She was young, barely seventeen, with fair hair and bright blue eyes. And yet, she emanated a sort of power, as if she were far older than her appearance let on. It intimidated those courageous enough to try and talk to her, contest her role on the throne, and scared off all the others. She had no name, that they knew of at least, thought most had begun to call her The Queen, or Majesty. She was a mystery, and many had tried to find out who she was and from where, but those few had never been heard if again, their names disappearing into the long list of murder victims.
The room went quiet as she walked in and sat down on the big throne, her armour shining in the torch light, her sword leaned against the side of her seat. Many healed their breath, not daring to make sound in her presence for fear of being heard by her.
"Anyone trying to steal the spot?" She asked, cocking her head to one side, amusement showing in her eyes.
This happened once a year. She would sit there, on her throne in the hall, while many murderers came to see if anyone would contest the throne. Some years there were candidates, but she quickly scared them off with one of her glares and a threatening smile.
This time, like every other time this happened, everyone grew still, looking around to see if there was someone, anyone, trying. A voice sounded from the back of the huge room.
Her sky blue eyes darted towards the sound.
It was a young man, perhaps twenty, that had spoken. The entire assembly cringed when they saw him. She was hundreds of years old, despite what her appearance let you think, and he didn't stand a chance. The poor, foolish, boy.
He walked forwards, the people around moving to clear a path towards the front.
His stride was confident. Dressed from head to tow in what seemed to be black leather, he looked like a soldier. Too bad that was not enough to have a chance at bearing the long time Queen.
She smirked, getting up from the throne with inhuman grace. If not for the long sword in her hands, she could have been an angel. Her hair, a pale hue of blond, hung loose just past her shoulders, framing her face attractively. Her armour, made entirely of metal and gemstones, shone, the same dangerous glint reflected in her eyes.
The man, however, did not flinch like the other in the hall when she laughed, the sound bell like and evil and the same time.
"Tell me, what is your name?" She said, a smile curving her lips upwards. The attendance shivered.
"Antonin. Antonin Castell." He replied, not a trace of emotion of his face.
"Antonin. Such a nice name." Her face looked almost wistful, and then the expression changed just as fast as it had appeared. "It's a shame that your going to die tonight. You and your name both."
The Challenger, this Antonin, still betrayed no emotion, his face a blank canvas, his posture relaxed. He wasn't even holding a weapon!
The Queen held her sword, the tip pointing at the man.
He attacked first, moving so fast he was nothing but a blur of black flying across the space between the two opponents.
She ducked, her body twisting so that he jumped over her, the tip of her blade grazing his thigh.
He landed on her other side, turning around so that he was facing her again. His pants were torn on the left keg, the one the blade had come in contact with, ripped all the way down to the ankle. There was a small cut to his thigh, blood welling up and dripping down his leg. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he took out two small object from the sleeve of his shirt and threw them at The Queen. Once again avoiding them, she laughed.
"You silly, silly boy. I will give you a choice, so listen carefully. You can give up, surrender, and I will let you leave with your life. Or you could continue, and die a painful death. It is up to you."
Antonin opened his mouth to give his answer.
"Never. I will never surrender to scum like yourself."