.
Even nib widths marched from fine to broad, one by one, like footprints across fresh sand.
Under each pen lay a card written with that very nib, a leaf tagged by its own vein.
Brand, model, year—everything noted down like seeds counted in a pouch.
Collecting them was one of her few sparks, like tea steam rising on a cold morning.
Yet today the shop’s air wasn’t calm; it rippled like hot oil under a thin crust.
“What do you mean?” the owner snapped, his voice like a fraying thread.
He stood tight behind the counter, nerves fluttering like moths. In front loomed an elf lord with a birdcage and a heavy gut.
His embroidered gold clothes flashed like sunlight on coins, marking him as a minor noble.
Four or five hangers‑on lounged at his side, ringed around the owner like alley dogs circling a cat.
They smirked and said, “No big deal. Our lord wants two words from you. Write them.
If it’s bad, we won’t pay, and you’ll rewrite till he’s satisfied,” their voices snapping like wet twigs.
“This is the eighth time you’ve had me write it,” the owner muttered, anger trapped like steam under a lid.
“If you really dislike it, find someone else. I can’t write it anymore,” he said, his shoulders drooping like wilted grass.
“Oh? You can’t write?” The noble squinted, then glanced at his thugs, and laughter burst like a noisy flock.
“Can’t write, huh? Smash the shop. Let’s see if he writes today,” he barked, words cracking like a whip.
The goons rolled up sleeves and reached for sticks, ready to “renovate” like termites chewing a beam.
A crowd gathered, city folk perching like sparrows, hungry for drama yet unwilling to peck a hawk.
In an empire ruled by elves, few would cross a noble’s crest, not for a shop and not for a stranger.
“You aren’t here for writing. You’re here for trouble,” Kelor said, cold rising like frost along a blade.
This street lay inside the royal city, ground under the Emperor’s heel; bullies shouldn’t strut here like roosters.
They blinked, turned, and saw a tiny girl, under one and a half meters, small as a sparrow.
Laughter burst again, rough as gravel poured from a bucket.
“Well now, whose little miss is this?” a flunky crowed, tail up like a fox. “Be careful.
Heroics take skill, and even kicking a dog depends on its master.”
The noble slapped him mid‑boast, his palm snapping like a fan.
“Are you calling me a dog? Slap yourself,” snarled the birdcage lord, ears flaring like blades.
“Yes! I was wrong! I deserve the slap!” The flunky clutched his cheek, bowing like a reed in wind.
Another thug sensed his chance and puffed up like a bullfrog.
“Our lord has people above him. Kneel, knock your head twice, and if he’s pleased, he’ll spare you.
Otherwise, tomorrow you might wake in someone else’s bed. With that doll face and twig arms, you’ll be used up in days.”
The joke was foul, and their laughter spilled like gutter water, thick with malice.
“You’ve got people above you?” Kelor’s lips curled, anger bright as a struck match. “Good.
Today’s perfect. Above me, there’s nobody left.”
They didn’t catch the barbed meaning, and the long‑eared elf lord flushed hot, anger climbing like fire up dry grass.
“Nobody above you? Then why act tough? Get her. Take her down,” he roared, voice like a drum.
A thug rushed in, hollering like a rooster, and Kelor’s fist met his nose straight on.
The crack rang clean, like ice splitting, and he dropped bleeding, face a red mask on the floor.
Another lunged for her waist, arms scooping like a net, and Kelor shrugged off her backpack in one smooth arc.
She swung it half a circle, smashing his head into a wooden shelf; his skull stuck like a jar wedged tight.
“Who dares touch me?” Kelor planted hands on hips, stance set like a drawn bow, and her aura pressed the room.
With two down as warning, the rest hesitated, feet freezing like ponds at dusk.
“You idiots!” the noble hissed, beard bristling like thorns. “Don’t go one by one.
It’s not Plants vs. Zombies. Go all at once. She can’t handle a swarm.”
In the ring of onlookers, a familiar figure kept to the shade like a stray cat, someone readers had seen before.
That figure was Qiange, the assassin leader who, half a month ago, tried to strike Princess Korol’s convoy mid‑route.
Lingcai disrupted the attempt, it failed, and Qiange became a top fugitive, hunted like a boar.
Qiange wanted to stay buried, to avoid risk, like a leaf pressed flat in a book.
But seeing a frail‑looking girl stand bold against power, her caged sense of justice sprang like a tiger.
“A crowd of grown men bullying a little girl, and you still need numbers? Disgraceful,” Qiange said, lifting her sheathed blade like a banner.
She couldn’t guess the small girl she meant to shield was the very Princess Kelor she had planned to assassinate.
In the next heartbeat, Qiange stepped forward, standing between them like a gate post.
“I’ll be your opponent. Take one more step, and I’ll cut you down,” she warned, voice cold as a river in moonlight.
