As I stood proudly before the crowd, head held high amidst the roaring cheers. Suddenly, a loud bang—like a cannon blast—ripped through the air, silencing the merriment in an instant. Gasps echoed. The crowd erupted into panic, warriors drawing weapons with reflexive speed. Blades clashed. Shields raised. Even the king leapt from his throne and plunged into the fray with a fierce war cry.
My body tensed as chaos erupted. I spun around, searching for threats, for sense—but found none. What the hell was happening?
Amidst the confusion, I turned to my father. He stood still—too still. His lips twitched with something I couldn't quite place. Amusement? Resignation?
"Father?" I asked, furrowing my brows.
He didn't answer. Just gave a slow shake of his head, like a man watching children squabble over spilled mead. I could feel my pulse racing, uncertainty buzzing under my skin.
And then, like a tide parting the sea, the queen rose from her throne. Regal and unwavering, her presence alone calmed the fury around her. The fighting ceased as she strode forward, her steps measured, commanding. A path opened in the crowd as if by instinct. All eyes followed her, curious, reverent.
She didn't speak—not yet. Instead, she made her way to the four chieftains of the clans, all of whom looked suddenly like misbehaving boys caught red-handed.
What she did next stunned even the rowdiest warriors into silence.
She reached out, grabbed each of the four by their ears, and tugged them—yes, tugged them—to the front of the throne like naughty school children.
A breath caught in my throat. I blinked.
"Damn," I muttered under my breath. "That was badass."
Around me, snorts of laughter rippled under hushed breaths. No one dared speak aloud.
Then, the queen turned to the assembly, her voice resonant and clear.
"In accordance with our laws, by the rights of our heritage, only the firstborn of each great leader may be selected as champions—and thus, compete for the hand of the princess of DunBroch."
A murmur spread through the crowd.
"It is customary," she continued, "for the champions to prove their worth by feats of strength or arms, in the games chosen by the princess herself—"
"Archery!" came a defiant voice from the crowd.
All heads turned.
The princess stepped forward, hair wild as flame, eyes like twin green daggers. "I choose archery."
The queen nodded solemnly. "Then let the games begin."
The crowd erupted with cheers once more, but this time, it felt focused, electric. A new energy pulsed through the field.
Hours later, the field was cleared. A large target was set up a little over a dozen feet away. Spectators formed a ring around the archery ground. The sun was warm on my face as I stood with the other contestants. The moment had come.
The MacGuffin champion went first. He was strong, burly, muscles flexing beneath his bear-hide armor—but the bow looked comically small in his hands. He drew, aimed… and hit the outermost circle.
A disappointing gasp echoed.
"Tough luck," I murmured. "Bad day to bring a warhammer to an archery fight."
Next came Macintosh.
He strutted forward, flexing his muscles, pausing to pose. I rolled my eyes.
"Gods, someone get him a mirror," I muttered.
He let the arrow fly. It whizzed through the air and struck near the center—close, but not perfect. The crowd clapped, though it was clear they expected more.
Then came Dingwall.
A skinny boy with shaky hands and eyes too wide. He fumbled with the bow. The string slipped once, then twice. He could barely notch the arrow. My patience thinned.
"Come on," I muttered. "You're making a bow look like a siege weapon."
The king shouted from the sidelines. "Oh, c'mon, boy, shoot already!"
Startled, Dingwall let the arrow fly. It zipped forward and—miraculously—hit the dead center.
A collective gasp filled the air.
"Holy shit," I said aloud. "He actually did it."
Luck? Divine favor? Maybe both. Either way, the bar had been raised.
And now, it was my turn.
I stepped forward, calm and steady. My skill, Versatile Arsenal, had reached Level 29. This would be a walk in the park.
I drew my arrow, notched it smoothly, pulled the string back with practiced ease, and exhaled.
Thunk.
Dead center.
The cheers roared louder than before.
I nodded to the crowd, barely suppressing a grin. Then something—someone—caught my eye.
A figure in a black hood stepped onto the field. The tension returned, but it shifted into awe when the figure pulled back her hood.
Princess Merida.
"I am Princess Merida of DunBroch, the firstborn of the leader of my tribe," she declared. "And today—I fight for my own hand."
Silence.
My breath hitched. She stood there, radiant and fierce. Not just a princess. A warrior. A force of nature.
"She's… different," I whispered to myself.
In my past lives and this one, I'd seen princesses pampered and cloistered. Merida stood apart—fire in her eyes and storm in her soul.
She picked up her bow.
Her first arrow flew straight and true—dead center.
The next. Dead center.
The third—at Dingwall's target. She split his arrow clean in half.
The final target was mine.
She drew, loosed—
Crack.
Her arrow split mine in two.
The crowd erupted in awe.
I stood frozen, watching her with something between admiration and rivalry. I couldn't beat her—not as I was.
But I had planned ahead.
I raised my hand, signaling to a nearby Viking. He stepped forward, unveiling the cloth-draped object in his hands.
Gasps spread.
It was my bow—hand-forged, layered with rare blackroot elm, infused with runic enhancements. I'd prepared it days ago, just in case.
I grabbed the weapon, the weight familiar and reassuring in my hands.
The crowd held its breath.
I drew the arrow, focused, and fired.
The arrow screamed through the air, piercing Merida's arrow, splintering it and the target behind it—continuing into a tree well beyond the range.
It was embedded halfway through the trunk.
A stunned silence followed.
My father stood, speechless.
Then—applause. Deafening applause.
The queen rose, eyes wide but proud.
"We have a winner!" she declared.
Merida turned, eyes blazing.
"That's not fair!" she began. "I never agreed to—"
But the queen raised her hand.
"The rules were followed. Let this be done."
Merida's jaw tightened, but she said nothing more. She turned away, her shoulders tense—but her chin held high.
I exhaled slowly, the tension bleeding from my shoulders.