The usually hard-packed earth of the training grounds had become a mess of clinging black sludge. Whipping through the buildings, the breeze carried both the bite of the last dregs of winter and the sour stink of smoke. Remnants of snow lay scattered among the deepest of the building’s shadows, resembling piles of ash. Spread across the area was a small crowd of village children in pairs, shouting and swatting at each other with practice swords. This wasn’t a game. They were training to fight. Most of the youngsters worked with enthusiasm, hacking and slashing at one another with grins on their faces. One girl stood apart from the rest, holding a practice sword as far from herself as possible. Her glare burned into the cracked wooden surface.
Toward the center of the yard, an adult stood watching everything. His head swept back and forth, with eyes narrowed almost to slits. The crutch he used to keep himself upright, sunk into the mud when he pivoted. Scars ran across his nose and the backs of his hands, and the left leg of his trousers hung empty below his knee.
“Kayden! Keep your guard up if you don’t want more bruises! Geni, your balance is off! Move your feet farther apart! Put more strength into your blows, Shepherd!”
The instructor’s gaze landed on the girl who wasn’t fighting like the others.
“I don’t see you practicing, Lady Fiora!” he thumped over to the girl, his face stiff. “You may be the daughter of the Count, but that doesn’t make you exempt from the training. Is the child of a battle mage afraid of a few bruises?”
Fiora focused on the toes of her cracked leather boots, trying to ignore the taunting sound of the instructor’s voice. A hush fell over the training grounds. The racket vanished in an instant. She refused to raise her head, sure they would all be watching when she looked up. Her fingers tightened around the practice blade, but she didn’t answer him.
The instructor exhaled through his nose, then glanced toward the students watching them.
“Kyle, come here. You can be Lady Fiora’s partner for a session. Show me how much you’ve improved, and I mean both of you.” He met Fiora’s eyes before giving them space to move.
A tall boy, lean and awkward, trotted out of the crowd toward Fiora. His grin was pleasant, at least. He bowed first toward the instructor and then in Fiora’s direction. With a wink, he set his feet and braced himself for the fight. Fiora allowed her blade to hang against her leg and restrained herself from rolling her eyes at Kyle.
“Begin.”
At the instructor’s signal, Kyle launched himself toward Fiora. His blade held high above his head, still with that grin pasted on his face. Did he think she was stupid? His openings were far too obvious. A quick strike to his chest, stomach, or legs would have taken him down in an instant. Instead, Fiora ducked down and rolled to the side. The length of her arm and shoulder became heavy and damp. The cold seeped through her thick shirt. She was back on her feet a moment later, and half-turned. Where was Kyle?
The boy remained in the exact spot she had just vacated. His wooden sword lodged in the ground, where he was attempting to get it loose. It emerged covered in black droplets of mud.
The smile Kyle had worn before this had vanished. With a steady pace, he stalked toward Fiora. His boots squelched when he moved, but he kept his body turned to face his opponent. Carefully, Fiora kept the same distance between the two of them. His defensive position had improved. He held his weapon in a diagonal line, protecting his body.
Fiora breathed in and triggered her inner sight. The world turned hazy for a moment. Threads of light flickered, then appeared beneath the surface of Kyle’s skin. The threads wove a pattern inside his body, each one a different color. The threads inside Kyle tended toward shades of brown and yellow.
A spark of light ignited, then flickered down the length of one thread. It clung to the left side of the thread that represented his right arm. An attack low and to the left. Instead of defending herself or dodging, she thrust her blade forward into the path of his strike. CRACK! Fiora released the blade as soon as she felt the pressure of the two weapons connecting, and her sword sailed half across the yard. Kyle spun with the momentum of his attack and stumbled, his eyes widening when the resistance he expected wasn’t there.
Not allowing him the chance to attack again, Fiora backed up and threw her hands in the air. Once disarmed, she had officially lost the match. The rules were clear on that point.
The instructor grumbled something incomprehensible before raising his voice. “Kyle wins the match. You did very well, boy. Go back to practicing. Lady Fiora, since you don’t intend to fight properly, I’ll have you run laps instead. Get going. Don’t stop until I tell you to.”
After she’d walked off a few paces, the instructor added in a low voice from behind her back.
“At least you’ll be able to run away rather than get yourself killed.”
Fiora ignored his comment and jogged to the border of the training grounds. The yard had a small track running around its perimeter. There she started running, her boots sinking into the mud with every step. Soon her thigh muscles were burning from the effort of having to tug her feet free, but it didn’t matter. She’d rather be here than sparring.
The sound of horns blared through the air, and Fiora, trying to stop, stumbled to her knees. The other students and the instructor turned toward the gates, mirroring her own instinctive movement. That tone. A long, low note rising to a higher note. Then it repeated, followed by three short bursts. Only one person warranted that signal. Count Silas Elrifa had finally returned. Why was he back so early? Wasn’t he still supposed to be fighting for another couple of months?
The instructor’s voice shouted from where he remained with the others. “Might as well go ahead. That steward of yours will expect you to return to greet your father.”
The instructor was correct in assuming that Reynard would expect to see her. However, her father rarely spoke to her. Even when he was home, he only watched her and said nothing. Fiora avoided him as often as possible. She started toward home as slowly as she could go. Low-hanging gray clouds passed overhead. However, at the speed they were going, they would be gone soon. Fiora tilted her head back and urged them on.
After returning to the castle, Fiora stood in the shadows of the gate. Before her, the grounds were in complete chaos. One young maid carried a heaping pile of towels. The girl seemed about fourteen, two years past Fiora’s own age of twelve. A male servant, face buried in wrinkles, stood a few feet in front of the maid. The servant was struggling with a large box. He stood still to shift the box higher, just as the young maid ran into him. Towels and the box both fell to the ground.
While the maid scampered around collecting towels, a small mark on her left wrist peeked from her sleeve as she was reaching out. So, she was one of the girls who got married young to dodge being sent to war. Being pregnant or a mother meant that you could avoid the draft when you reached the age of maturity. Everyone had to fight at that age unless they were one of the few exceptions.
Fiora hesitated while this was going on. They didn’t have enough people working at the castle to handle everything that needed to be done, but they would never accept her help. It would be best if she could slip into her room unnoticed. Quick as she could, she ducked into the shadows of the wall and made her way around the castle to her room. A note from Steward Reynard was already waiting on her table. She picked up the note with a sigh and scanned the writing. Reynard’s handwriting was easy to read and had an elegant slope, unlike her own jagged print.
According to the note, her father had insisted on a meeting with her in his study. Apparently, Silas had important news for his only daughter. The message suggested cleaning up beforehand, at least. Fiora let out an exasperated breath and headed to the washroom. After washing herself and changing out of her training gear into something more comfortable, Fiora made her way to the terrace garden.
A wide variety of pots adorned the terrace. Before winter started, she had brought the plants that couldn’t survive the cold inside the building. Despite their stems being duller than they had been to begin with, the plants were still alive. She would need to bring them outside again soon when the weather warmed more. The pots still outside held the withered and brown remains of flowers that had once been vibrant and colorful. These plants now showed tiny green shoots emerging from their roots.
The village, in her opinion, needed more color and life. Adding flowers, like her own, would brighten things up. The only plants they had were patches of mold and an abundance of weeds. Everything else was stone, soot, and garbage.
Her mind wandered, but she continued to take care of the plants. These flowers had been her mother’s treasure when she was alive. Now they belonged to Fiora. The terrace and the room where she kept the plants were off-limits to the general castle staff. Fiora insisted on taking care of them herself, just as her mother had done. Well, sometimes Reynard helped, but only sometimes. She stuck her finger into the soil in each pot, checking for moisture. If the soil felt too dry, she’d add a splash of water from the pitcher she held. While she was working, the door creaked open behind her, but she didn’t stop working.
“Did you not look at the message I left for you, miss?”
The voice was a familiar one. Reynard was standing upright in the doorway, his posture rigid. He held his gloved hands clasped in front of him. His uniform looked perfect; the whites never seemed to get dirty, no matter what he did. The long fall of his coal-black hair he tied in a tight grip around his head, then into a braid that hung in a straight line down his back. The expression he wore showed nothing of his feelings.
“It is time to see your father. He has asked to speak to you specifically.”
“Why me?” Fiora asked.
Reynard’s face twitched at her question. A slight upturn at the corner of his mouth showed for a moment, then faded back into his usual expression.
“I’m afraid he has not seen fit to inform me.”
“Do I have to go?”
Reynard leveled a glare in her direction. Having raised her since her mother’s death, the steward often gave her this look when she went out of line. If she continued to complain, he would lock her out of the garden. She couldn’t allow that.
Fiora set down her pitcher and followed Reynard. Her feet dragged across the stone floor, making faint hissing noises as she dawdled. The heavy, dark wood of her father’s study door made her stop moving. Her father was waiting behind that door. Did she have to go? Reynard continued forward and opened the study door. He bowed and gestured for her to enter the room first. Before moving, she brushed at the water stains on her skirt. A few moments longer wouldn’t hurt.
The room her father used as a study was rather small. Despite its size, it had shelves on every wall. They held many items, most of which were books. They also had a few magic tools, maps, and personal memorabilia as well. Many of the books were on biology and other less popular subjects. Reynard had only mentioned once that mages required knowledge. The more they knew, the better they could use their magic.
Her father, Silas himself, had fallen into the large chair behind the desk. The light from the window above his head cast a faint haze over his hunched figure. His smoky gray gaze remained fixed on the cluttered desk surface. Even when they entered, he didn’t lift his head. The rough bristles on his chin made it seem like he hadn’t shaved at all in a few days, and his hair was a mess of tangles and coated with grease. The heavy scent of sweat and mud clung to him, as did the smell of leather, horse, and smoke.
When the Count spoke, his mouth opened only the smallest amount. His voice came out rough and heavy.
“Close the door.”
Reynard complied without hesitation. Fiora moved over so that the steward could stand between her and her father. The shelves dug into her side, but she refused to get any closer. She kept her head down and watched her father around Reynard’s back.
A few minutes passed before Silas said anything else. His facial muscles were taut, and one hand gripped the edge of the desk, holding tight. When he finally spoke again, his voice had a strained quality to it.
“Pack your things; we leave tomorrow. Don’t tell anyone. Reynard, can you get everything ready?”
What? Did he say they were leaving? Where would they go? Would it be a quick trip or a longer one? Would they even be able to return? She tried to ask; her mouth opened, but nothing came out. Reynard bowed his head before responding.
“If I may speak, my Lord?”
Silas nodded; he still hadn’t lifted his eyes.
“It would be helpful to know where you are taking Miss Fiora and how long you’ll be away. I cannot plan appropriately without such information.”
Finally, her father glanced up. His gaze grazed past Fiora before landing on the steward. He managed only a fleeting glance before he averted his eyes again. His jaw worked, and the tendons in his neck tightened.
“I don’t know… where. Not… not yet. But we won’t… won’t be coming back. Never.”
Fiora found her voice. One word made it through the tangle in her head. “Why?”
A wince crossed her father’s face. For a moment his entire body seemed to clench before he surged to his feet, knocking the chair back against the wall. Then his palm slammed hard onto the top of the desk. He hadn’t used his magic to strengthen himself, yet the heavy desk shook. A small crack appeared where his fist struck. The piles of paper collapsed, scattering in all directions. A cup rattled and fell over, dyeing the surrounding papers a dark reddish-brown. Then a small picture of Fiora’s mother fell to the floor with a loud crack; its delicate wooden frame splitting in half.
The loud sound made Fiora stiffen. Her father had never lost his temper around her before. Silas’s face went pale, his expression sagging before he turned his back. What was happening?
Reynard rushed forward and began cleaning the mess. He kept glancing at Silas and then back at Fiora, while he picked up the papers from the floor. His hand hovered over the broken portrait before he looked up at Fiora.
“Miss, I believe it would be better for you to leave right now. Your father said you should pack your things; please do so. I will be with you as soon as possible.”
Of course, Reynard would send her away, but she couldn’t leave yet. He just told her they had to go, nothing else. It just wasn’t enough. Before Reynard could say anything more, she stepped forward to talk to her father.
“I don’t understand. Why do we have to leave? Are you leaving my mother again?”
A visible shudder ran through Silas. The sound of his breathing increased. He still wouldn’t look at her or talk to her directly. What was his problem? She opened her mouth again, but Reynard stood up. He pushed her toward the door, hands firm but not rough.
“I apologize, Miss. Please allow me to speak with your father. I promise I will inform you of the situation later.”
Forced into the hall, a heavy thud sounded from behind her. The door had been closed. Fiora bit the tip of her thumb and stared ahead of her. Her thumb didn’t bleed, but her teeth left deep red marks in the skin. Although it hurt a bit, it helped her to regain her composure. The questions she hadn’t been able to ask piled up.
The lump in her throat didn’t vanish when she swallowed, but her mind started working again. Reynard meant well, but he wouldn’t tell her everything. There had been many times he’d kept things from her before. Like when her maid had vanished. Later, she discovered that the woman had been stealing. Didn’t he realize she needed to know that? Although she was young, she was no longer a child. Fiora needed to find out for herself. A thought occurred to her, and she turned to run down the hall.