My hand tightly grips the hilt;
elegant metal curves,
guarding my wrist behind
a shield of shining silver.
The pommel is a single emerald
cut carefully to catch light and
remind me of my kingdom's
vibrant meadows.
Thin and threatening and
beautiful, the blade gleams
in the sunlight, striking
and breathtaking as
I strike, a flash of movement
in the still air—
my opponent still breathes, her
own blade heavy in her hands.
A feint—a parry—a beat—
my feet are swift and my
opponent's hesitant; she stumbles as
I charge, slicing her shoulder.
Her weapon falls and
scarlet coats silver:
I am another conquest closer
to the crown.
