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imprisonmentedited by David Steffen
You were not meant for the sword. I felt your sweating palms every time you gripped my hilt. I wobbled in the air between your hand and my targets: a sign of a shaky hold. You were the only child—a girl child at that—your father sired before he died protecting Princess Mea’s father. Before all else, you were the last living leaf of the retaining family that swore to protect the royal line. Although you were not made for the blade, you valued duty above all else—something that was hammered in early and often enough.
You and Princess Mea were born on the same day, you with a full head of inky black hair from the first moment. Her—I won’t bother with physical descriptors because they do not matter. Mea was born with an unshatterable glass box trapping her. None of you knew why. Nature was inscrutable in certain ways; all her family could do was rear her in spite of the cage. The width of it was twice the length of her wingspan, and as she grew, the box expanded proportionally. When she reached up above her head, her fingers barely grazed the top of the box, where there was a slit where liquids and food– shredded meats, thin sliced breads, apples peeled into ribbons–were slipped in for her sustenance. Nothing exited from there, for whatever quirk of nature created the box also vanished all within that burdened her.
The opening’s true function, though, was for a single blade to pass through. The court prophesier predicted: a swordsman will come, he will be Mea’s true love, and only his blade thrust into the slit will open the box and free her.
And so Princess Mea made eyes at boys her whole life. She would press her nose up against the glass of her cubic prison and watch them.
Yes, at the age of ten you kneeled and swore your life to her. You announced to an entire court of witnesses that lives have inherent levels of worth and yours was less than hers. She cannot be allowed to die; you were meant to die. Yes, at the age of nineteen you faced your first assassination attempt, when your father died protecting the king’s life. You did not die protecting Princess Mea. You killed. I tasted blood for the first time through your victim’s chest cavity. It was warm, slimy. When life left the body, the burdensome weight slumped on to me. I slid out easily, which is hard to believe, because I was shaking like a leaf clinging desperately to its mother branch.
You would say you didn’t cry that night, but from the dark corner of your room where I was thrown, I heard sobbing. Steel hears everything.
You did not tell Princess Mea. You did not want to worry her naive, sweet heart. There was goodness in the world and it was in her. You told her no one came anywhere near her chambers, even though the assassins had. She was a heavy sleeper who dreamed of princes and knights.
You killed another living being for a girl, and what did you have to show for it?
The first suitor was ten years older than her. You wondered what topics they could even talk about, but Mea rambled on and on about him. He had a white horse, waist-length black hair, and a gleaming blade swinging from his hip. He penned a love letter and slid it into the box’s opening. Mea swooned. You gripped my hilt hard enough that I now know what being choked must feel like.
The second flew into the kingdom on a winged dragon that glistened like rubies. Everyone stared at the beast because draconic animals did not reside in the kingdom, but even as Mea watched it fly from behind the double glass panes of her box and the window of her chamber, she had eyes only for the man who rode it. A broadsword was strapped against his back.
They came one after the other, but they all eventually left. Our kingdom’s power was waning and no man wanted to marry into a failing state. Each one that left was a heartbreak for Princess Mea. She found fault within herself—within the wretched glass box—and salvation within the next suitor.
You loathed seeing the princess weep over wretched, useless, uncaring creatures, but you absolutely preened when she leaned against you while she cried, a glass wall between you two. Her tears fell uncaptured. You knew the right things to say to make her feel better. You knew her better than any suitor did or ever will. A marriage was nothing compared to what you had with her.
What if I can free you? you asked, brandishing me.
Mea laughed as she always did at your words. She thought you were the funniest person in the world. You’re not a swordsman.
A hard grip. A swordsman. A colloquialism that only exists because so few women carry steel.
You’re not a man.
That’s the second half of the word. The important part is the first.
She laughed again and changed the topic. That night, you entered her room and heaved yourself up onto the box. You looked down on her sleeping on bedding she’d knitted from strands of yarn that had been slipped into the slit.
Even though you tried to be quiet, you couldn’t help but slam your palm into my pommel, sending my blade through the opening. Your palms were sweating, your forehead was hot, and your breathing fogged up the glass. I pierced through the air right above her face, my point floating inches from her nose.
And nothing happened. She didn’t rouse. The box didn’t dissolve. It didn’t unfold like a flower. You unsheathed me from the box and later, when you were in your chambers, you hurled me into the corner.
You thought back on this night often. You thought about it during Mea’s marriage ceremony to some minor lord of some minor province. You thought about it when he stabbed his unpolished, unweathered, rusty knife into her glass cage and it shattered into a shower of shards. You thought about it when you saw that the first skin she ever touched was his. You thought about what of you wasn’t enough.
You became captain of the guard and inarguably the most proficient sword wielder in the kingdom. But that didn’t matter, did it? The box didn’t care much for the best, did it? In all these years, you never replaced me because somewhere in you, you knew that it had nothing to do with swords.
© 2026 by Vivian M. Liu
1108 words
Vivian M. Liu is a New Jersey based writer of fantasy and science-fiction. When she isn’t writing, she’s talking about books for a living, delighting her neighbors with her saxophone playing, and thinking about deep sea creatures. You can find her at her website https://vivianmliu.com or on Bluesky at @vivianmliu.
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