(is it too late?) I want the k.
19: Forceful Kiss
The party was in full swing by the time Hawke had arrived, and she smirked lightly as her eyes surveyed the crowd. But it was not the fat, loud and alcohol-filled nobles that had decorative swords attached to over-wide belts that she truly looked between. It was the well-armed and armoured guards that lined the room that she counted and took neurotic account of.
Then there was the princess, looking immensely bored (yet politely nodding and smiling, in the right places, a skill no doubt learned through years of appeasing the aristocracy) as she was spoken to by one such noble. Perhaps she was in need of rescuing, and it would come within a few short strides and a firm 'shoo!'.
The princess’ relief was obvious though they shared no other words than a polite and slow conversation to deter any further nobles from pestering Viktoria. Hawke had once been called intimidating, and she was more than pleased to learn it at the very least held enough truth to be useful. More pleased was she, that the princess had so visibly relaxed around her. Clearly, the young monarch trusted her.
It was this she relied on when chaos broke out. A servant running from a hallway screaming murder sent the nobles into a terrified shambles, each worried for their lives (as though theirs was important enough to be next). It was enough to justify the firm hand that hooked around Viktoria’s upper arm, dragging the princess off to a long corridor whose guards had abandoned their post upon the cry. It only took a few strides to be far from the noise and bustle, but the princess almost tripped to keep up nonetheless. It was undiginified, but the princess knew not to question; an assassin was on the loose.
Finally at the end of the corridor, Hawke halted. She had to, as there were as little doors here as there was candles. None. The small anteroom was bathed only in moonlight that poured from a single narrow window, just wide enough for a slim person to escape and with a grin, Hawke turned to the princess.
“My lady," she breathed, almost sagely.
And in a step, she had Viktoria pressed between herself and the wall and lips locked, but it was not the kiss that was most notable of the action. Life left Viktoria in a gasp just as the warmth of her blood began to pool the fine dress just below her ribcage. But Hawke could not afford to dally, and she stepped away swiftly, bloodied blade in hand and allowed the woman’s body to slump. Her form sunk into the darkness of a single doorway further up the corridor and she began her wait for those that might search up here for the would-be murderer the servant had warned of.
She could pin it on them, and she had no doubt she would get away with it. After all, this is a fairytale. And in the fairytales, the Champion never kills the Princess.
