It was always the same with her scars.

The perfumes and musks of the complacent offended Hurschelin, they attacked her nostrils and lightened her head. She was the last to enter the main hall, though this was nothing new to her, the important always lead. The frivolous faces, dishonest smiles and fabricated laughter combined to make a sickening scene: a den of snakes as ready to strangle as they were to mate with one another.

Hurschelin’s bust, generous as it was, never drew attention; any and all eyes that looked upon her would wander to the same point: the centre of the face. The scar that ran from the left side of her brow to the chin was one of many but it carried the most distinguished story, inscribed by her aunt. The Queen had had a little too much sherry and felt she needed to dole out a punishment to the girl who had made her little boy cry. She could’ve been a champion badminton player with wrist flicks like the ones she’d demonstrated that day.

The whispers came part and parcel with the occasion, Hurschelin had walked through the royal onyx doors enough times to know what to expect from the “family meetings”. Of the various talks, including dubious familial lineages and roles in the kingdom to corrupt, no talk of Hurtslein left mouth without an insult for company. For those less familiar with her personal exploits, the fact that Hurschelin wore no pretentious dress or garb to the gatherings, favouring instead her uniform, was cause enough for scrutiny. Her unbecoming attire never failed to incite ire and as time progressed and the faces changed, the uniform’s only difference was the number stars on the left shoulder. How hard it was to fit them all when so few were willing to help bear the weight of duty...

There was only one person Hurschelin needed to share a dialogue with before having no further commitment to surround herself with the arrogant masses. Unfortunately, auntie preferred the end of the hall, by the refreshments, a look at her gut would tell anyone what they needed to know. If sprinting in such high company didn’t carry the ramification of punishment, Hurschelin would have wasted no time dashing to the queen and slamming a tactics report onto whatever food she was gorging herself with. Having to walk amongst roses meant feeling their thorns, these ones were rotten.

Thus began the small talk, chit chat and riff-raff. Never straight to business with those in the cloud of luxury. The marble floor hurt her left knee and bowing one’s head so much took a toll on the neck.

“Your Majesty, a fantastic turnout that surpasses expectations for yet another tremendous gathering.”

It wasn’t a total lie.

“I hate this idle chatter as much as you do, Hurschelin. Present your report and then leave, I trust this arrangement suits you?”

No mincing of words this time. Hurschelin most likely had a hangover to thank for Her Majesty forgoing any friendly pretences.

“In accordance with your announcement to the public, myself and Lan-”

Auntie’s wrist was as capable as ever. Even if it was less painful now, the blinding quickness hadn't diminished over the years.

“Lanche and I”, or has my brother been feeling important enough that he thinks his little whore can speak my son’s name after hers. Perhaps words should be had with him?”

Avoiding the royal glare was no easy feat and even in Hurschelin’s years of adapting herself to it, sometimes there was just no escape. No deep breath or relaxation was to be had around Her Majesty. To be relaxed was to be weak and though she buried herself in the thicket of pompous cowards made soft by said relaxation, Auntie had no affiliation with the word “weak”.

“Lanche and I have been ruminating on ways to combat the Canaans. Standard procedure can be taken with the king’s army but the bulk of our calculations, strategies and other details fall on what to do about prince Setanta and his higher-ranking soldiers.”

The long sleeve that Hurschelin so often drew her weapon from instead gave way to a file of impressive girth. Hurschelin’s hands soon found relief from her work as the attentive royal assistant took it for his lady’s later inspection. Iaous Postamich, the perfect assistant, always so silent, always there for whatever baggage needed carrying. Hurschelin knew said baggage extended well beyond carrying intelligence but it was never a good idea to divulge the family’s secrets, not even to other family.

“If that is all…”

“It is. Get out of my sight and work hard to bring glory to your kingdom.”

“Yes, Your Majesty. Excuse me.”

Hurschelin could taste her breakfast. Almost past the Onyx doors, she locked her gaze with her elder cousin, Yuta Thiegham. His wrist had recovered from last year as it now rested on the hip of his unfortunate daughter, Milers. Though any attempt to feel sorry for the girl was offset by her disposition to put her crotch on anyone or anything that struck her fancy without any regards for the other party’s wishes, truly her father’s daughter. Hurschelin dreamed of one-day breaking Milers’ ever so thin and limp wrists but was content for the moment with the snap her father’s. And what a sweet sound it was, etched forever into the memory of a warrior responsible for innumerable broken bones.

The King was late.

The King was yet to be matched, unabated by normal limits that would stop one’s total descent into depravity. He was uncle in name only, his love though conditional was as genuine as Hurschelin could ask for. A victorious king is a loving king and so long as Hurchelin spilt enemy blood, the king’s loved spilt onto her. He ate the seeds of Hurschelin’s victories and thanked her for it. In the end, it was about all someone of Hurschelin’s ilk could hope for.