The girl Mara had fought two nights ago—slight, sharp-eyed, and carrying herself with the polite arrogance of someone born inside walls taller than most people's dreams—leaned against the outer rail of Outpost Vester's barracks.
Her name was Ellarine, though everyone who knew her called her Ella of Crownhold.
She waited with her arms folded, boot tapping lightly against the wooden planks.
Behind her, three soldiers in polished, dark-green uniforms filed in—Crownhold troops, each carrying the same lazy, self-sure posture.
When they reached her, one of them—a narrow-faced youth with cropped silver hair—grinned.
"You're all good," he said. "Didn't think you would be, after that little scuffle with the Grim Hollow girl."
Ella scoffed. "It wasn't a scuffle. She caught me off guard."
"Caught you?" The second Crownhold soldier laughed under his breath. "Ella, you're a mid-tier fledgling. Those Grim Hollow folk tend to collapse if you glare too hard."
