Dance of Vines and the Blade

Across the dusty ground, Hoche stood as a statue, his hands open and empty. She clutched a wooden sword in her sweaty palms, her shoulders tight with tension, breath shallow.

From the sidelines, Jack called out, voice breezy and light as ever.

“Lotte, you know the drill. Start with your full strength.”

Her full strength—the blessing of the forest.

Charlotte turned to Jack. "B-but... I still can't control it properly. What if I hurt him—"

"Then all the more reason to practice. He can take it," Jack cut in, folding his arms. "Besides... unless you go all in, he’ll pin you before you can blink."

She winced, recalling how easily Hoche had bested her in the armory.

…There’s no running from this. I have to do it.

She inhaled slowly and closed her eyes. The scent of grass, the rustling of castle trees, and the murmurs of nearby knights sharpened her focus.

Life magic pulsed beneath her feet—the air shifted as vines and flowers erupted from the earth, blooming around Charlotte like a living shield.

Hoche’s expression remained unchanged, but his eyes narrowed, observing the magic.

Jack stood with arms crossed, watching both of them from the sidelines. Nearby, a few knights glanced over, unable to hide their curiosity.

He raised his voice. “This isn’t a spectacle, boys.”

Embarrassed, they turned away.

She opened her eyes and locked them on Hoche. No fear. No weapon. Just focus.

"Begin!"

At Jack’s signal, Charlotte moved. Vines burst from the ground, lashing toward Hoche’s legs with unerring speed and precision.

But his gaze remained calm. He let the vines wrap around him for just a moment. With a swift twist of his body, he tore through them as if they were paper.

So easily... Charlotte’s teeth clenched. But she had expected that. She pressed more magic into the soil. A second wave surged forth—thicker, faster, honed to a sharper edge.

One vine snagged his ankle. Another struck out for his arm.

She didn’t want to rely on brute force. If she lost control, the vines could whip him into the air like a rag doll. She tightened her grip and focused, adjusting the pressure, pulling with just enough strength to hold him.

At the same moment, the vines pulled at his limbs, forcing his motion to falter.

Charlotte ran. She wasn’t trying to defeat him. All I need is one light touch of the blade.

She knew she wasn’t born for battle. Jack hadn’t trained her to win through strength. He’d taught her to bend the rules. Be clever. Fight like a storm, not a blade.

Hoche dodged her attacks, tearing the vine from his ankle and stepping back.

She was ready for that, too. Before he could retreat too far, fresh vines shot from behind—this time targeting his knee. They coiled and pulled. His eyes widened as he stumbled back a step, then another, balance failing. One knee dropped to the earth.

Charlotte lunged, blade lifting. Her target was his open arm. Just one touch and—

Then, as if seeing her clearly for the first time, he looked up—and reached toward her.

His arm moved with viper’s speed, ducking under her blade and snatching her wrist in one sharp motion.

Her heart leapt. There was no pain, but the sudden pressure of his grip rooted her in place, her body going rigid.

He turned his focus to the vine still coiled around his other arm, muscles tensing to tear it free.

If he broke it—if that restraint gave way—he’d capture me for real.

Magic surged. Before she could think, it answered her instinct. A thick wave of vines burst from the ground between them, forcing them apart.

Hoche released her wrist and sprang back, fluid and poised. A predator loosed from a snare.

Even before the vines had finished collapsing, he was already moving again.

Another coil shot toward him—but it didn’t slow him. Even half-bound, he tore through the vines mid-step, eyes locked on her.

He came forward, swift and silent, weaving through the twisting tendrils with unnatural grace. He was closing the distance again.

Charlotte stumbled backward, throwing fresh vines in his path. She clenched her fists, digging deeper.

Not enough. Not nearly enough. I have to give it more.

The voice in her heart urged her on, frantic and insistent. Her arms moved with rising desperation as she poured magic into the ground, clinging to the hope that sheer force might hold him back.

Then—one vine snapped forward, wild and uncontrolled, whipping dangerously close to Hoche’s right eye.

She froze. The sudden violence of it—the near miss—startled her more than it did him. For a breathless moment, the fear wasn't of him, but of herself.

Without a flicker of hesitation, Hoche charged.

She gasped, thrusting out a hand, ready to blast him back with raw force—

—but stopped.

Instead, a wall of green magic surged upward, halting his approach. She stumbled back, buying time.

But Hoche didn’t relent. He dodged the barrier, wove through the vines, and closed in. She fled—there was nothing else she could do.

Across the field, unnoticed by Charlotte, a ring of knights had begun to form—spaced wide at first, then closing in, silent and tense. Some watched her retreating figure with visible concern, shifting uneasily on their feet. Others stared daggers at Hoche, fingers inching with frustration.

From their midst, Marius scoffed. “It’s like watching a hound chase a rabbit.”

His voice carried just far enough for the nearest few to hear—and none of them disagreed. Jack stayed quiet, keeping his eyes on them and the field, which was gradually covered with green.

Watching Hoche cornering her, Marius clicked his tongue. “Seriously, Captain. You’re pushing her too hard."

"She needs this."

“For what? You know she doesn’t have the heart or talent for combat. He’s too much for her to handle.”

Jack’s lips curved into a tired smile at her cousin’s brutally honest remark. But his eyes remained fixed on her.

“I know. But if she can learn to control it again, she won’t need to be a warrior. She should be the most powerful being in this kingdom.”

Charlotte, meanwhile, was running out of space. The arena felt smaller with every breath. Vines lashed out around her, trying to keep him back, but Hoche pressed forward, relentless.

She knew what to do. Make the vines thicker. More numerous. Stronger. But she couldn’t. She could awaken towering trees, make vegetables swell large. But fine control—delicate, exacting restraint—was like grasping a tiny bead with a thick glove.

If she used her magic freely, she could easily crush him. But that would mean hurting him.

She had taken up sword practice because of her mother. But she could never fully shake the fear of facing an enemy. The resolve to be wounded. And the resolve to wound the other.

—Maybe I should just surrender. End this.

—I’m not my mother.

—I cannot be.

The thoughts crept in and burned like poison.

Her face twisted, frustration seething. And the fear—of being unable to escape and losing without a way out—threatened to crush her.

The magic inside her began to swell—no longer obedient. Sparks of golden light cracked and flared around her, raw magic seeking escape.

Jack, watching from the sidelines, began to move forward—but then paused.

Charlotte’s expression had changed.

From panic, to something closer to surrender. Resignation.

Her eyes dropped. The wooden sword slipped from her fingers with a sharp clack.

Hoche halted.

But Charlotte raised her head, steady now, her peridot eyes bright with grim resolve.

If she couldn’t defeat him in a fair fight, she would end it another way.

—If I can’t fight him… I’ll capture him.

And then she stepped forward—and the earth trembled.

A thunderous BOOM erupted beneath her feet. Vines exploded outward, shattering the dirt. Petals whirled in the air like a blooming storm.

Charlotte stretched out both hands—unarmed—and began condensing the air between herself and Hoche.

The wind swirled.

Vines surged—not toward him to strike, but around him, encircling him like a thousand dancing serpents. They wove a dome of green, thick and unbreakable.

From inside, tendrils curled around Hoche’s arms, legs, torso. Tight. Binding.

The vines wrapped around him like chains, not with harm, but with unyielding strength. They pinned him down and locked him in place.

She caught him.

No finesse. No elegance. Just raw, primal magic.

Charlotte bent to retrieve her sword, breathing heavily. There was no joy on her face. This wasn’t a victory.

—This will do. It’s all I have.

Bound by vines, Hoche lifted his gaze—not to her sword, but to her eyes.

And in his eyes, she saw no emotion. Instead, she saw a void. A chilling emptiness. He didn’t care if she would hurt him. He didn’t resist.

She knew those void eyes. She knew them all too well. And that terrified her, but she shook it off.

...It doesn’t matter. If I end it here, there will be nothing left between us.

Charlotte lifted her sword again, preparing to end the match.

But before she could take a step—

“Incredible, Princess Charlotte!”

“You’ve mastered the Green Magic again!”

“That stance and power—she’s becoming just like the Queen!”

The voices of knights reached her.

Charlotte’s hands froze.

A memory flashed—her mother, the Queen, radiating light as she cut through three knights, laughing as though the world belonged to her. That overwhelming force. That fearless strength. A queen who felled enemies like a gallant knight.

Not like Charlotte… who cowardly used her magic against an unarmed opponent but still struggled to fight back.

…I’m not her.

I’ll never be her.

No, I should not be—

Her inner turmoil swirled, and her magic wavered. The vines slackened—slightly at first, then all at once. The brilliant magic that roared only moments ago dissolved in her hands.

“W-what, why—?!”

Gasps rose from the field. Marius covered his face. Jack muttered under his breath. “Ah… there it is.”

Hoche moved.

In one fluid motion, he flexed his body, tearing through the vines once again with brutal force. But it wasn’t just his strength she had to contend with—it was his speed.

Charlotte’s magic faltered completely. She saw him blur—circling her like a phantom, movements light but precise.

“Ack—wait—!”

Charlotte’s panic broke her focus. Her eyes struggled to track him—he was too fast. Faster than before.

Hoche picked up speed, circling her in a blur, his movements unpredictable.

In a blink, he was behind her.

Her wrist was pulled. A sudden twist. Her leg swept out from under her.

“Ah—!”

Her sword clattered to the ground. The crowd fell silent.

Charlotte squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for impact—

—but it never came.

She was caught. Not by brute strength or speed, but by something far gentler—and far more disarming.

When she cautiously opened her eyes, Hoche was there. Closer than ever. Those deep blue eyes locked with hers.

His eyes were calm, but not empty. Within his gaze, she could see a quiet concern for her—or at least, that’s how it seemed to her.

His arm locked around her waist, steady and strong. His other hand held her wrist.

Like the final step of a waltz—poised, breathless, and inescapably close.

“…Are you alright, Your Highness?” he asked, voice quiet and firm.

She swallowed a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

Her heart pounded in her chest as she let herself relax in his grip. A confusing blend of defeat and a strange, fluttering warmth bloomed within her.

That marked the end of the match.

“Good effort, both of you,” Jack called out.

Hoche gently helped her to her feet. The warmth of his hold lingered on her skin, grounding her in the present.

He bent, picked up her sword, and placed it back into her trembling hand.

“Thank you…” she whispered.

Her words stopped him in his tracks. Before she could grasp why, he replied, “...No thanks are necessary, Your Highness.”

He stepped back with a curt bow. Without another word, he left the field. But her magic still clung to his limbs—vines adorned with flowers and leaves wrapped gently around his arms and legs.

From the sidelines, the knights erupted.

“Boo! Too fast!”

“No fair, Hoche!”

“Give the princess a chance!”

Marius sighed. “You lot…”

Jack chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, that’s one way to end it.”

But he kept his eyes on Charlotte—still standing in the field, staring at her own hand.

As if she were gazing at the fading remnants of a spell.