Flashback
The dukes daughter
The clang of wood striking wood echoed across the training yard, sharp against the morning air. Lyra perched on the edge of the fence, her legs swinging, eyes wide as she followed every movement of the knights-in-training.
Her father, General Grey, stood in the center of the yard, arms folded across his broad chest. His presence alone commanded the discipline of the men before him. His gaze missed nothing—every flawed stance, every weak wrist, every inch of hesitation. Lyra never left his side if she could help it. If her father strode through camp, she trotted at his heels. If he inspected the armory, she peeked into the racks, memorizing the shapes of swords, axes, and spears. And when he trained his soldiers, she lingered by the yard, mimicking their swings with a stick she had found beneath the trees.
"Lyra."
His voice cut through her concentration like a blade. She froze, the stick halfway through a sloppy downward cut. Slowly, she looked up, expecting his frown. Instead, he was watching her with that familiar sharpness in his eyes—the look that measured whether she was wasting her time.
"If you must watch," General Grey said, striding over with heavy steps, "then you might as well learn."
Her small mouth parted, both nervous and thrilled. He pulled the stick from her hand, adjusted her grip, then returned it. His own massive hand closed over hers, guiding the motion.
"Feet wide. Balance low. No wild swinging," he said, his voice calm but firm. "A sword is not a toy, even when it's wood."
Lyra nodded fiercely, her braid bouncing. She tried again, slower this time, careful the way he showed her. He watched, silent. When she finished the clumsy arc, she looked up at him for approval.
He gave a single nod. It was more than enough.
The other trainees had noticed her now. Some smirked, some whispered, but none dared laugh aloud in the General's presence. Only one did—a tall girl with broad shoulders and a confident smirk.
Gessa.
Already nearly grown at sixteen, she was the strongest among the new recruits. Her swings were crisp, her footwork steady, her pride taller than her stance. She was the kind of student General Grey both scolded and praised, knowing her talent was real but her arrogance greater.
She leaned on her practice blade, grinning at Lyra. "Careful, little one. If you keep practicing like that, you might even beat me someday."
Lyra flushed, her grip tightening on the stick. "I will."
Gessa laughed and ruffled her hair like an older sister might. "Spirited as always. You'll be a knight yet, if you don't fall over first."
The yard chuckled quietly, the tension easing. Even General Grey's lips twitched as though suppressing a smile. Lyra stuck out her tongue at Gessa but said no more. For all her teasing, Gessa had never been cruel—not to her.
The rhythm of the yard was broken when a carriage rolled to a stop just beyond the gates. Fine, polished wood. The crest of the Duke.
The soldiers stiffened, and even General Grey straightened to attention. The Duke stepped out, his robes tailored and severe, his expression carved from stone. Beside him was a girl who did not belong among blades and sweat.
Vivian.
She looked like she had stepped into a world of polite society, her posture elegant but fragile. Her face was pretty, framed by dark hair tied neatly back, her eyes soft yet sharp with thought. She wore no armor—only a plain tunic and trousers, as if the garments themselves disapproved of being on her.
The Duke's gaze swept the yard before landing on General Grey. His voice carried authority without warmth.
"General. I bring you my daughter."
The trainee shifted. Some frowned, some smirked, and Gessa outright raised a brow.
"She is weak," the Duke continued, unflinching. "But perhaps training will be good for her soul. Put a sword in her hand. The discipline will do her well. And if she quits—and she will—it will be of her own doing."
Vivian did not flinch, though her pale hands clenched slightly at her sides. She stood tall, chin raised, though her frame seemed ready to buckle under the weight of her father's words.
General Grey said nothing at first. His eyes, hard as flint, flicked from the Duke to the girl. Slowly, he nodded. "As you command."
The Duke turned to leave another word, his cloak snappwithouting in the breeze as he returned to his carriage. Vivian was left behind, a single delicate figure in a yard of steel.
It was Gessa who made the first move. The sixteen-year-old prodigy strode over, her hands on her hips, a smirk playing on her lips. Her face was a mask of arrogant superiority.
"What are you doing here?" she said, her voice sharp with disdain. "This is a training ground, not a library. Why don't you go read a book and attend some parties instead?"
When Vivian offered no response, Gessa's smirk grew. She circled the girl slowly, her eyes running over Vivian's elegant figure with a mix of mockery and curiosity.
"She looks more like a scholar than a knight," Gessa continued, her tone dismissive. "Tell me, Duke's daughter, will you faint when you pick up a sword?"
Vivian's gaze shifted to her, cool as glass. "No. Will you faint when you lose to me?"
The yard erupted in laughter. Even General Grey allowed himself a rare grunt of approval at the quickness of her tongue.
Vivian turned then, not to Gessa, not to the soldiers, but to Lyra. She knelt so their eyes met—frail and elegant beside a child clutching a stick.
"Are you the General's daughter?" she asked softly.
Lyra nodded. "I'm practicing my swing."
Vivian smiled, and though it was small, it was warm in a way that made Lyra's chest flutter. "Then we'll practice together." Her gaze flicked up to Gessa, her tone playful but cutting. "We'll beat her one day."
Gessa snorted, hiding her smirk, but there was a flicker in her eyes. For the first time, she did not laugh at Vivian.
Lyra, gripping her stick with all the seriousness of a soldier, nodded fiercely. "We will."
And so it began.
What the Duke intended as punishment, what the General expected as a fleeting attempt, and what Gessa mocked as futility—was instead the spark of something none of them could yet name.
The frail scholar with a fire in her eyes.
The strong knight with pride in her heart.
The child who watched them both, determined to learn.
That was the day the yard changed.