Arabella, the Warrior Who Defied Fate

The Champion No One Believed In

The crowd held its breath.

A knight fell from his horse, his body twisting midair before crashing to the ground. His opponent, still mounted and wielding a shining blade, turned to face the final challenger.

Arabella.

She hated being called a champion.

Not because she lacked skill or bravery, but because no one truly believed she belonged.

She was a girl—a warrior in a world of men, a knight who had fought not just battles, but centuries of prejudice.

The crowds in the tourney whispered, scoffed, and jeered. “A woman with a sword? How absurd.” The noble ladies, wrapped in silks and jewels, sang mocking songs of beauty and grace, taunting her at every banquet.

Yet here she stood. Their final hope.

The clash of steel filled the arena as she and her opponent circled each other like dancers in a deadly waltz. Arabella’s sword arced through the air, swift and powerful, finding its mark against her enemy’s breastplate.

With one final strike, the knight fell to his knees.

She had won.

Removing her visor, she dismounted to the cheers of the people. For the first time, she felt free.

A Royal Invitation

Arabella’s feet were not as steady off the battlefield, but she forced herself to move forward—to where Prince Cerran sat upon a gilded platform, his circlet of gold roses gleaming beneath the midday sun.

He was handsome, as the stories claimed. His velvet tunic of jade green, his eyes warm and deep, yet still filled with the boyish wonder of battle.

“I must congratulate you on your victory,” he called. “May I have the pleasure of escorting you to the feast this evening, Lady—”

“If it pleases you, my Lord, I am no Lady.”

The words had escaped before she could stop them. A woman of her status, one who had renounced her titles, should not interrupt a prince.

But Cerran only smiled.

“What do they call you, where you come from?”

Slowly, she removed her helmet. Cascading curls tumbled over her shoulders, framing her determined face.

“My name,” she said softly, “is Arabella, former Princess of Essolis.”

Prince Cerran rose from his throne, stepping forward until only a wooden fence separated them.

“Then I ask you, Arabella, former Princess of Essolis, if you would do me the honor of accompanying me to the feast in my father’s name this evening?”

She hesitated, then nodded. “I would be delighted, Prince—”

“—Cerran,” he finished for her.

“Very well, Prince Cerran.”

A Curse Unveiled

That evening, Arabella dressed for the feast.

She did not belong in silks of cobalt blue, nor in gowns of gold and emerald. The women of the kingdom cinched their waists into tight corsets, but a warrior could not be restricted.

Instead, she wore a gown of deep summer rose, velvet and unyielding, adorned with precious gemstones that felt heavy rather than delicate. She tucked the single rose given to her by a knight into the folds of her dress, over her heart.

Just as she turned to leave, urgent footsteps echoed behind her.

A breathless servant appeared, his robes ruffled, his flaxen hair disheveled.

“My Lady,” he gasped. “The Prince—”

“I am to accompany him to the feast,” she said, suddenly uneasy. Her hand inched toward the blade hidden beneath her skirts.

“No, my Lady,” the servant whispered. “The feast has been postponed. The Prince has fallen into an unyielding sleep. The King has tried everything, but—”

“You cannot wake him?”

The servant swallowed hard. “No, my Lady. And… there is something else you must know.”

Arabella stepped closer, her heartbeat quickening.

“The Prince was cursed as a babe,” the servant confided. “A vengeful enchantress swore that on the eve of his sixteenth birthday, he would prick his finger upon a spindle and fall into a death-like sleep—one that only true love’s kiss or the might of a true warrior could break.”

A cold chill settled in Arabella’s chest.

“You think I am his true love?” she whispered.

“Perhaps not,” the servant admitted. “But the Prince was… enchanted by your presence at the tourney. If there is any hope, it lies with you—the greatest warrior in all the kingdom.”

Arabella was afraid.

But she knew what she had to do.

The Dragon and the Warrior

Night fell as Arabella scaled the castle walls, making her way toward the tower where Prince Cerran lay sleeping.

The bridge trembled beneath her feet, suspended over an abyss so deep that it seemed to swallow the very light of the stars.

And then—

A scream like fire itself tore through the air.

She turned—only to see a great emerald beast, its obsidian scales glinting, its serpentine coils tightening around the battlements.

A dragon.

It charged, its molten breath turning the air to smoke and death.

She lifted her sword. Not as a knight. Not as a princess. But as a warrior who had forged her own path.

And when the beast lunged, she struck true.

The blade found its mark, piercing through the creature’s heart.

With a final, anguished roar, the dragon plummeted into the abyss below, consumed by the darkness from which it had come.

A Kiss That Woke More Than a Prince

With smoke still clinging to her skin, Arabella tore open the doors to the tower and raced inside.

Cerran lay peaceful and still, his golden curls spilling over the pillow of embroidered silk.

He looked so much younger, so much more human without his crown.

She knelt beside him, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead.

And then, with the quiet resolve of a warrior, she lowered her lips to his.

A soft, fleeting kiss.

She pulled away.

And waited.

For a breathless moment, nothing happened.

Then—a hand closed around her wrist.

“You do not need a prince to be the hero of your story, Arabella.”

She looked up, and Cerran was smiling at her.

“You are the true knight. You are the hero.“