A Cracked Jewel Outshines a Stone

The clouded gem doors loomed over her, drowning her in shadow. She paused for just a moment to collect herself—but not long enough a moment to let the meal cool—before raised her hand to the borderline. She thought she heard strange noises beyond, and wondered if they were the same ones that the rumors carried through the fortress.

She took in a breath and knocked twice.

Silence.

As if the empire had gone cold, she heard absolutely no noise anywhere. Whatever was on the other side of the door had ceased, and Ana couldn’t tell if it was her own doing. She didn’t need to feel her breast to know that she was on the verge of physical panic, and pain thundered through her organs during the agonizing wait, only ended when a soft voice called from beyond the door:

“Enter.”

She obliged.

The princess’s muscles rippled with each thrust, her skin reddened by bulging tissue below. Even as sweat built on her bare, scar-painted arms and filtered down through her gloves, her grip on her saber never wavered, and she danced with an invisible opponent. The glow from the wallglass, its excitement fading after long hours, glanced off her blade's visibly sharpened edge.

Strike.

Block.

Step.

Counter.

Each motion was routine and practiced, at a glance on par with the squires being raised to knighthood on the fortress grounds in the day. Ana stood quietly between the jamb and the budged door. She knew very little of sword sport—it wasn’t common compared to the magic arts in her country—but she allowed herself to respect the motions for a moment before she reminded herself exactly why she was here, damned her heart to let her forget.

Her footsteps were silent, and she forced herself from view as she veered around the princess and moved to place the tray by her unkempt bedside. She swerved beyond strewn stacks of books, a pedestal with a sight-stealing lawstone crown, and hundreds of trinkets, artworks, and carved crystal gifts lined neatly (never used) along the walls. A sharp tone held itself to her throat before she could reach the bedside.

Her demand was crystal-clear. “You will wait until I finish.”

And captive Ana was, her hands shifting beneath the tray of fine vegetable soup and marbled, mixed beef. This gave her first opportunity to truly see the princess, unburdened by a request.

Her brown skin was smooth where it wasn’t scarred over, unlike Ana’s own calloused and cut and illness-boiled. She stood quite short with broad shoulders, but her treated hair cascaded from her dueling mask to mark her beautiful femininity—Ana absentmindedly felt the knots and dirt her long strands were riddled with. Even the lowest of the Emperor’s kind lived like this, surrounded by jewels and silks and books and swords and served a delicious meal, while Ana slept hungry some nights after failing to protect her rations from her peers. The more and more she was forced to watch this woman, the fewer blemishes she saw, even with streaks across her skin remembering age-old burns. Like a gemstone, her impurities simply served to richen her color. By her own grade she was perfect. Ana had never been closer to a princess, nor closer to her true opinion of the royals that held her.

She despised them.

“Are you fascinated with me?” asked the princess.

Ana knew the risks in any answer, and kept her responses short and uncontestable. “Yes, Princess. You are an expert of your craft.”

“While I appreciate your—hyagh!—adoration, mind that I am hardly a master. Our knights are tutored by the Mallan Academy, but I am merely an independent learner.” She did not once slow down her routine, and struck the air between words, as if the servant she called for was not worth an iota of thought. Ana grit her teeth behind a porcelain smile as she lingered on her claim of ‘adoration’.

The princess reared up with her saber after disarming her foe and thrust it towards their throat. She held it. Ana wondered if she was merely holding the threat to complete the duel, or if she had chosen to pierce the enemy’s jugular and watch them bleed.

Only when she had finally sheathed her weapon did she say, “You may set my meal now.”

Ana went to work, desperate to leave and attend to other chores. Her shaking had magnified now that the Princess’s attention was no doubt on her every mistake. After setting the plates, she polished the cutlery with her handkerchief and laid each of the fifteen different utensils, painstakingly, at the nightstand. An excited fragstone hanging above the bed wafted pungent aroma in her face and she swallowed her disgust.

Behind her, the Princess had shed most of her padding and laid it by the door. In her periphery, Ana counted the unaccomplished tasks that the chamberlain left behind, for reasons that could only be the princess’s express order. She stepped back and kept her eyes narrow.

“Gracious,” said the princess. She sauntered by and lazily reclined on the bed without stripping her sporting garments. “Tidy up around. You would not mind, would you?”

Maybe she would, she didn’t say before she did as she was told.

There were lots of texts lying around, faces open with unreadable scratches. She gently marked their pages and stacked them in their rightful place, which was not a bookshelf but instead exactly how the princess preferred them, in a circular pile surrounding an exceedingly valuable wooden standing harp. Drawers were shut, curtains were drawn, and for a while Ana almost forgot that she was in a cold, crystal palace instead of tidying up after an off-market day with her family.

“You are one of those expatriates, are you not?” the sickening voice called from behind.

The correct term was war prisoner. “As you say, Princess.”

“Have you considered asking the Steward to assign you to the Eleventh?”

“Erm… may I ask what you mean, Princess?”

“Prince Chorus’s servants have handsome wages because of his… excessive tendencies. But you would certainly pass the certification. They prefer diligent workers.”

Ana’s sickened stomach flipped between churning flattery and humiliation. She heard the Princess rise from her bed. The woman had yet to even touch her ever-cooling meal. Ana tried to ignore the approaching footsteps, and went stiff when a pair of arms wrapped around her shoulders and the princess’s hands brushed her collar

“You have shown bravery to provide service to my Father. But, you musn’t be fond of him. Or myself, for that matter.”

“M-my Princess…!” She gasped at the firm touch and her mind swirled with consequences. What was right to say? What was safe? Was it an accusation, as if she were a saboteur? “M-my opinion doesn’t matter to my service.”

“Come now. Do you really believe I buy that?”

Her breath was hot on Ana’s ear, making her cheeks burn with embarrassment—a much larger dose of fear raced through her humors. How could such a spoiled child inspire her to be so afraid? This woman had to stand on her toes to even try this.

“I’m,” she swallowed her resentment, “I’m Yulinaean. Proud Yulinaean.”

“You must hate every day here. I bargain that you sold your soul to my father’s army to prevent your family from being… reused. How noble.”

She was missing details, but the princess struck her nerve with as much precision as her saber. Thousands of Yulinaeans had been captured, tortured, and operated on until there was nothing left of them but rage and magic. They said many had taken their own lives before the imperial army even arrived to escape that fate. Ana had been taken, and had somehow ended up deep in the heart of the imperial capital rather than returned to a battlefield as something else. It was the elses that ended the war and forced Yulinau to bow as a vassal state.

“Tell me the truth, girl,” she whispered.

“With all due respect, Princess,” Ana said slowly and softly, “I must finish my work.”

And the woman slipped away in agreement, freeing her to breathe even though she didn’t realize she hadn’t been. Ana tried to picture her own lived-in, cluttered home as she fixed every book and picture frame, though that figment had clouded over the years. She just needed to finish this service and then she could—

Snap.

Ana didn’t react. She was trained to wear a mask. But she knew extremely quickly that her life had come to an end when she turned around and saw the princess. In her hands were two separate pieces of opulent glow. Only one had a key lawstone, which itself supported a monumental crack that radiated from the edge that had been torn in half.

The seventeenth heir’s crown had snapped in two.

“Oh, my,” said the princess. “I believe you made a mess.”

A princess was never guilty; a servant was.

“Tell me the truth, girl,” she whispered.

Dianthel hadn’t focused one ounce on her sword practice. The instructor may have been furious at how sloppy her motions were, but her eyes weren’t forward for her to correct. From the moment that servant entered her quarters, her eyes hadn’t been anywhere else, and now she was so close that this girl was all she could imagine.

She was plainly impressed by the sheer length of her black hair, and the expert weaving she had done to transform it into a sash across her waist. What bangs remained at her head framed her unperturbed expression like the curtains of a play demanding the Princess watch.

Perhaps because of her height, her servant’s gown rode high, letting Dianthel's imagination run rabid. She anticipated the moment it flew just enough to see the first few, magnificent curves of her behind. And despite the failure of the tatters she’d let proliferate in her gown’s stitching, a grave sin in the eyes of the steward, Dianthel made prayer for the sinful glimpses of her skin caged by thread and fantasized her so bothered that she tore her own clothes into tatters in a desperate need to release heat.

Her corset also failed to fit. Even if it suffocated her, she didn’t let it show, but it silhouetted clearly the whorish body beneath. Any time she could’ve asked for a replacement—but she chose to be a tease.

Every movement, every action, every curt reply, she carried herself with such arrogant dignity. Logic dictated that a servant should keep her head down, yet she spent her time challenging her peers and the royals with such a haughty, revolutionary air. Just try to break me, she was saying. Only a conspiracy could explain why one of her brothers hadn’t poached her from the staff and started stripping away her little rebellions by fucking her into the bedding night after night.

With her attitude drawing the Princess's attention, there were countless details Dianthel had memorized. Each of her fingers was slender and tough. Moles and spots dotted her knuckles and wrists and neck and face. Her thin hairs were untrimmed, but it was hardly unexpected for a servant spending so much time in service. Dianthel’s fantasies fired again like an ardenstone furnace, of one of her hands roaming every soft curve of her body and the other tightening its grip in her locks to keep her exactly where she belonged. She wanted to drag the poor servant’s head between her thighs for worship, and tighten the strands until tears pooled in her eyes. It took everything in her power to keep her arms where she wanted them, gently holding the servant as they discussed something that was certainly important but already forgotten.

It was a momentary relief that her sport padding tucked away her womanhood, else the servant would know exactly what her schedule tonight would entail. She fought the urge to spoil the surprise and press her stiff cock to the servant’s lower back.

Goddess, Dianthel was in pain.

It was the pain of knowing one’s destiny was a windswept kite out of reach. It would be hers, all hers, and the only barrier was waiting for the right time. Dianthel merely needed to wait a measly few more moments before she could spread the girl's legs and feel the heat she was so desperate to put on display.

“With all due respect, Princess,” the servant said, “I must finish my work.”

She begged for service, rather than for the princess. Dianthel needed to teach her that they were one and the same.

She sauntered over to the cushioned pedestal and smiled sadly at her useless trinket if a crown. She almost hesitated, as Father’s lectures were a headache regardless of the item’s irrelevancy.

At least he might speak to her for once.

She gripped its firm shape in two hands, tightened her grip, and wrenched it in two. Its pieces clattered on the gem floor, and she said, “Oh, my. I believe you made a mess.”

Her reaction—Goddess, her every movement!—made Dianthel hold her cheek and bite her little finger. With wide eyes, she rushed over and collected fallen gems and scraps of near-excited magic, each apology firmer than the last while failing to hide her mounting panic.

“Princess! I will have it to the smiths the moment I leave. Um… if that is what you prefer.”

Dianthel nearly drew blood from her fingertip. “I don’t believe that would correct your mistake.”

“P-princess. Please allow me to—”

She was on the backstep, just like the chamberlain in fantasy. In a few short seconds she had habitually placed her back to the door to defend herself. A cornered dog.

Matching her pace, the princess planted herself in front of the servant and caressed the girl’s chin between her thumb and forefinger. Her head was brought low to meet royal eyes, despite how much she must have wanted to flee.

Those trembling lips sent sparks through Dianthel, powering her like those living lawstone machines. That erratic breath raised the soft hairs on her arms to attention.

Dianthel forsook every sight in the universe but her terrified face of beautiful disrespect.

They held there long enough that the woman said, “I-I will accept full responsibility for your crown, Princess.”

“For what?” she pressed, leaning into her ear.

“For repairing your—”

“No.” She swore she heard the servant’s heart rupture. “For what?”

“F-for… for breaking…”

“Yes. You broke my crown, did you not? You destroyed a precious heirloom of the empire. But why?”

“But I—” She cut herself off. There was still an undercurrent of defiance, which was what attracted Dianthel so. Then, her eyes pleaded, as if to ask, what can I say? What do you want me to say?

She could offer countless things the girl in her fantasies had screamed.

Dianthel tried to hold in her stalking thoughts longer to draw them out until the key moment, but they lashed out. An impulse shifted her hand from the girl's chin to her chest and slammed her against the crystal door. The servant’s knees buckled.

The princess argued against herself acting so… primal. But as she leaned in close to the woman’s sparking black eyes and soft cheeks and quivering lips and that  womanly aroma rising from her fear-pimpled skin, she decided she couldn’t wait any longer to claim what was hers.

“Servant girl.” What ripped from Dianthel's throat could only be called a growl. “How do you plan to make. This. Right?”

“Just— just—” The servant's pupils dilated. She finally realized the inevitable. She mouthed something through shallow breaths.

Their lips almost touching, Dianthel said, “Say that again.”

The girl pursed her lips and refused. Oh, by the heavens, she refused. The princess so rarely was dared to lift a finger and take.

“I command you to repeat that," she said.

"As you say," she muttered. Her servant looked away defiant until the very end. "Just do what you want."

Somehow that… enraged her. Dianthel felt herself burn somewhere inside at the failure to raise her white flag. Breaking this girl down became her one and only goal. She surged forward, damned was the gap between them, abandoning the restraints that had tied her, and struck the servant with a violent kiss.

No part of her was safe. Dianthel nipped at her lips and stole every breath she could have taken. She was guided by advice in her stories—were she doing it incorrectly she wouldn't know. All she knew is that this girl tasted of heaven and she couldn't let any of her escape. Her powdered lip color wore as she painted her partner’s face, taking a few cursory explorations across her chin and cheeks, before realizing she was tired of the surface-level. The servant kept her teeth clenched and her mouth sealed, and that wouldn’t do at all.

Her hands found shapely hips and jammed her in place to prevent her wobbling legs from collapsing. She rode the servant’s gown up her thighs so she could feel the heavenly give of her flesh. Her nails dug in, hard, allowing Dianthel to force her way past her guard with her tongue when she cried out in pain.

She still fought back. While Dianthel tried to reach further into her, her tongue layed down and guarded. The princess pulled away and planted her forehead against the woman’s.

“I will offer you an opportunity to stop this.” It was good manners, in her mother’s romances, to offer the chance to withdraw. "Just say so."

The servant took tight, racing gasps. “P-princess.”

She refused to refuse. That was all she did. Refuse! She slumped her shoulders against the doorway and panted for the air that she was denied, but made no move to escape her fate.

Dianthel’s entire being was aflame, and the wrought-iron hardness hidden by her sporting pads pleaded for its release. She attacked. Her neck was vulnerable, and the royal took an experimental step straight from the parchment pages: she bit down.

“P-rin… princess!” The servant's senses were thrown out of balance, according to the sudden shivers across her body.

Dianthel savored the addictive taste of skin and sweat. Her body was unabashedly womanly, sprayed with whatever scents a servant could find to make themselves presentable, with an unmistakable undertone of musk and lawstone dust and work. She wouldn’t deny it—this girl was dirty, in a literal sense. But, a bad royal she would make if she were to judge her servants on the chores they were told to perform. She left multiple marks along the girl’s neck and collar, almost reaching her shoulder until pesky cloth blocked her path.

She pulled back again. “The gown. Be rid of it.”

Though the servant's face twisted, there was no other resistance before she began untying her hair sash, unbuckling her corset, and pulling the gown over her head. This girl knew exactly how to worm her way under Dianthel’s skin without even saying anything!

All that remained after the servant fulfilled the request were cloth shorts and a simple wrap around her light breasts in place of a proper brassiere. She softly held her arms across her stomach. Dianthel noted the well-toned muscles that had hidden under the large gown, as well as her finely-developed abdomen. Either she had exercised herself well throughout her service, or she had formerly been occupied in something far more strenuous in her home country. Mining, perhaps?