The Maid of the Cursed Princess

Two souls, forged in disparate crucibles – one born to lowliness, the other to nobility. 

One who had never known possession, the other who had lost all. 

One who willingly donned the collar of servitude, the other upon whom it was forcibly clasped. 

And now, in this moment of reckoning, one destined to deal death, the other to receive it.

Clang—!!! Screech!!

The clash of their weapons – blade against wire – rent the air with a cacophony of metallic screams, a discordant symphony that set teeth on edge. 

Clang!! Clang!!

Like master swordsmen locked in mortal combat, Dorothy and Ruslan exchanged blows with dizzying speed and precision. Ruslan’s dagger lashed out with lupine ferocity, only to be ensnared by Dorothy’s entrapping wires, then striking again, seeking purchase between those gossamer strands.

For neither constituted members of the nobility. This was no duel of honor fought for lofty ideals. They were assassins, cold-blooded killers who followed orders without question or conscience. 

Their battle was a fluid dance of death, each movement both offensive and defensive, aimed not for mere victory, but for utter annihilation of the other.

Swish—

As before, it was Ruslan who drew first blood, though this time it was but a glancing blow across Dorothy’s cheek. 

Yet even this minor wound sent a ripple of unease through him.

Clang!!

Their weapons, worn by repeated clashes, began to show signs of fatigue. Both Dorothy’s wire and Ruslan’s dagger began to wear and dull against each other’s unexpectedly sturdy weapons.

Dorothy’s wire would likely fail first, but Ruslan’s limited supply of daggers put him at a disadvantage in a prolonged engagement. Realizing this, he launched a desperate gambit.

He couldn’t match her in quantity. No matter how many wires he cut, in the end, he would be the one left without a weapon.

Ruslan realized this fact. Then what should he do? Should he just stand by and watch until his claws are completely worn down?

Whoosh—

With a swift motion, Ruslan retrieved a throwing dagger from his bosom, targeting Dorothy’s vital points. He momentarily retreated, regaining his composure, then surged forward with renewed vigor. Dorothy’s web of wires expanded outward, a protective lattice, while Ruslan aimed for its vulnerable center.

Ting—!

A musical ting, like the snapping of a violin string, heralded the wire’s failure. Ruslan’s dagger, poised to pierce Dorothy’s heart, found its mark – or so he thought.

“Caught you.”

Dorothy whispered, as wires from all directions ensnared Ruslan’s right arm and left leg.

“—!”

Blood flowed freely from his limbs, now reduced to tattered flesh. Had he not altered his trajectory at the last instant, his very bones would have shattered.

Ruslan, panting heavily, surveyed Dorothy. Two blood-stained daggers gleamed in her grip, testament to her cunning strategy. She had blocked one dagger aimed at her head, deliberately leaving openings elsewhere to lure him in, then sprung her trap.

“This is tougher than I thought.”

She blocked three daggers. Especially the one aimed at her head was completely broken.

“Perhaps it’s because I was so thoroughly ravaged in our last encounter.”

But the other two, aiming for her left arm and right leg, Dorothy didn’t block. She deliberately pretended to block, luring Ruslan in, and then moved her wires to catch him.

Only then did Ruslan comprehend the wellspring of his unease. For the Arachne he had once known fought with a different methodology entirely.

In their previous encounter, before her transformation, Arachne had cornered Ruslan with true arachnid precision, never yielding an opening, constricting her prey with methodical ruthlessness.

She had eschewed even the slightest disadvantage, refusing to bear even a minor wound. True, their prior bout had left her bloodied, but that was solely due to Ruslan’s desperate contortions to exploit the tiniest of weaknesses, not through any flaw in her technique.

Now, however, she acted in ways the former Arachne would have scorned. 

She deliberately left daggers unblocked, risking injury to her extremities to create openings against Ruslan. 

Her former self would have parried every blow, nay, she would have negated the very angles from which Ruslan could launch his assaults. For is not the spider a patient predator, one that strikes only after its prey has exhausted itself in futile struggle?

Of course, in their recent confrontation, Dorothy had fought with uncharacteristic aggression, but that had been with the Princess, her ward, in close proximity. Now, with Sibylla absent, such recklessness seemed incongruous with her usual modus operandi.

What remained was a war of attrition, a gruesome contest to see who would exsanguinate or collapse from exhaustion first. 

Any observer would remark that even beasts fought with more restraint, for most creatures instinctively prioritize self-preservation over the destruction of their opponent.

The two combatants, locked in their frenzied dance, painted Hyperion’s drab canvas with splashes of crimson, like some macabre artist’s fever dream. 

Neither the spreading flames nor the cacophony of battle could divert their singular focus from each other.

“Haa… haa…”

“…Cough.”

Only when their spilled blood formed small lakes at their feet did they pause, if but for a moment.

“…You’ve changed, Arachne.”

“That observation ill suits you. When did you become so talkative?”

Ruslan perceived the shift in his nemesis, who had once driven him to death’s door. 

Gone was the façade of polite speech, replaced by a stark honesty. 

Had she shed some great burden, or attained a higher understanding?

That attitude was similar to what he had seen when she was Arachne before, yet somehow different.

“Was it the Princess, then – the one solely responsible for your changes?”

In Ruslan’s mind, only one person could have such a transformative effect on her: Princess Sibylla. 

Surely, only she could alter Arachne, who had regarded humans with the same indifference as pebbles on the roadside.

“Is that woman truly so extraordinary?”

Though he had encountered Sibylla a few times, Ruslan had never sensed anything particularly remarkable about her. He felt she wasn’t an ordinary person, but thought that was due to her background or the influence of the curse eating away her entire body.

Yet if even that modicum of uniqueness had been enough to change Arachne…

“…The ‘Arachne’ you once knew exists no more.”

The Arachne Ruslan had known was a mirror of himself.

A being devoid of free will, a puppet dancing to its master’s tune. That was the Dorothy he had known, and in knowing her, he had known himself.

“…What?”

But on that rain-soaked forest path, Ruslan had glimpsed a spark of something in Dorothy’s once-vacant eyes. 

Something that neither a slave like himself nor a puppet like Dorothy should possess.

“…If that Princess, your master, has changed you…”

If only…

If only he too had found a master like that Princess—

“Cease this foolish speculation.”

Dorothy snapped, her words lashing out to sever Ruslan’s train of thought.

“What is it you truly covet?”

Loyalty? Or perhaps… love?

“It is my master.”

In that moment, Ruslan realized that something fundamental had shifted.

“My one true master.”

The nature of Dorothy’s devotion, once born of blind obedience, had transformed into something far more profound – a choice, freely made and fiercely defended.