Arabella’s Victory: A Tale of Courage and Love

The combatant fell, his armor clanging as he spiraled from his mount. His defeat echoed across the arena, leaving only one challenger standing—Arabella, her sword steady in her hand. The crowd roared, yet Arabella felt no triumph. Victory was not hers to savor; it was hers to earn, again and again.

Arabella had long resented the title of “champion.” She did not see herself as a knight. Knights were revered, lauded for their honor and bravery. Arabella, in contrast, had faced ridicule and scorn. As a girl, she was mocked for dreaming of wielding a sword, told the battlefield was no place for women. Even as she bested her opponents one by one, the murmurs followed her: Girls don’t belong here. She doesn’t deserve this.

But today, the murmurs had been drowned out by cheers. Her sword struck true, her final opponent crumbled, and the tournament was hers. Arabella removed her visor, her dark curls falling free as she dismounted. A single rose was offered by her fallen rival—a quiet acknowledgment of her skill. She accepted it with grace, but her heart was heavy with the knowledge that this was not the end of her trials.

At the edge of the field, the Prince watched her. Prince Cerran, heir to the throne, stood resplendent in his green velvet tunic, his golden circlet catching the sun. His gaze was not one of judgment but of admiration. As Arabella approached, he descended from his podium, meeting her at the barrier that separated royalty from the rest.

“I must commend your victory,” he said, his voice rich and warm. “Would you honor me by joining the feast tonight?”

Arabella hesitated, then replied, “I would be honored, Your Highness.”

That evening, Arabella wrestled with unfamiliar attire. Dresses were foreign to her, constricting and impractical. After much frustration, she chose a simple gown of soft velvet, its color a gentle summer rose. Her hair was swept into braids, a single rose tucked against her chest. She caught her reflection in the mirror—unsure if she looked like a warrior, a princess, or a stranger.

Before she could leave, hurried footsteps echoed down the hall. A servant appeared, his face pale with urgency. “My Lady, the Prince—”

“What’s happened?” Arabella asked, her hand instinctively reaching for the hidden blade beneath her gown.

“The feast has been postponed. The Prince has fallen into an unyielding sleep. The King has tried everything, but nothing can wake him.”

Arabella’s heart sank. “What do you mean, ‘nothing’?”

The servant lowered his voice. “The Prince was cursed as an infant by an enchantress who sought vengeance against the King. She declared that on the eve of his sixteenth birthday, he would prick his finger on a spindle and fall into a death-like sleep. Only true love’s kiss can break the spell.”

Arabella stared, disbelief mingling with dread. “You think I can save him?”

“Perhaps. The Prince admired you greatly. Some would say he was smitten. If there’s a chance to save him, it lies with you.”

Arabella’s resolve hardened. She did not believe in fate, but she believed in duty. “Take me to him.”

The castle tower loomed high against the night sky, its shadow stretching over the land. As Arabella ascended the spiral staircase, a guttural roar shook the walls. She reached the battlements to find her path blocked by a monstrous dragon. Its emerald scales gleamed in the moonlight, its eyes aflame with rage.

The beast unleashed a torrent of fire. Arabella raised her shield, the flames licking at its edges. She darted forward, her blade striking at its thick hide, but the dragon barely flinched. Arabella’s heart pounded. Knights fought with valor, with honor. She was no knight, bound by rules. She was a survivor, and she fought her way.

Evading the dragon’s fiery breath, she struck at its vulnerable underbelly. Her sword pierced true, and the beast let out a deafening roar, its massive body collapsing into the abyss below. Smoke filled the air, but Arabella did not pause. She raced toward the chamber at the tower’s summit.

Inside, Prince Cerran lay motionless, his face serene. Arabella knelt beside him, her trembling hand brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. She leaned down and kissed him, her lips barely touching his.

For a moment, nothing happened. Arabella’s chest tightened, and she began to rise. Then, a hand grasped hers.

“You have woken me,” Cerran whispered, his voice soft but steady.

Arabella looked at him, tears blurring her vision. “You are alive.”

Cerran smiled, his fingers tightening around hers. “You are the hero of this story, Arabella. You didn’t need me to save you—you saved me.”

And in that moment, Arabella realized she had never needed anyone’s approval. She was not just a champion; she was a warrior, a leader, and the truest knight of all.