The Maid of the Cursed Princess

In the twilight of an Empire’s reign, a silent war of shadows and steel unfolded between the gilded legions of the capital and their battle-hardened brethren from the provinces. This unspoken rivalry, known to some and whispered by others, had its roots in the very soil from which these warriors sprang.

From the outset, their paths diverged. The central army, basking in the glow of Hyperion’s splendor, enjoyed the fruits of civilization. In stark contrast, their provincial counterparts honed their skills in the unforgiving crucible of untamed lands. Yet, it was the crucible of war itself that forged the bitter divide between these brothers-in-arms.

As the provincial forces spilled their blood across the continent, locked in mortal combat with foes unnumbered, the central army remained ensconced within Hyperion’s walls, their blades unbloodied under the guise of safeguarding hearth and home.

This disparity birthed a venomous resentment; the provincial soldiers cursed their central counterparts as gluttons feasting on the spoils of peace, while the latter sneered at the former as brutish barbarians, barely more civilized than the enemies they faced.

Yet, beneath the veneer of contempt and willful ignorance, the soldiers of the central army harbored a secret knowledge. They knew of the legendary feats accomplished by those uncouth beasts who laughed in the face of death, sustained by nothing more than courage and fried onions – the army of the Crown Prince.

In the annals of the great continental war, the Orléans army etched their names in glory. 

They annihilated the invaders who dared cross their borders, then pressed onward, forcing mighty kings to bend the knee. 

The invincible Grande Armée, a golden tide that swept all before it, brought the entire continent to heel beneath the Orléans standard.

Among this illustrious host, none were more audacious or savage than Murat’s cavalry. 

Joaceon Murat, or Joachim Murat – the name mattered little, for what significance could the moniker of a mere innkeeper’s son hold?

Yet this commoner, risen to the exalted rank of marshal, now led over ten thousand horsemen, his name and the reputation of his cavalry echoing across the continent.

Though unschooled, lacking in profound insight, and woefully inept with finances, Murat possessed extraordinary strengths that few could rival. 

They say ignorance breeds courage? In Murat’s case, it seemed the Divine had bestowed upon him an abundance of valor and audacity in lieu of intellect, coupled with formidable physical prowess and an unparalleled mastery of cavalry. These gifts alone sufficed to elevate a humble innkeeper’s son to the lofty heights of marshal, commanding vast armies.

Certain enemy commanders, in their hubris, sneered at his humble origins. But what of it? Among the marshals of his ilk were sons of tanners and coachmen alike. 

Moreover, those very commanders who dared look down upon Murat soon found themselves trampled beneath the hooves of his cavalry, their forces decimated and their persons imprisoned. Never again would they have cause to mock the innkeeper’s son.

The Crown Prince’s lance, a piercing spear that sundered enemy ranks.

The frenzied cavalry of the unlettered marshal who had carved a bloody swath across the continent, sword in hand.

“…”

And now, these legendary terrors set their sights upon the very gates before them.

Who could stand unmoved in the face of such berserkers, those who had unfurled the Orléans standard in every conceivable corner of the continent?

“Steel yourselves! They are naught but cavalry, bereft of proper artillery!”

Bellowed the centralist general, striving to rally his troops whose terror was so palpable that their weaponry quivered in their grasp.  He gestured emphatically towards the approaching horde. 

“Observe! How can they hope to scale these walls and breach our gates armed with naught but blade and steed?”

True, the thunderous approach of the cavalry sent tremors through the earth, and clouds of dust billowed ominously. Yet fundamentally, they remained cavalry – each a fearsome weapon on open ground, but ill-suited to siege warfare. The rebel army, entrenched behind their fortifications, held the advantage against this seemingly reckless charge.

Certainly, the possibility loomed that the armies of the other four marshals, advancing in the cavalry’s wake, had brought artillery. But if they could decimate this vanguard, charging headlong without apparent concern for supporting fire, it would bolster their flagging morale.

“All troops!” 

The general cried, leaning forward over the battlements to issue the order to fire.

“Fire…!?”

But his command died on his lips as he experienced a sudden, surreal sense of disconnect. The wall before him seemed to recede as he felt himself slowly tilting forward, falling…

This was his final cognizant thought.

“Ge-General?” 

The soldiers, turning in horror at their commander’s abrupt silence, beheld a ghastly sight.

“…”

There lay the general’s headless corpse, and standing over it, a woman with eyes of crimson, regarding the scene with eerie calm.

“You cra-” 

The soldiers, training their weapons on this apparition, found their words dying in their throats, their aim faltering.

For as they gazed into those blood-red eyes, as if filled with freshly spilled vitae, a new terror gripped them – one that eclipsed even the dread inspired by Murat’s approaching cavalry.

“Hmm?”

In the blink of an eye, Murat and his intrepid cavalry, charging forth without hesitation, beheld an unexpected tableau beyond the slowly parting city gates: a disarmed rebel army, and a woman with bronze tresses standing as if in welcome.

“Ah, I see this young lady must be the collaborator mentioned in the missive. My deepest gratitude, mademoiselle!” 

Murat called out, his voice carrying over the thunderous hoofbeats. He had been forewarned of an ally within the walls through the Crown Prince’s letter, and had witnessed the enemy commander’s grisly demise atop the ramparts.

Thus, unfazed, he maintained his breakneck pace, offering words of thanks as he and his forces swept past. 

“How can there exist a woman of such courage and beauty in this world? Were I not so preoccupied, I would not have denied myself the pleasure of bestowing a kiss upon that fair lady!”

He added, true to his reputation as the Grande Armée’s most notorious libertine.

“…”

Dorothy, having observed Murat and his cavalcade’s swift passage, mounted a conveniently tethered steed and galloped towards the city’s heart, sensing the approach of the other four marshals’ forces. 

For her work was not yet done.

* * *

On that fateful day, the Crown Prince, or rather, Count Villefort, had entrusted Dorothy with a weathered notebook, his instructions clear:

-Ensure the security of those individuals listed herein.

-These people…

-They are the architects of Orléans’ new chapter. Naturally, the particulars need not concern you.

Despite her cultivated indifference to the ebb and flow of political tides, Dorothy readily discerned that the names inscribed within were the Crown Prince’s influential supporters. Even she, typically uninterested in current affairs, recognized the name Colbert.

Whether patriarch or scion, it seemed improbable that the Colberts, with their capitalist roots, would align themselves with the central nobility – especially in light of the heinous abduction of their precious youngest daughter, orchestrated by those very same aristocratic factions.

-You don’t need to safeguard every single soul. I’d simply ask that you secure their safety to the best of your considerable abilities.

Dorothy had accepted this charge, with Sibylla’s personal security once more serving as her true north, her unspoken compensation. 

Whatever his genuine motives, Count Villefort had acquiesced to this implicit demand.

Thus, when the day of reckoning arrived and gunshots shattered Hyperion’s uneasy peace, Dorothy found herself racing towards the Colbert residence.

Swoosh—

Her instincts proved prescient – upon arrival, she discovered Colbert mere moments from an assassin’s blade. Having saved the man, Dorothy commandeered his carriage, crisscrossing Orléans to secure the safety of those named in the notebook, one by one.

She encountered several would-be killers in her quest, yet none proved a match for Dorothy—or rather, for Arachne.

Of course, not all could be saved despite her most strenuous efforts. Including Police Chief Baron Montferrand, about nine had already met their end before her arrival.

But unless she could be in two places at once, such losses were inevitable – Dorothy had harbored no illusions of complete success from the outset.

Now, with these missions accomplished, only one task remained.

“Should I remark that it’s been some time since our last encounter, Slave Prince?”

“…Arachne.”

The final obstacle standing between her and the culmination of her unfinished business materialized before her.

“I anticipated you would be the last.”

“Where is the Princess?”

“Find her yourself.”

The Slave Prince, Ruslan.

Dorothy knew nothing of the life he had led, the experiences that had shaped him. The same held true for Ruslan regarding her. 

They didn’t even know each other’s true names – Dorothy’s was but an alias plucked from a fairy tale, while Ruslan’s was derived from his origins.

One had never possessed a name, the other had lost his.

“…”

Yet, inexplicably, they felt a profound understanding of one another.

In a relationship devoid of commonalities, they sensed an ineffable kinship. 

Was it born from lives spent as passive tools, existing only to follow others’ commands? Or perhaps from the shared experience of abandoning their original selves to become women?

Neither Dorothy nor Ruslan could pinpoint the source of this connection.

But now, facing each other, they felt a resonance as if they were the only two beings in existence.

“It was a tedious tale, truly.”

Dorothy mused, as they both drew their weapons in perfect synchronicity.

“Were this a fairy tale, I would have closed the book out of sheer boredom, only to reluctantly reopen it time and again.”

For they both knew that in any story, there could be but one protagonist.

“Now…”

Dorothy’s voice trailed off, heavy with finality.

“Shall we end it?”

To conclude the enemy’s narrative, to pen the final chapter of their own.

The two marionettes, strings cut and fates intertwined, leveled their blades at one another.