Honor and Deception (Traveler & Spark)

[Spark]

“I’m proud of you, son.”

Victor Ravenholt, second born son of the speaker, offered only the slightest smile as he performed a short bow in response. The moment should have been monumental: it should have meant something, the accolade a cherished memory of a hallmark achievement. Instead, the son felt only a sickening dread he actively fought not to make visible to his present audience.

“It is quite the feat,” the older male continued, allowing another moment of pause to linger as he basked in the glory of his pride. His gaze cast briefly at a parchment held in his right hand, the broken seal of Falls Keep Academy still identifiable upon the scroll. “To receive an invitation to squire training in the capital; they send out only half a dozen or less every year,” Lord Edgar Ravenholt marveled. He rolled the scroll upon itself, dropping the document to his side as he took a pair of steps towards his son. Placing an open hand upon Victor’s shoulder, his smile shifted into a grin. “Who would have thought a man like me would be so honored as to father a knight?”

Victor forced a smile through the underlying despair. He had no misgivings towards his father: the man had always performed his role and duties concerning his offspring, fostering a deep and meaningful bond with each of his three children. “You give yourself too little credit,” Victor spoke genuinely.

“First time I’ve been accused of that,” his father responded with a laugh. It was true, the man was of the boastful sort, a charismatic adventurer that had spent his youth exploring the continent and completing odd jobs (which he referred to as “quests” in his stories and songs) for over a decade. It was for these exact exploits that he had earned an ill regard from his relatives: he abandoned his responsibilities to his family at the age of eighteen, declaring himself a bard and going off to do…whatever he did. His parents and siblings hadn’t taken an interest in hearing his songs after his return. Though they graciously allowed his homecoming, even facilitated his settling with an assigned lordship over a small territory of House Ravenholt, the fact remained that Edgar had destroyed all credibility – not to mention the love lost. “We will celebrate this evening,” the father spoke with enthusiasm. “If you don’t mind… I’d like to announce the news to the family.”

“Oh, uh… of course,” Victor struggled to find the words as he tried his damnedest to feign happiness. Catching the awkwardness of it, he followed with a flashed grin of pure bravado. “So long as you’re not going to sing,” he distracted.

“Oh! Of course I’m going to sing~” his father returned, his words floating from his lips with a musical cadence. “It’s a special occasion, I think I’ll even bring the lute to the dinner hall!”

At least, despite the terribleness of the situation, Victor was able to give a genuine laugh in response. “I look forward to your performance. I’ll…leave you to writing verses, then.”

It was the perfect out. He was thankful for the chance to excuse himself without it being perceived as running away. …Because that was precisely what he was doing. As he turned on his heel to leave, Victor felt a fast-rising return of dread welling within. As he emerged from the great hall, he headed directly in search of his sister. Their estate was not large, by the standards of nobility, and so within minutes he was knocking at her chambers.

The inward swing of a heavy oak door revealed a reflection of the man, to every detail apart from his sex. Both of them had inherited platinum blonde hair from their elven mother, their cascading locks an almost absolute absence of color. With tresses that compared to a shimmering white pearl in the light of the sun, it took less than a glance to announce their difference to those around them; the suspicion only supported by their short-pointed ears. The half-elf twins’ bright cerulean eyes met as Victor wordlessly insisted on being invited in.

Verona Ravenholt obliged. Taking a step back, she widened the gap of her door as she stepped away from the threshold. The siblings were close, of course, and so his sudden appearance hadn’t been any cause for concern or formality.

Victor entered the room unceremoniously, waiting for his sister to shut the door before beginning their conversation. “You’ve ruined me,” he spoke as he turned towards her. His claim was anguished but the delivery was devoid of resentment or anger.

“…How?” his sister asked reluctantly.

“The tourneys, Verona.”

The young woman’s full lips couldn’t help but curl upwards slightly. The memories – the victories – at the tourneys had been gratifying, after all. It was difficult not to be so fond of their mention. “I don’t understand how winning tournaments could ruin your life,” she countered in a prideful sort of amusement. “What, has father made an arrangement for you? You can’t blame me for whatever great house he’s bartering your hand.”

“I was invited to Falls Keep Academy!” Victor burst.

Verona burst, as well, though in a less sympathetic fashion than her brother had hoped. The half-elf girl practically squealed with excitement, balling her hands into fists as she raised them towards her chest. “You—Gods, Victor, I’m so happy!”

“Why are you happy?” he returned accusingly. “You didn’t get invited.”

“Well…true. But my skill got you invited!”

“I think you are failing to grasp the problem here,” he spoke soberly.

Verona relaxed her pose. “Well…but…you’ll do fine. You’re not the worst swordsman.”

“I don’t want to train to become a squire,” he remarked definitively. “Much less am I interested in pursuing knighthood.”

Verona would have countered that she didn’t want to get married, her engagement to Lord Wil Rowen fresh on her mind. It seemed unfair to compare her woes to his at the moment; particularly considering that she was directly responsible for the unfortunate situation to which Victor was now subject. “…I…didn’t think about that,” she confessed apologetically. “I’m sorry. I didn’t expect that anything would come of…”

“…I know.” He sighed regretfully. “But then I can’t make you burden the blame entirely, can I?”

“Well. You were the one that first suggested I attend sword training in your stead.” Verona had started taking Victor’s sword lessons three years earlier, having yet to be found out, thanks to the two of them being indistinguishably different to the human eye. They were both of an androgynous build, inheriting the lithe and graceful body type of their mother. The matching features of their faces, from the delicate jawline and high cheek bones to the fullness of their lips: style one’s hair a certain way, don the gender appropriate attire, add powders and colorful embellishments upon the face of whomever was “Verona” that day… It had been remarkably easy for each to mimic their sibling’s pitch and mannerisms and so once such charades started, it quickly escalated in frequency and duration. Victor wasn’t particularly fond of dressing like a girl but it allowed him the freedom to indulge in cerebral pursuits rather than swinging around steel. Verona took on the burden of physical training, excelled at it, and was so enamored with the practice that she quickly began registering for tournaments.

“It’s true,” Victor conceded easily. He took steps further in to his sister’s chamber, carrying himself towards a small table and a pair of chairs. Seating himself, he appeared exhausted from the prospect of his future. “…I’m not going to go,” he decided at length.

Verona stared at her brother in silence for several moments. Despite all their likeness, the two were starkly different people. Perhaps they did not seem so to the humans that surrounded them: their subtle expressions and general aloofness left very few to truly know them. The young woman withheld her reply as she moved to join her brother at the table, sitting across from him. “I would despair to see this opportunity go to waste,” she selfishly admitted.

“I’m not going to subject myself to marital training and blind obedience simply because you find the notion of knighthood romantic,” he countered.

“You shouldn’t have to,” his sister sympathized. “But…one does not refuse an invitation to the academy.”

“Hm.” Victor looked thoughtful for several moments. Then, suddenly, he spoke conclusively: “I’m going to run away.”

“…That’s not—”

“Not what you’d do,” Victor finished for her. “But… Neither of us really belongs here.”

“Yes, we do, this is our home.”

“Of the two of us, I’m admittedly less well suited to the realms of humanity, but… Verona, you only desire human acceptance out of spite.”

A gracefully defined dark eyebrow rose. “Oh?” she crossed her arms over her modestly endowed chest as she slipped one leg over the other, her body language reading to her brother quite easily as defiant and defensive.

“I’m going to be blunt,” Victor dared to continue. “You place entirely too much stock on proving people wrong. It wasn’t until you were told that you weren’t allowed to wield a blade that you became so intensely interested in training. To prove that you, indeed, could.”

Verona couldn’t deny the charge. She didn’t verbally argue, but nor did she relax her position.

“I know that you burden father’s honor upon yourself, and you think that we should be a means of his redemption—”

“It is not his redemption of which I am concerned,” Verona cut in coldly. “You’ve seen the way they look at us. As if we are less than—”

“You don’t have to fight this battle,” her brother took his turn interrupting.

“I want to,” she countered.

Victor sighed. It was a hopeless cause, he knew. Still, he persisted. “I’m sincere when I say that I’m leaving. And…you should come with me.”

Verona stared at her brother incredulously. “…You would abandon us?” she asked, preemptively hurt. “…Just like mother.”

Victor’s jaw clenched. His bright eyes flickered with anger but he repressed an outburst. “Just like mother,” he repeated in a tone far less venomous than his sister had offered. “She didn’t belong here any more than we do.”

Her brother’s subdued response allowed her a moment of reflection to collect her emotions. “I understand,” she conceded at length. “…You’re probably better off seeking yourself elsewhere. I am not blind to your suffering, I know that you long to learn magic and connect with your other roots. I won’t hold it against you but…I won’t follow you, Victor. I belong here, even if you don’t.”

“So you’ll marry some lecherous old man to gain House Ravenholt political favor?” her brother asked pointedly.

“…Well. You’re leaving, correct?”

Victor stared at her for several silent moments. He knew his sister well enough that she needn’t elaborate any further for him to know where she was going with this. “…You’d rather stay here…as me,” he sounded dumbfounded, despite that he’d directly enabled this sort of behavior in the past.

“I want to go to the academy.”

“It’s going to be miserable,” he spoke as if he knew anything about it. “You don’t owe father, his family, or…anyone…anything. It is not your burden to prove the potential of your race or your gender…”

“It gives me purpose,” Verona admitted casually.

He hadn’t expected such a response. Who was he to tell his sister what she needed to do with her life in order to experience personal fulfillment? She was willing to so easily accept his need to abandon his titles and human connections – he couldn’t rightly fault her that she dug her heels to force her acceptance among those she considered her own. …She’d have to do so through a series of falsehoods, of course, but, maybe…someday… “Just how long do you intend to borrow my identity?”

His sister shrugged. “…A decade?” she guessed. “Maybe longer?”

“I will travel under an alternate name,” he promised. “Though when I return home, I’m not going to dress up as you.”

“Of course,” Verona agreed. “I imagine our family reunion will be quite the surprise for father.”

“You…don’t intend to tell him of the arrangement?” Victor looked surprised.

“No.” If she felt any guilt she did not show it. “I will pen a letter claiming that I’ve run away in order to prevent my marriage to the lecherous old man,” she recalled her brother’s earlier words with an amused smile. “I don’t imagine the offense will be of any surprise to the family… In any case, they won’t care much about me and what I’ve done once they can attach themselves to you and your accomplishments.”

“You know…half of these people will be dead by the time you become a knight, right?” Victor teased. The short life spans of their human side had long ago become a joke, perhaps as a morbid coping mechanism. “That’ll show ‘em.”

“You’re such a jerk,” his sister returned affectionately. “…When are you leaving again?”

They spent the remainder of their time before dinner discussing the finer details of their plan. Verona was expected to travel to the home of her husband-to-be in the mid-spring, to be married within weeks of her arrival. Instead, she decided to leave her infamous letter to her father the eve of the spring equinox. With the letter came her brother’s departure.

A season later, Verona would take her own leave. She’d do so under the name Victor Ravenholt, a guise she'd successfully taken on full time in his absence, her destination Castle Cliff.

 

[Traveler]

The Kingdom of Aarenthol had not always enjoyed the peace it now possessed. Centuries of hard-fought battles with the kingdoms of orcs and goblins, dwarves and elves, had forced the men and women of the human kingdom to harden under intense pressure until they emerged as diamonds in the rough. And after that, decades upon decades of wind-whipped battles to secure their borders had polished them into the people that they now were.

They were not always afforded peaceful lives, but they had learned their lesson. To secure peace is to prepare for war. Continually.

Each year the realms were scoured by advisors who carefully scrutinized noble boys as they grew to become young men. The advisors gleaned for stories of heroism, of talent, and of potential. Eventually the screenings took on the forms of tournaments to test for skill and strength. The champions of these competitions were vetted for nomination into the Falls Keep Academy at Castle Cliff, the seat of the kingdom. Many were never invited; their deeds off the tourney fields disqualifying them from consideration. Of those who were selected, nearly half failed the first year’s trials and training. Passing into the second year was not a guarantee of eventual knighthood, as only a handful more were selected to apprentice to an available knight of the realm and bear the title of ‘Squire’. And even then, many remained squires for years and even decades, never performing an act that would deem them worthy of elevation to knighthood.

Such were the things that filled young boys’ dreams.

Last year’s class had been promising. Eight young men had begun their journey, a large number for any class, but one that seemed to hold the highest promise of success than any other in the last twenty years. Longer than any man standing on the field or seated above, in the Palaestra Coliseum could remember, but not so long ago that Sir Haldavar Neumenstrati did not. Of all the people witnessing the progression to Squire today, he had seen the most.

He stood beside King Frederick Olmstein with the other Knights of Choosing in the shelter of the covered dais, and observed the ceremony from afar. Sir Haldavar, the lone elven knight in the human kingdom, stood out among those around him; not only for his smaller stature and lithe build, but because he still wore the exquisitely fashioned armor of his people. Metal so dark it was almost black, edged in intricate silver designs that bled upwards into the long, onyx locks wafting in the breeze. His hair caught the blue of the sky and the brilliant red of the awnings, reflecting them back to the eye with each shimmering movement. The sides were shorn short, and the rest gathered behind with a wicked tie that ended in spikes, conveniently fitted for his fingers. His face was more beautiful than handsome, and had it not been for the scowl simmering beneath strong brows, one might have thought him an angelic woman in armor. He was anything but angelic.

Although Haldavar had served the kings of Aarenthol for nearly forty years, he had never adopted their ways. He elected instead to remain what he was; an elven prince serving a human kingdom for one life lost and another saved. A living treaty of peace. For as long as he served the humans, they would no longer wage their brutal campaigns against the Eladrin.

His storm grey eyes scanned the fields, picking out the two who would advance with the clarity that only a High Elf could see. Just two out of eight – not a promising crop for the human kingdom he served. But last year’s harvest of candidates had produced young men who may have been skilled enough to eventually be called a knight, but were morally unsuited for the honor. Sir Haldavar had refused to select from those available, despite King Frederick Olmstein’s insistence that the lads were all worthy. Haldavar had argued against the selection of one of the youth now receiving squire hood, but the knight who had selected him, Sir Leon Martin, believed he could change the nature of the beast.

‘Such arrogance in the short-lived.’ His eyes narrowed as the winds picked up and the sounds coming from the field amplified themselves into the dais.

“To Sir Leon Martin, champion of the king, we present Squire Andrew Silverman of Asterhelm!” The Knight Commander, Sir Edward Briarvale, held up a silver chain, from which a pendent hung; the symbol of a squire of Falls Keep Academy. The crowds cheered and waved banners as the young man strutted forward and kneeled to accept his honor. His blond, short hair and wideset shoulders made him look like a hero to the young women watching. One in particular, sitting to her father’s left, drew in a quick, shuddering breath of admiration that was not lost on the elven knight behind the throne.

Princess Catherine’s heart-shaped face and ruby lips had gained her favor among many suitors. She, because of the peace in the land, had been granted the privilege of having a say in who she would marry. A say, but not the final say. Her wavy hair was held down by a woven circlet of gold that tastefully matched the crowns her father and younger brother wore. Prince William would be joining this year’s class as a first-year contestant. None doubted he would do well.

Down on the field the Knight Commander raised his hand to award the second and final spot. He again held a silver-chained pendant and walked about in a wide circle to give the people a chance to gawk. “And our second acolyte squire, to Sir Barney Feldhem, we present Squire Blaine Kernigston of Rivervale!” Cheers again rose, though not as exuberant, as the second candidate walked forward, his smile wide and his eyes something akin to fear and excitement. His wavy brown hair and strong jaw had made him a favorite among many of the young women, but he had been overshadowed by the charming charisma of Andrew. As young Blaine knelt and accepted his chain, Sir Haldavar chanced to glance at the king’s daughter and saw that her enthusiasm had waned as well. She had no place in her world for a lad who had looked past her charms and saw the hidden heart within.

‘It’s just as well,’ thought the knight. ‘Women could not be relied upon to make wise decisions, especially human ones.”

It was time for King Frederick’s royal blessing. Trumpets blew a short call to arms for attention. the King and his family slowly stood, and he moved forward to place his hands on the rail. The crowds quickly fell silent and all eyes turned to the royal family. They made a dignified sight; the king, tall and stately, just over fifty years old and still hale, his dark hair barely showing the highlights of age. To his right stood his son William, who also inherited the dark curls of his father, and who would be on the field in a year’s time to also receive his promotion to the position of squire. To the king’s left, his daughter; her pale skin contrasting dramatically with the dark waves that cascaded across her shoulders to spill onto the deep blue of her velveteen gown. Absent was their mother who was late into her pregnancy and had been confined to bed rest. The appearance of a child so late in life was a rare blessing and all said it would precede a time of prosperity for the kingdom.

“Fellow Aerentholians, noblemen and women and peasants alike, I bid you all good will!” Cheers rose at the king’s words. “Please, celebrate with us the coming weeks of solstice as we welcome these new Squires to our ranks and wish them all good fortune in the years to come!” He raised a hand and waved to the adoring throngs, his cape falling dramatically off his shoulder as he did so and the sun flashing magnificently off his crown. He looked more a god than a man. “Open the gates!” He called, and three gates to the fields were opened, signifying the beginning of the celebration that would last through the week and into the days surrounding the Summer Solstice.

As the fields flooded with peasants and nobility alike, rushing forward to pat the new squires on the shoulder and wish them congratulations, the King and his family slowly turned to leave. He nodded at the four knights who had shared the dais with them as he left with his personal contingent of guards.

Sir Haldavar inclined his head as the king passed, then waited for the other three knights to precede him. They were also there to train and chose their own squires this year. No doubt they would find someone in the ranks who suited them enough to promote. But for the elven knight, this would be his third pass through the first-year candidates in a row, having denied a choice the previous two years. He would rather select none than choose hastily. As his eyes flitted back to the field and picked out Sir Leon and his newly selected squire, he once again thought that the knight thought too highly of his ability to curb the evil heart Haldavar had sensed in Andrew. But…he was not a human, and perhaps, after all these years among them, he should allow them to wallow in their own decisions, no matter the consequences.

Tonight, the festivities would truly begin. The courtyard that laid adjacent to the grand parkway between the Axe Gate and Browall Keep, where the royal family resided, would be filled with the carnival. Performers of all types would display their skills and the market near the gate would spill out to flood every open niche to entice festival-goes to part with their coins. Unlike the Winter Solstice, which was solemn and beautifully lit at night, reminding Haldavar of the fireflies of his homeland, the summertime festivals celebrated the flesh. Hedonistic dancers writhed to the deep drumbeats of the southern continent, exotically scarred and tattooed performers swallowed fire and swords to the delight of the city folk, and magicians of all alignment awed the crowds with their feats of mystery. And in the midst of this all, the next year’s recruits would trickle in. Some were already present, he was sure, taking in the delights of Castle Cliff in their last few days of relative freedom before subjecting themselves to the rigor of the year ahead.

The four Knights of Choosing filed out of the Palaestra Coliseum, following the royal entourage across the lower bailey and through the portcullis that led to the center of the city. At this point the king’s carriage moved eastward towards Browell Keep, and the knights continued to Falls Keep, where they would ready themselves for the recruits’ arrival. As they walked, Sir Haldavar studied his fellow knights.

At the fore strode Sir Charles Brighton, a son of the North, and known for his diplomacy and perfectionism. His grooming matched his preferences; every short, dark hair on his head perfect, his tight goatee trimmed to exacting standards. He had graduated top of his class nearly twenty years ago and had risen quickly to knighthood soon thereafter. At his side, and easily pacing the taller man, walked Sir Tristan Beodin. Although the elven knight had only met him on brief occasions at the castle, the found the man to be intolerable. Perhaps it was because the stench of abuse and anger seemed to linger around the lean, hard man’s eyes. Perhaps it was the rumor’s of his dealings with women, or the fact that Haldavar had witnessed him kick an errant dog on the castle grounds, but his position as a knight was an insult to those who deserved the title.

Flanking Haldavar was a knight he did know well. Sir Thomas Garret had been selected by him nearly thirty years ago. The man was easily the senior of the others (not counting Haldavar) at 46 years old. His gruff countenance made him appear more a farmer than a knight, but he had the heart of a leader, and that was why had had been chosen so long ago. He glanced now at his former teacher, trying to gage the man’s thoughts.

“Third time’s a charm?” he asked.

Haldavar eyed him as they walked. “That, young Thomas, indicates that you believe luck is a factor.”

“Isn’t it? You picked me when others did not want to allow an illegitimate into the academy. That was a bought of good fortune, I’d say.”

A soft chuckle accompanied their steps as they passed through Dawn’s Gate into Falls Keep. “That, Thomas, is called merit. Not fortune. You know all humans are the same to me, regardless of rank.” He quietly added as they caught up to the others gathered about the Knight Commander.

Sir Edward acknowledged their arrival and continued his discussion. “One week, gentlemen. During this time we’ll run through the schedule each day, ensure we all know our roles, and prepare for the next class. If the recruits think that their lives are chained to this task, know that yours will be double; responsible not just for yourselves but for the wards of Falls Academy. Think of it as a battle fought before the war’s begun. The men we train today may be the ones who save our kingdom tomorrow. If we train them poorly then we will get what we deserve, come the time to call to arms.”

He gestured to his left, where other permanent cadre stood in the shade. Among them was Sir Hubert Lawrence, expert at hand-to-hand combat, Sir Jonathan Monroe, knight turned monk, who was their expert swordsman, Sir Robert Chase, the longbowman, and Duncan, their horse master.

“These men are the backbone of the school and will conduct the core classes. Your tasks will be to augment their instructions. Never override them. And, of course, to observe. We’ll meet regularly to assess the student’s progress and discuss any issues that arises.”

“If there are no other questions…” Sir Edward scanned the faces of the four Knights of Choosing before him, “then we’ll see you tonight. Enjoy the festivities.”

 

[Spark]

Arriving in Castle Cliff the day before the squire ceremony would commence at the Palaestra Coliseum, Verona approached the capital city from the north and gained admittance through Axe Gate. The lone rider warranted only a few curious glances from the guards, who had perhaps only seen a handful of the masqueraded woman’s race prior to her appearance. Dressed in boiled leather armor (commonly chosen for long travels due to its comfort compared to mail or plate) and astride a healthy silver horse whose saddle and tack displayed the crest of House Ravenholt, the visitor of the city would be allowed through the gate without question or confrontation.

Weary from travel, Verona nevertheless found the corners of her lips curving upwards as her sapphire eyes soaked in the sight of the city. It had been a long journey from the Ravenholt territory of Sunvale, the distance travelled requiring a week and a half upon horseback. Even so, the woman could not help but marvel at the immaculate beauty of the Sanctor’s Grace, even as the granite cobbled expanse was busier than the previous occasions on which she had witnessed the grandeur. The serene space had been transformed as merchants and performers prepared for the summer festival; bustling about as they built merchant stalls and temporary stages, people of varying origins hauling goods and materials by the cart and armloads.

Her gaze could not help but to drift over the crowds and clamor, her sight focusing upon Browall Keep in the distance. Her chest swelled as she imagined His Majesty, envisioning the honor of earning a place among his knights.

Verona’s current business, however, would tear her attention away from such lofty idolizations, her mind quickly finding its way back to her arrival to dos. A gentle pull of the reins and the press of a knee instructed her mount to take a sharp right turn from the main walkway, leading the both of them in to Highhill. The half-elf’s smile wilted immediately, the district of the highborn inspiring little love within her. In her twenty-one years of life, she’d visited the city of Castlecliff a dozen times, each trip featuring some moment (or several moments) of pain or humiliation, all of which took place in this very district. The wounds no longer inspired trepidation, as they had in her youth, they merely reminded her that despite her title and bloodline that she’d find no support here.

Familiar with her surroundings, the woman guided her horse towards the Gilded Rose Stables. It was the best in the city, insofar as those with stalls available for rent: excluding royal, military, and private establishments, of course. Dismounting her silver stallion with a graceful and seemingly effortless motion, a hand slipped along the leather of the reins and maintained a loose grip. Upon passing the threshold of the widely opened barn-style doors, Verona immediately found a stable hand at the approach.

He was a young human, likely in his early teenage years. From his unremarkable, work-soiled dress and unruly mop of chestnut hair, it was easily guessed that he was common birth. His brown eyes struggled to remain on his customer, his interest clearly drawn towards the marvelous mount at Verona’s side. “At your service, my…” the boy forced his attention back to the rider, hastily making a guess of the half-elf’s gender as he offered a clumsy bow. “…Lord?” He winced as he uttered the final word, no doubt concerned that he caused some offense. Whether or not he had guessed right, the uncertainty in his voice was undeniable, just as painfully evident as the pause that preceded it.

Verona offered a small forgiving smile in response. She had removed all jewelry, wore her long hair back in a simple low tie, and had bound her chest beneath her boiled leather armor; she remained somewhat feminine in appearance, still, but no more so than her twin brother. “Victor Ravenholt,” she introduced herself with a short and informal bow. “I’m seeking to rent a stall.”

“O-of course,” the stable hand stammered in response. In truth, he remained mortified, despite the seeming friendliness of his customer. He couldn’t say he’d been the recipient of a noble’s bow before and the boy worried that such a show was contemptuous mockery rather than genuine courtesy. If this Ravenholt were to tell the stable master that he’d caused offense…

“I believe we’ll require the rental for a week,” Verona continued, speaking an octave lower than her natural voice, her pitch yet remaining slightly higher than what most humans would consider masculine. “Though I’m uncertain of the exact duration. Is that going to cause an issue?”

The boy shook his head. “No, no! We’re happy to accommodate whatever your needs may be."

“Excellent.” Verona studied the young man for a moment, clearly aware of the tension her presence caused him. “May I ask your name?”

So the noble man was intending to bring his offense to the stable master’s attention. “…Miles,” he admitted reluctantly.

“Miles,” Verona repeated, committing the name to memory. After a thoughtful pause, she made proper introductions. “Miles, this is Nash.” The half-elf turned her attention to her horse, reaching a hand upwards to pat the mount gently upon his neck. “Nash, this is Miles,” she motioned with a hand, as if the horse might understand that she was indicating the young man before them. “He’s going to be taking care of you for a few days.”

Perhaps by coincidence, the horse gave a grumbling neigh, swaying his head in a manner that jerked upon the reins in Verona’s hand.

The half-elf frowned theatrically. “I know it has been a long trip, and you’re tired and hungry, but that’s no excuse to be rude.”

Miles stared at the pair in a combination of confusion and disbelief.

“I’m sorry, Miles.” Verona’s gaze returned to the stable hand. “If you could show us to Nash’s stall and fetch some oats, I think he’ll regain his manners once he’s comfortable.”

The boy simply nodded a led the pair to an available stall. He took his leave, then, returning after several minutes with a bucket of oats. He was surprised to find that Victor had hefted the saddle and removed the blanket from his horse’s back, and was currently in the process of freeing Nash from his bitless bridle. He opened his mouth to speak, to protest the customer performing his job, but any utterance faltered as he unintentionally eavesdropped on the half-elf and his horse.

“Better, Nasherton?” Verona asked in a sing-song fashion.

Nash whinnied, his head bobbing as if in agreement.

“Good. We’ll get you fed, and brushed, and then you need to get some much-deserved rest.”

The horse made no auditable response to this, merely turning his head to watch as the woman moved to the place the halter in a neat pile with the blanket and saddle.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she spoke gently. “You’ll be fine. …I’m sorry that I must find my lodgings elsewhere but I will be back tomorrow. I promise.” Verona approached and gave the horse a reassuring pet on the nose.

Miles cleared his throat.

“Oh! Miles is back,” Verona’s spoke excitedly. In truth, her expressions were far less subtle in the presence of animals versus human company, as if there was some benefit to showing emotions to beasts small and large alike. “And he brought your favorite!”

The stable boy entered the stall, lifting the bucket of oats towards the half-elf as he watched Nash. Generally speaking, the customer would not be expected to be involved in feeding their horse while it was in the care of the Gilded Rose Stables, but Miles understood – and accepted – that Victor was a completely unusual type of customer. “Would you like a feeding bag?”

“No, but thank you,” Verona spoke appreciatively as she took the bucket of oats. Scooping a handful, she offered Nash the snack from her palm.

Miles watched as the silver stallion dipped its nose towards the man’s hand, carefully taking the entirety of the offered oats with a single bite. It seemed that Nash was accustomed to being hand fed, Miles noted, as the horse used his lips rather than his teeth to gather the morsels. “I will…fill the hay trough?” the stable hand offered in a questioning fashion.

“That would be wonderful. Could you also fetch brushes and a hoof pick?”

Miles nodded.

Once the hay trough had been filled and the stable boy returned with the requested items, Victor tasked him with brushing Nash while the nobleman seated himself upon a stool and set to work cleaning the horse’s hooves. The stallion lifted his foot when the half-elf placed a hand upon his ankle, moving to rest his leg upon Victor’s thigh. The groom work was quiet for several moments before Miles felt comfortable – or perhaps bold – enough to ask make conversation.

“I’ve never had the pleasure of caring for a Ravenholt horse before,” he remarked reverently.

Sunvale was an agricultural territory. While the descendants of House Ravenholt were often mocked as ‘country nobles’ by their peers, it was undeniable that their services to the kingdom were a necessity. The fertile region supplied the capital and other regions with grain, vegetables, and a selection of fruits (berries mostly, their climate wasn't warm enough to support 'tropical' fruit varieties), but the passion of the Ravenholt family had always been with regards to livestock. While the peasants toiled with raising, breeding, and slaughtering animals for food, the nobility focused their efforts on equines. As such their horses were highly regarded: they were immaculately bred for their strength and endurance, well trained, and were highly sought after. The Ravenholt ranch wasn't large-scale, however, and so only half dozen or less horses were gifted or sold per year.

“Given their honored status, I’m not surprised that I’ve yet to see one in a public stable…” Miles thought out loud, casting a curious gaze towards the nobleman. He didn’t need to ask the question for the half-elf to know where his thoughts drifted in that moment.

Verona offered a soft smile. Cold as she might feel towards her extended family, she had no interest in sharing her ill regards with others. Her sapphire eyes remained on the hoof her pick worked to clean as she responded. “I’m afraid Nash and the Ravenholt Manor stud don’t get along,” she lied easily. “A common enough problem between uncastrated horses,” she added a truthful fact to her lie.

Miles considered for some moments. “I don’t know that we see many stallions,” he mused. “I was given to understand that mares and gilded horses were much more reliable.”

“Well. No doubt they are better-behaved and easier to control,” Verona conceded. “Stallions are stronger, though. In will and body,” she spoke matter-of-factly. “I can handle Nash, there is no need to handicap him.”

Nash snorted.

Verona gave an amused smile. “You should consider yourself fortunate for my opinions in the matter,” she reminded her horse. There had been no intentions to breed Nash, after all, and so naturally it had been suggested that…well. Verona had been an adamant defender in the case: in the end her claim that he was her horse and that no one had the authority to mutilate him had been respected.

“…Do all Ravenholts talk to their horses?” Miles asked curiously.

“Oh, not at all,” Verona admitted. She considered for a moment before continuing. “My elven blood, I think, allows me to connect with animals and nature in a unique way. Though I developed my habit of speaking to my non-human friends by the example of my father.”

The two continued to chat as they worked, though their full conversation will not be recorded here. When Verona prepared to take her leave she placed a gold coin in to Mile’s hand, telling him that he was personally responsible for Nash’s care. Wide-eyed, the young man accepted the tip, wondering if the noble knew that he was waged in silver on a weekly basis. Before departing the stable, the half-elf paid a brief and inconsequential visit to the stable master, whom she compensated for a week’s lodging.

As she exited the establishment, Verona’s sight couldn’t help but to drift towards Ravenholt Manor. She could only stand to glance in direction of the estate for a couple seconds before turning about-face, her feet carrying her back towards the Sanctor’s Grace. The brief acknowledgement caused a well of emotion which she redirected into self-reflection.

While she had not fought her brother on his assessment, Verona’s purpose was not spiteful: the annoyance and hurt feelings she caused her extended family by her mere existence was simply fuel to achieve her goals of greatness. No doubt she’d find ample satisfaction in proving them – and anyone who had ever doubted her usefulness or potential – wrong, but reaping such rewards were secondary to her true purpose. The half-elf was given to righteous ideals: she was obsessive of honor, knowing that she was virtuous and capable of serving the realm with an innate goodness that seemed all too rare from what she had glimpsed of humanity. She had long ago decided that she owed her duty to the Kingdom of Aarenthol rather than to her blood. As such there was a path no more honorable than that which she now found herself, even if she had cast shame upon her family in order to pursue her dreams of knighthood.

Busying herself with such thoughts, she failed to acknowledge much of her surroundings until she passed the Dawngate, the entrance to Falls Keep. It was difficult for her to restrain the desire to attempt to gain an early admittance. Soon enough, she told herself. Now that she had Nash settled in a stable, her weariness had become insistent, demanding that she find nourishment and a bed for herself. And so she’d continue on to the Keep’s Shadow, where she’d find lodging at a combined tavern and inn named the Emerald Dragon.

============​

The following afternoon, Verona would make her way to the Palaestra Coliseum. She hadn’t had the pleasure of witnessing the squire ceremony previously and looked forward to attending with an excitement rooted in her own aspirations. Dressed for the occasion, the woman wore an outfit that was technically suitable to her status, though the garment lacked the intricate embellishments and splendor of which her peers seemed so fond. A high-quality cotton tunic fit loosely about her bound chest, the color a richly dyed navy blue. The stand collar was split at the center of her throat, the cut plunging six inches downwards, the panels of fabric held together by an untied lace-up of black leather strips fed through silver eyelets. Long, loose sleeves obscured her arms, the ample fabric gathered just above the wrists with matching black leather ties before surrendering to the restriction of crisp cuffs. Beneath the shirt Verona wore a simple black camisole, as an added caution of concealment. Her trousers were unremarkable in appearance, though were of course custom fit and skillfully made: the matte black leather clung quite flatteringly to the curve of her hips and the supple roundness of her backside, the possessive grip relenting about her legs to afford a comfortable range of motion. The garment featured a built-in codpiece, made from a thicker and purposefully shaped leather, the color and material an immaculate match to the trousers themselves. The pants tucked into a pair of black leather knee-high boots that laced up the front, further secured by a pair of cross straps with silver buckles at the outer sides.

To enter the coliseum was in itself awe-inspiring. Filtering in among a throng of bodies, Verona found herself unable but to intensely study the architecture of the amphitheater. She hadn’t learned such topics so as to quite understand the mathematics of sustaining the grand arches or have the comprehension to fully appreciate the magnitude of the structure, but she valued the overall effect, nevertheless. The half-elf remained mostly oblivious to the people who surrounded her as her sapphire eyes took in the wonderment of their venue, despite the stares and whispers her outlandish appearance seemed to encourage. It wasn’t until she began to climb the stairs to the upper-tier of seating that she realized that any attention was upon her: but even as the wind carried such curiosities to her ear she intentionally paid it no mind, firmly refusing to show a reaction.

Once settled at her seat, Verona allowed her sight to drift over the coliseum and its quickly filling capacity. She’d arrived early, of course, so as to ensure she wouldn’t miss such an opportunity as this; thankfully so, as it seemed many were like-minded in that regard. To witness that the squire ceremony was so robustly celebrated made her heart swell with happiness and pride, as no doubt she’d one day be one of those being distinguished. Until then, she found herself already regarding those who’d already attained the honor as her brethren, whether she could rightly claim that honor or not.

Her attention was quick to attach to the King and his entourage as soon as their presence was upon the field before her. The ceremony had not yet commenced, though would be beginning shortly, and the people of interest were in the process of gracefully placing themselves as witnesses upon the covered dais of the coliseum. Verona’s sight lingered upon King Frederick Olmstein, the man she wished to devote her life and service to – but her awareness slipped as she glimpsed the sight of the Knights of Choosing.

Sir Haldavar Neumenstrati.

Her breath caught in her throat. Even from this distance, the man was undeniably magnificent.

Admittedly, Verona was bias, having known and so highly regarded his name for so long. There was no doubt that that was the man her mother had told her stories about, that he was the one and only elven knight, the hero Verona had idolized since childhood. His self-sacrifice, his strict adherence to his duty, as the fundamental example of honor: Sir Haldavar was the perfect embodiment of what a knight should be.

I never expected he’d be so handsome, Verona mused as she released the breath she just realized she was holding.

Thankfully she didn’t suffer any romantic notions at the revelation. She was Victor, after all. If her guise weren’t enough to dissuade her from seeking relationships – especially one so unattainable – most certainly her training and ambition to succeed would be enough to hone her focus on more productive uses of her time and energy. Still. Even as the ceremony was underway, she was unable but to steal glances of the elf whenever there was a lull in the entertainment.

“To Sir Leon Martin, champion of the king, we present Squire Andrew Silverman of Asterhelm!”

Verona cheered with the rest of them, clapping and hollering and genuinely feeling proud of this man that was a stranger to her.

“And our second acolyte squire, to Sir Barney Feldhem, we present Squire Blaine Kernigston of Rivervale!”

It was not lost on the half-elf that Blaine received a less vigorous congratulations from the crowd as compared to the man who proceeded him. Ever the supporter of the underdog, Verona cheered all the more loudly. No doubt his achievements deserved just as much recognition, and so the woman stood as she clapped, as if her enthusiasm might inspire those around her to put more effort in to their fervor.

Her undivided attention and whole-hearted affection were placed upon King Frederick Olmstein as he gave his royal blessing. At the end of his speech, however, Verona was made suddenly aware that she was not familiar with the format of the ceremony. She was surprised to hear the king’s call to open the gates. She was cognizant, of course, that Sir Haldavar Neumenstrati hadn’t chosen a squire in his first round serving as a Knight of Choosing – but she was in disbelief that a choice was not announced today. Which meant…

Verona felt a sudden surge of motivation, a confident smile coming to her lips. She’d do anything to prove herself as worthy, as if there had been any question of her devotion prior to such a revelation as this.

============​

Despite the summer festival of Castle Cliff being the sort of entertainment and exuberance that a country noble could only imagine, Verona fond very little satisfaction with the festivities. Not that she thought them distasteful, or that she was above such enjoyments: it was simply that her heart wasn’t in the right place to indulge. All she could think about was training. About Falls Keep. About how she needed to attain a martial status that would enable her to serve her duty and purpose. Until her feet were firmly upon the path she was meant to walk, everything else seemed so…trivial.

The morning following the squire ceremonies, after unsuccessfully attempting to enjoy the last bit of her freedom, Verona resigned to her fate. Equipped with her stamped invitation, a sword at her hip, and wearing an outfit that matched the one from the day before, she made her much anticipated journey through the Dawngate.

Falls Keep wasn’t quite the clamor of activity that Verona had imagined, though likely it was largely in part that she arrived just as the sun was greeting the horizon. Having shown her invitation at the gate to gain admittance, she was left to her own devices so as to find her place within. Her sapphire eyes scanned the area, her sight seeking anyone to whom she might offer her assistance in preparing for the coming weeks - with the hope that she'd be granted access to the training grounds, in return.

 

[Traveler]

Beyond the Downgate of Falls Keep, the future of Aerenthal was forged. The keep had a history that spanned hundreds of years, and was once the home of the royal family before the outer walls were built. It still served as the ‘retreat of last resort’ should the city ever fall under siege, though the last two generations had enjoyed relative peace and comfort after the War of Gregorstadt, where humans, orcs, and elves covered the fields in blood for three solid years.

From the stables to the left, underneath the militaristic Stoneskin Barracks, the footsteps of two men crunched on the gravel path. Their boots sounded sharp in the stillness of the morning air; broken only by the tolling bells of Erseiyr Temple, signaling the sixth hour of the morning. Long shadows still covered most of keep, interrupted by occasional lamps flickering from their stands.

The taller of the two, though not by much, wore the simple brown robes of a monk. Unlike the monks of the city his hair was not shorn close to his head, leaving a ring of hair like a halo. He wore his full brown hair nearly to his shoulders, and the scruff of beard on his cheeks, along with the sword hanging from his belt, indicated he was no ordinary monk.

Next to him strode a man of slight build and short statue, approaching middle age. He had the look and feel of a man who lived horses. His leather was well-worn but cared for, and the simple green tunic he wore beneath his brown leather vestment was speckled with hay and horse sweat. He, too, wore a sword at his side, though a hoof pick and rasp hung from his opposite hip.

They were deep into a quiet discussion when the sight of the diminutive, silver-haired stranger standing near the central pergola caught their eyes. As they approached the lad, the monk raised a hand in greeting. He knew none could have entered without being identified by the Keeper of Dawngate, but they were not expecting anyone new to arrive that day. “Good morning!” Sir Jonathan Monroe called out. As he lowered his hand, his robe parted, revealing leather bracers gracing each forearm, and like Victor, boiled leather underneath.

He took in the appearance of the young lad, by his guess no more than…sixteen or seventeen? That was young for a boy to seek knighthood. But as he moved closer, he noted the finely crafted facial structure and the soft point of ears peeking out along the bound silvered hair. “Ah…you must be young Master Victor Ravenholt,” he surmised, his lips turning upwards in a smile. No, not so young; by the accounts in the records, twenty-one years old. Having spent the last two years in the company of Sir Haldavar, he quickly understood his mistake. “You’re a bit early,” he chastised lightly, “either excited to get started, or you couldn’t wait to get away from home.” He extended a warm hand in greeting. “I’m Sir Jonathan Monroe, and this is Duncan, our Stablemaster.”

Duncan, too, offered a smile, though he inclined his head in a small bow. He’d had enough lads come though the ranks, eager to prove their worth, who thought that a bone-crunching handshake was the best first impression to give. He wasn’t eager to lose use of his hand so close to a new year’s beginnings.

 

[Spark]

Never had the grating of gravel been so welcomed. Verona’s sight traced the origin of the sound, her eyes falling upon a pair of men. The appearance of one gave the impression of a monk, primarily for the style of robe that hung loosely about his tall frame, though his weapon and full head of hair made the onlooker question her initial assessment of his caste. The second man, however, was the sort that Verona could instantly recognize. Her gaze quickly appraised the older male’s garb and tools, easily deciding that he was a man of her ilk. The pair were amidst conversation, but even so the half-elf had only a moment to consider the two before they noticed her presence and began to approach.

The hint of a smile teased at the corners of Verona’s lips as the younger of the pair offered her greeting. “Good morning,” she called in return.

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise that the man could identify her by sight: still, she was impressed. No doubt the man had already memorized the information regarding the students that would attend training this year, and being the only half-elf among them, perhaps it wasn’t so much of a feat as the woman gave credit. “You are correct,” she confirmed. “Victor Ravenholt, at your service.” She offered a deep and formal bow alongside her introduction.

The man whose appearance reminded her of a monk was quick to speak of her untimely presence. His guesses as to why the case may be caused for a small but genuine smile to spread across her face. He offered his hand and introduced himself: Verona accepted the handshake eagerly, her palm discernibly swallowed by the man’s, the first knuckle of her slender and long fingers curling about the outer edge of his grip. Her gaze shifted from Sir Jonathan Monroe to the stablemaster, Duncan, as he was introduced. Her smile spread even further as she returned the bow of his head. “It is a pleasure to meet the both of you,” she spoke sincerely.

Releasing her hold of Sir Jonathan’s hand, she didn’t waste any time in stating her reasons for appearing a week before training was set to commence. Her gaze returned to the speaker. “I will admit that, since receiving my invitation to the academy, I have been unable but to think of anything else.” The instructor had been correct, of course, and so Verona mused that perhaps a student showing up early and unannounced was not as rare as she might have previously thought. “I do not intend to be a burden: I understand that there is a plethora of preparation work to do and I’ve come to offer my assistance.” Her sapphire gaze shifted towards Duncan, presuming he knew of her family’s equine inclinations. “Naturally, I think I’d be most useful in the stables, though I’m happy to complete whatever tasks you may have for me.”

“I would only ask - when my daily assignments are completed - that I’d be allowed access to the training grounds,” she added, preferring to reveal her ulterior motive upfront.

 

[Traveler]

Sir Jon crossed wiry arms across his chest and assessed the lad. Educated, obviously, and diplomatically astute; this young man was both genuine and had enough polish to survive at court. ‘Though,’ he thought with an inward grimace, ‘that’s what I thought of young Andrew when he first arrived.’

“The first few months of training are grueling,” he warned. “Are you sure you want to spend your last week of freedom laboring, when you could be enjoying the Summer Solstice Faire?” He measured the young man from heel to hair, evaluating his stance as they conversed. Balanced, balls of feet, and easy shoulders. And certainly, easy on the eyes if one preferred a man with beauty rather than brawn. There was no doubt that one as comely as this would find plenty of company in Castle Cliff if he chose to indulge. Maidens wanting to touch nobility and perhaps win the heart of a young man with promise, flocked to the gates on their day of rest, hoping to trade favors for future gains.

“Ravenholt?” Duncan scratched at a chin. His clever brown eyes took in the lad’s hands; rough where it counted, slim and strong. “I could always use an extra hand,” he offered, looking to the knight. “Keep him busy enough not to be underfoot?”

“It’s highly unusual.” Though the words were discouraging, the tone was not; indeed, many had shown up early, though for most it meant early dismissal as well, not realizing that even before the academy had officially begun the judgement was already being made. “Do you have lodgings Victor?” He doubted a family such as the lad’s would have sent him penniless, but stranger things had happened at Falls Keep. “Perhaps a trail run for a day, then, while I seek the Knight Commander’s blessing…”

A horn was blown, and the knight looked to the Stablemaster. “I must take my leave, Master Duncan. Do you have this rabble-rouser at hand?” He winked at the lad.

“I believe I do,” he replied, looking to Victor. “You know your way around a muckrake, son?”

As the Stablemaster and recruit made their way to the stables, a group of knights gathered near the Hall of Convocation. No longer dressed in armor and finery, they looked like any other swordsmen; tall boots laced on the sides, pants tucked in and loose tunics bound with sword belts. These were the cadre, the knights on permanent assignment to train each year’s recruits.

“Listen up!” Sir Edward, their Knight Commander, waited while three other knights joined their ranks, trailed by their squires. Two sets were those who had been selected the prior afternoon. The third was a second-year squire, tall, and dark and broody, with his right arm in a sling. He limped beside his knight and took a moment to scowl at the tall blond squire in front of him, before dropping his gaze.

“In an hour we’ll be joined by the Knights of Choosing,” he informed them as he went though the same script most of them had heard a half dozen times before. The explanations were for the knights and squires who were in their second year. Squire Reginald, the one with the sling, and his knight, Sir Robert Henry, would normally be on a quest or other journey for Reginald’s third year of training. His recent injury had derailed that plan, and so they were to stay at Falls Keep until he was fit to ride. The Knight Commander continued his instructions. “You are the main training force the recruits will see; they will take their leads from you. If you are late, they will believe that they can be late. If you are sloppy, disrespectful, or in any way display unknightly behavior, they will do the same. You, gentlemen, are what they will measure themselves against. Not the ones doing the choosing, but you.”

“So, with that in mind, let’s walk through the first day’s schedule.” They all had roles to play; for the next hour they walked through and talked through what the recruits would experience on their first day, answering questions the second-year squires had and making sure that they all knew their cues and roles. Once they had it down, the Knights of Choosing were expected to join them and run through it again, and afterwards they would all sit down in the River Hall to break their fast.

 

[Spark]

“I’m certain,” Verona responded confidently to Sir Jonathan’s question. She didn’t offer further justification or claim to support her answer, knowing that words were cheap until proven otherwise. The half-elf was resolved to show her devotion rather than talk about it.

Her attention shifted to Duncan as he spoke her house name, becoming all too aware of the man appraising her hands with the eye of a man who knew the signs of labor. While the noble couldn’t claim to have toiled to the extent of countless others, the fact remained that she was no stranger to a workload. She smiled and gave a grateful nod as the stablemaster consented to take her on.

The back and forth between the professors only encouraged the woman’s desire to exceed their expectations, self-assured that her brand of unusual would be a badge of honor.

“I have lodgings, paid through the week. I don’t intend to impose upon the dorms until the academy training begins.” It was a small self-indulgence: Victor and Verona had both spent time within the Emerald Dragon, their father refusing to stay within Ravenholt Manor when they visited the capital. Priceless memories were had within the tavern, with Edgar singing songs and soaking in the affection of the crowd as his children heard wild tales of adventure and mercenary work from whatever colorful folks happened to find themselves in the establishment that evening. The place would never be as alive or entertaining without her father but she was welcomed without him, nevertheless. The owners of the establishment and their long-standing employees couldn’t possibly forget the Ravenholt half-elves, and so her stay had been extra friendly and comfortable.

Verona grinned lightly in response to Sir Jonathan’s wink and jest: the man had an energy and charm that inspired friendliness, even in one so aloof as herself. The man’s status as a knight predisposed her to admiration and respect, of course, but she found a well of satisfaction and assurance as she watched the concept of knighthood begin to tangibly take shape from a man such as this. He was first knight with whom she had personally interacted: his impression gave her high expectations for the sort of individuals she’d meet during her time in Falls Keep.

Her gaze met Duncan’s as he once again assured the departing knight that he’d oversee the young noble. The stablemaster’s question of her ability to utilize a muckrake was met with a simple affirmation. “Of course.” A menial task, requiring very little skill or thought: but Verona wouldn’t complain. The repetitive nature of basic chores allowed her a mental space that she used meditatively, reflecting and processing her thoughts with a soothing tranquility. It was an easy enough way to contribute until she could demonstrate to the stablemaster that she was trustworthy of more difficult tasks.

Verona bid the knight farewell as he answered his summon, following Duncan towards the stables thereafter. She didn’t hesitate to ask a question, allowing for only a short pause of quiet between them. “Are recruits able to stable their horses within Falls Keep?” As ever, the woman was quick to the point.

“Most recruits don’t bring their own horse,” the stablemaster admitted. Many arrived by carriage, others simply sold or left their mount to their house’s capital estate upon their arrival. The Falls Keep stables were stocked with ample horsepower to supply the needs of the recruits; few saw benefit in providing the resource themselves. Duncan considered, offering the half-elf a glance. “Though I’m certain it can be arranged.”

“I will personally see to his care,” Verona continued. “And in exchange for his lodgings, I will continue to assist in the stables throughout my training.”

The older man hummed thoughtfully. “The schedule of a recruit is quite strenuous,” he reminded Victor, who had been told just as much not moments before. “One must be careful in how much obligation they take upon themselves.”

Verona considered his words. “I’ll be sure not to make further promises until I have a better understanding of my existing duties here,” she assured him. “Thank you for the wise advice.”

Resolved in keeping her word, the half-elf began to adjust herself to the appropriate hours to fulfill the contract she’d made. The next morning, and throughout the week, the noble arrived to the stables an hour before the sun announced the coming day. Immediately setting herself to completing the necessary cleanliness routines, she would conclude the basic chores and, at dawn, seek Duncan for a daily list of work. Insisting that she was capable, she’d ask for three or more tasks at a time. Over the course of the coming days Verona felt comfortable assigning herself – outside of the mandated muckraking, of course – striving to identify and fulfill tasks before Duncan had a chance to request them done. An ever-revolving list began to set in to her mind, not unlike the routines she had kept at home, and so naturally she took well to her surroundings.

For the entirety of a week the woman devoted all of her daylight – and the hour before – to caring for the horses and stable of Falls Keep. While the half-elf made attempts at friendliness with all those she encountered, in the case of people she offered little more than polite niceties. Her penchant for talking to animals was easily noticed, even before Nash was brought to the stable; and even more so, after he was.

============​

“It’s finally here,” Verona spoke excitedly to Nash. She had arrived at the stables well before dawn, completed her chores and tended to her horse, to whom she now shared her joy. “My first day training at the academy!”

Nash didn’t seem particularly interested. He watched the woman as she spoke, but turned his head towards the empty hay trough as soon as she had finished speaking.

“Oh, of course. You’re more interested in food.” She gave a good-natured laugh as moved outside of his stall, fetching a pitchfork. An unwrapped bale conveniently awaited. Verona stabbed the prongs of her tool into the gathered straw, deftly moving the portion of hay back into the stall and in Nash’s trough.

The horse immediately took to eating, of course.

Verona watched the horse for a moment with small, amused smile. “Thanks for the well wishes,” she spoke with an affectionate sarcasm. Offering a parting double pat, the half-elf exited the stall and replaced the pitchfork to its rightful place.

Her sapphire eyes scanned the stable. The dark of night was just beginning to take on the shimmer of light upon the horizon: dawn was still half an hour off. Verona had been too excited to stay asleep and so she found herself getting an absurdly early jump on the day: thanks to her mixed heritage, the woman could see well enough to work in the dark.

She didn’t want to miss Duncan or the others this morning but decided it would be best if she forced an interest to break her fast; she wasn’t particularly hungry but suspected she’d need the energy. And so she set off back to the Emerald Dragon, where she’d change from her stable clothes to her recruit uniform, have breakfast, and clean out her already packed-up belongs from her former lodgings.

She’d reappear at the Dawn Gate with ample time to drop off her modest pack at the dorm before heading to the training grounds.

Today felt like destiny.

 

[Traveler]

The son of Shalendra Staciadon Ravenholt was here.

Sir Haldavar glanced over the new recruits’ names on the roster, taking in the brief histories and family ties listed below each name as he read each one, committing them to memory. When he saw the entry for Victor Ravenholt, he paused and stilled his breath. Victor, twinborn son of Shalendra, elven healer, and Edgar, one of the foremost bards of the lands. It did not seem possible that the tot was already old enough to be a candidate for the knighthood. Had that many years passed already?

He drew a tapered finger along the name, tracing its lines as his memories flew back to the day he first laid eyes on the elven woman who would become the Lady of Castle Ravenloft. The War of Gregorstadt between orcs, humans, and elves had barely begun; only eight months into the campaign to stop the slaughter of villages and enslavement of peoples, blocking trade routes and spiraling cities into despair, the younger son of the Woodland King and Queen, Dylvalian Neumenstrati and Caernae Silvasta, had overestimated his prowess and been injured. Horribly.

He remembered the excruciating pain he had felt as soldiers hoisted him onto a makeshift gurney; the worry in his brother Arrebryn’s eyes, and relief that had washed over him as he realized the Crown Prince was safe, despite the pain.

Shalendra had been a novice healer that day, apprenticing with her father. It was her careful hand that had stitched up his abdomen once the ribs had been set, and his inner wounds prayed over. Her voice had lifted up with the master priests’ and priestesses’, healing the poisons that had been introduced with the orc’s axe blade, had prayed over the knitting of bone until they were stabilized enough to finish healing on their own, and had wrapped the wide band around his torso to stabilize him enough to continue without further use of magic or prayers. With so many being wounded, they could not afford to spend all their grace upon one man. Not even the second son of the woodland priest.

It was Shalendra who had spoken the soothing words to Arrebryn; trying to convince him it had not been his fault his little brother had been injured. She spoke kindly, and reasonably, with the practiced flair of one long at court, even though she was just a young woman herself. That was probably the day that first sparked her affections for the crown prince.

Arrebryn was light and life; his fiery hair cloaked him in perpetual Autumn, and the sprinkling of freckles across his tanned skin gave him the appearance of a man bejeweled by a master artist. There was a strength to his jaw and the line of his nose that whispered power through the beauty of his elven etherealness. Ones eyes could drift between his full lips, to the gaze beneath his brows, the sensual lines of his tapered ears, and back again, never deciding which feature was the most delightful. The prince’s pale forest eyes pierced into your soul when he gazed in your direction, and that grace that followed every movement, every nuanced reaction or expression, had been, perhaps, the thing that had been his undoing. He noticed people; he remembered them. Many a woman at court had found her daydreaming filled with thoughts of the prince, though none had found their way into his heart.

That morning, when Haldavar had fallen to the orc’s unfortunate blow, Prince Arrebryn had raced to his brother’s side. He fought valiantly; keeping the enemy at bay with the two-sword tactics that Eladrin’s were famous for perfecting. The enemy kept coming, and Haldavar had told his brother to save himself, but the prince would not leave.

That was when the golden prince of Aaernthol arrived, though they would not know his identity for almost another year. The human knight had witnessed Haldavar’s fall and seen the immediate protection laid down by Arrebryn. He’d fought his way to their side, then, with no words but an exchanged nod, had fought back to back with the elven warrior until his people could break through.

And thus, Haldavar survived. Prince Arrebryn began his quest to seek the one who helped him, scouring the battlefields each time the warring factions came together, looking for the nuances of the knight’s techniques, and the thing that would alert the elf that his comrade-in-arms was near. That first meeting led to the brief, passionate, love between the princes; the secret Haldavar guarded to this day, and ultimately, the reason he served the human kingdom.

He closed the register of recruits and added the final name to his personal journal. He would take notes on each this year, weighing them as he had the last two years, and making his decision not based solely on how they performed the last few months of training, as other knights of choosing did, but on how much they grew during their full year under the banner of Falls Keep. Memories, even those of the long-lived elves, could be swayed by time. He wanted to know that his recollections were reliable and not be swayed by emotions or more recent impressions of the young men sent to their care.

The very next day, he noticed a single figure walk into the yard. Haldavar leaned against the porch beam, staying in the shadows as his eyes picked out the youth’s pale hair, lithe figure, and slightly tapered ears. It was a week before the recruits were due, but it seemed that Shalendra’s son had the reconnaissance skills his mother had. Or has, if she still lived. She had not been in Castle Cliff for many years, and there had been no sign of her in the realm of Aarenthol to suggest she had simply moved.

Which led to the question: why was her son a full week early? Over the next six days, Haldavar observed from afar. The early arrivals, the attention to duties with Duncan and his small staff, and the eventual arrival of Victor’s stallion. At meals the knights had commented on the eager recruit, though all had to agree that Duncan could use the help now that he was down one groom.

Sir Jonathan had shared with the other full-time cadre and the current Knights of Choosing that the Stablemaster was pleased with young Victor’s attention to detail, and his penchant for anticipating the needs of the horses.

Sir Tristan scoffed, and pulled back the strands of his hair from his face. He swirled the glass of wine in his hands and studied it. “If he fails out of the academy, he can always get a job at the stables,” he commented. Several in attendance chuckled at the thought.

“He’s too frail to succeed,” agreed Sir Hubert. He reached across the table with a heavily muscled arm and plucked a piece of bread from the platter. His closely shorn hair was kept thusly to avoid letting an opponent grasp hold of it and control him in a fight. He used his bread to mop up the sauce left over from his stew. “I think he’ll be out in three months, crying for his mommy and wanting to go home where he can be the big fish in the small pond.”

“What if he doesn’t drop out?” asked Sir Thomas. He glanced up at the younger knights. “What if he makes it all the way through?”

“Impossible,” Tristan growled. “Three months. I’ll put money on it.”

“Sold!” Hubert raised two fingers. “I say four months for a hundred crowns,” he tapped the longbowman at his side. “How about you, Robert? Care to wager?”

The slim archer knight smirked. His long hair fell over his face as he considered the wager. He, of all there, enjoyed a good game of chance. “Two months,” he predicted, “but I raise you all to two hundred each. Whoever wins gets the pot.”

“Okay,” Humbert took on the role of bookie. “Sir Robert at two months, Sir Tristan at three, I say four,” he looked at the others. “Come on, take a bet, guys.”

“It seems unethical to bet upon the fate of one you have direct control over,” Thomas observed. “How do we know your treatment of the boy won’t be based upon this wager?”

“Fuck fair,” Hubert shot back. “Life isn’t fair. We get what we deserve. Now, are you in or out?”

Thomas shook his head. “No.”

“Sir Edward?” he looked to their knight commander.

“I’ll take ten months,” he said, doubting that the diminutive lad would be adequate to make it to the final testing.

Sir Brighton decided to take a more medium approach. Most dropouts happened mid-year. “I’ll put money on seven months,” he offered, aiming for the most likely timing of Victor’s failure.

Sir Hubert looked to Jonathan. “What about you, priest? Care to wager on the boy?”

Jon smiled and folded his hands on the table. “I think that he will make it all the way through,” he declared. “That is my wager.”

“Don’t be a reject,” Tristan said. “This is about when he’ll drop out, not about his success,” he smirked unkindly and looked to Sir Thomas. “Now who has the invested interest in the mongrel’s success or failure?” He finished his wine and set the glass down.

Sir Hubert looked to Haldavar. “What about you, elf? Care to wager on your kin’s success?” He grinned mockingly.

Haldavar tilted his head slightly, acknowledging the slight. “Victor Ravenholt is no kin to my people,” he concluded. He met the other man’s eyes, and then smiled softly. “One month is my wager.”

“How harsh,” laughed Tristan. “His own people won’t even bet on him!”

“He is not my people,” the elven knight restated.

Sir Thomas frowned at his previous mentor. “What happened to ‘all humans are the same to me, regardless of rank’?”

Haldavar wiped his hands and put the cloth napkin next to his plate. “The boy is not a human, young Thomas. He is neither human, nor elven. He belongs in no world but the shadowy penumbra between night and day; humanity and immortality.” The knight shook his head and stood, ready for their final dinner before the academy to be over. “He has no place.”

Sir Tristan leaned back, his hands steepled loosely on his chest. “And they call me the Black Knight,” he jested, watching the other knight leave the hall. He turned back to the others. “Anyone want to wager on which recruit will be the first to try to sneak a wench into his room?”

~ * ~​

Slowly, a gaggle of about a dozen young men from about the realm began to gather in the courtyard of Falls Keep. They came from every region; desert and mountain, plains and the shore, and represented the best that the country of Aarenthol had to offer. It was yet an hour before their time of appointment, and though the courtyard was empty, a blue ribbon banded the area they were allowed to occupy, keeping the group confined to the pavement before Roak’s Canopy, lest any be inclined to wander about and miss the call to roll scheduled for eight. Banners had been erected, flashing the colors of the king; blue and gold, with a white lion’s silhouette crossing both fields. There were scheduled a number of eighteen this year; a sizable group for any academy, but one that would hopefully pull enough worthy squires who would be selected to move forward to the second year’s trials.

Duncan watched from the shadows of the stable, watching eagerly for the young man who had already become his favorite. He knew that Victor had already been there; the horses had all been fed and their stalls mucked, so that when the grooms arrived an hour ago they found little left to do. The stablemaster smiled to himself, then inhaled the sweet aroma of horse and hay, stray and morning mist. It was going to be a good year. He could feel it in the air.

The Knights of Choosing had already taken their steeds and left the keep. When the hour’s bell finished their toll, it was the tradition of Falls Keep that the knights would charge through the gates and shut them behind themselves, signaling that those who had been chosen and made it to the keep on time were in. All others, even those who were but a heartbeat later than that final bell and the rush of warhorses, would have to wait a full year and try again.

Duncan turned back to look at the gate. ‘Don’t be late, Victor,’ he thought, ‘this is your year. I know it.’

 

[Spark]

A steel arrowhead struck the heart of the target. The archer upon the range was, to the onlooker, Victor Ravenholt. He was the vision of calm, even as he was currently rapid-firing arrows at an arrangement of targets downfield. His accuracy was uncanny, the bow by far his favored – and most skillfully utilized – weapon.

The truth of it was Verona attempting to distract herself from the nervousness of her first day at the academy. She knew she’d succeed: there was no logical reason for her current feeling, the young half-elf tried to rationalize to herself. Yet there was a lingering anxiety to which she had a hard time subscribing fault on this most glorious day. As her volley struck target after target in quick succession, her expression showed no particular joy even as the majority of her shots hit dead-center. The focus between herself and her weapon was something the young woman had trained the entirety of her life: thankfully her parents had been a little nontraditional, and if she had any love left for her mother it would be precisely for the memories of Shalendra completely disregarding Edgar’s mention that it wasn’t particularly proper to teach a noble lady to wield weapons in Aarenthol. Her mother’s blatant disregard at the notion had inspired the daughter greatly. Up until age thirteen, Verona had been welcomed to train with her brothers; though, admittedly, she took it for granted. She’d miss lessons, and she had a healthy interest in other things. When her mother abandoned the family, however, Edgar had seen fit to shift the priority in his – and his childrens’ – lives. He transformed overnight from the carefree bard that he had been so famously known, always the happiest when he was entertaining the people around him, to a proper noble father that, although hilarious and endearing, was admittedly much less fun. In Shalendra’s absence, Verona’s father buckled down on raising his children right: the version of right he knew, minus the nonsense his elven wife had previously been bringing to the table. Verona’s sword and archery lessons abruptly ended. She continued to pressure her brothers to train her in secret, begging them to pass down their lessons to her in the pre-morning hours before the humans were awake. Victor wasn’t much help, honestly, but Randall – her eldest brother – was a capable swordsman and archer. For five years he trained his younger sister in the deep shadows prior to dawn. The half-elven siblings found that they needed less sleep than the average human and Verona insisted that they use their “bonus time” in a productive fashion. The sudden obsession was industrious and restless....and long lasting. At the shared age of eighteen, Victor had casually mentioned that he’d gladly let his twin attend training in his stead, thus only deepening the desire for Verona to become something that was forbidden to her. Now that she was here, her feelings this morning should be…elation…shouldn’t it? This was exactly where she was supposed to be.

With a frustrated huff the archer lowered her bow. A cursory glance at the sky assured her that her time for reflection was about to come to an end, which was unfortunate, the hour drawing near to eight.

Perhaps this unease was nothing but nerves. She’d be meeting the Knights of Choosing today, among them her idol, and the academy instructors, after all –

Could that be it? Could it be so simple that she nervous to meet Sir Haldavar? The notion was ridiculous, as of course she could only be excited at the prospect. The man was everything she could ever hope to become. She'd be honored to meet him.

The woman set to plucking arrows and returning the bow and projectiles to their proper place. Reminding herself of how it was she came to be here, resolving her determination, she focused her thoughts on the best-case scenario. The young half-elf wouldn’t call herself an optimist but in the moment the fantasy of catching the elf knight’s attention and one day serving as his squire was… a dream, she knew, but a dream she’d chase as hard as she could, in any case. Such thoughts dashed away the shadows of her mind, enabled her a moment of peace and comfort. Her mood brightened, enough so that she smiled softly as she strolled towards courtyard of Falls Keep. In all honesty, Verona continued to imagine her idol: he was so magnificent from afar, and the half-elf wondered if she could even fathom his splendor from a closer vantage. No doubt his beauty was going to be blinding.

Such thoughts occupied her mind until she arrived at the courtyard. She couldn’t help but glance towards the stables, of course – she’d wave and brighten her smile if anyone happened to be standing outside to return the gesture – before allowing her sight to settle on those already gathered within the confines of the blue ribbon.

There were enough present that Verona was convinced she was the last to arrive, though lacking an exact number on those that should be attending it was a feeling over fact. Within the two minutes that she waited among the other first-year recruits, it appeared that her instinct had been correct, as no one else joined the group. It made sense: in hindsight, Verona considered that she should have arrived earlier than she did, but damned if she hated to waste a single minute; besides a little archery had gone a long way to calming her nerves.

Verona didn’t attempt to make conversation as she awaited the arrival of the knights. Most of those around her were like-minded, standing at attention with an intense interest in what they knew would be appearing before them shortly. Those that spoke among themselves did so in a respectful and quiet fashion: Verona was deaf to them, her heartbeat filling her ears.

 

[Traveler]

Victor had not been the last in the gate. As the morning bells began to toll, first a melody, then eight, low and solemn rings to salute the hour, the sound of shod horses galloping over cobbled streets reverberated against the stone walls. The first of nine knights burst through the gates, resplendent in armor and shield, his helm shut, streamers flying like streaks of blood and gold, and his barded horse charging straight for the recruits before veering to the right. The next knight followed close on his heels, swerving to the left before reaching the group that now huddled together behind the blue ribbon as if it could magically prevent their doom. As the third and the fourth rushed in, again alternating left and right and circling around the large plaza, a spry lad in red cloak began to zip through legs and flank, barely being trampled in his mad dash to make it in before the tolling bells ceased. One black armored knight leaped his horse over the quickly crouching lad, and the next one reached down and scooped him up, carrying the young man like a sack of jostled potatoes, and tossing him unceremoniously into the gaggle of recruits as the bell’s last toll rang and the final few knights flew through the gates, hooking it behind them and shutting the barred entry like the slamming of prison doors.

Several of the young men caught their flying peer and saved him from a heavy landing. The knights circled around the plaza, then walked their horses two by two through the tight confines of the granite pillars supporting Roak’s Canopy, before splitting once again to circle the recruits and face their steeds towards the eighteen appointed cadets.

The knight commander had carried the banner in, and now placed it upon the gate as he rode by. It signaled that they were locked in; none would enter or leave until the banner was lifted. He turned his head and surveyed the men in the ropes, noticing the lad that Sir Thomas had rescued was dusting himself off and grinning like a fool. Young Richard Bock, the son of a knight, and the second to smallest in the group. The lad had thought it a game, he supposed, but had made it through the gates, even if it had been with the bastard’s help.

There should have been eighteen in the plaza. Sir Edward counted only sixteen. It wasn’t unusual; some of the chosen found reasons to reject their invitation in the last minute; a father ill, a woman with child, or a heart suddenly turned cool to the thought of battle. It was entertaining and heroic when the only thing at risk was a place in the tournament standing, but when it came to the very real possibility of being sent into the midst of war, many found their fondness for blade and spear quite dwindled.

He raised his helm and searched each pair of eyes before him, as the knights kept the lads at bay. Looking for the one who was arrogant, or scared. The defiant ones, the solemn ones…everyone came to the academy with either victory or defeat already instilled in their destiny. They only needed to see it.

Sir Edward flanked the lads, looking over his shoulder at the lot. “You have been invited, because you are the best your realm can offer,” he announced, his voice carrying across the plaza as one accustomed to commanding large armies. “You have caught the Crown’s attention! Perhaps you are the strongest, or the quickest; the best with the sword, or the bow,” he declared. “You’ve proven yourself at the tournaments! Women flock to your feet!” A few of the lads snickered. “You have medals and trophies galore!” Some of the lads elbowed each other, sure that he was speaking of them and their accomplishments.

He settled back in his saddle and rested a hand on his thigh. “For all that you have accomplished, I tell you this: YOU ARE NOTHING!” he roared, pushing a few of the lads back with the sheer vehemence of his words and tone.

“Whatever accolades you’ve earned before today mean nothing to us! You are all equally lowly, and you will all have to earn the right to be here every minute, of every hour, of every fucking day!” If the young men could not take the message they were receiving, they would never withstand the war.

“So, think on this,” he continued, his voice lowering to force them to concentrate and hear his words. “The next three hundred and fifty-eight days will be the hardest days of your life.” He paused, letting the thought sink in. “Men such as yourself came here, bright, and hopeful; thinking they would own the world. Many left in crutches, bandages, shame…and even death.” He lowered his gaze as he raked his eyes over the lot of them. “This is not a game, gentlemen.”

The knights around them sat still on their horses. The Black Knight, Sir Tristan, who had jumped over Richard’s head. Sir Hubert, his strength renowned across the lands. It had been rumored he broke his opponent’s backs over his knees in battle, preferring the raw killing with his hands above the sword. Sir Robert, who once pierced a general through the eyes at one hundred and fifty paces in the midst of a skirmish; Sir Charles, a man who once scaled a tower with is bare hands to save a diplomat. Sir Thomas the Bastard, who had once stood in the midst of a hundred foes and slayed them all, until he had to stand upon their bodies to keep fighting. Sir Jonathan the Priest, who was rumored to be so good with his blade he had killed an assassin who did not know he was dead until his head began slipping from his neck, and of course, Sir Haldavar, who now gazed through the recruits as if they were mere specters. Perhaps to him they were; their lives fleeting and meaningless to a member of the immortal elves.

Sir Edward continued. “You have ten minutes; drop your things in the Stoneskin Barracks. Your names are on your beds. The gate will also be open, only for those ten minutes.” His voice once again grew stern. “I you have any doubt leave now. You will be counted among those who never made it through the gate, and not as one who dropped out or failed out. If you desire to return next year, the option will be given you. Ten minutes, gentlemen.” His glare touched them all one last time, before he leaned forward in his saddle and shouted, “GO! What are you waiting for‽”

Sir Haldavar’s hooded gaze followed the son of Shalana, though he did not move his head or acknowledge any of the young men who jostled past his horse. The knights all watched their prospects run to the barracks, then dismounted and handed off their horses to the Stablemaster and his groomsmen. When the lads returned, the ribbons would be down, and a large pile of burlap bags heaped together on the ground. The first order, after taking down their names and letters was to wear the new ones out. A few of the cadre and Knights of Choosing would join them to ensure no rabble rousers interrupted their training. The traditional Run of Deciding; the recruits, with thirty pound bags to carry, would run a loop around the inner plaza of Falls Keep, then out the gates, down The Santor’s Grace parkway to the gate, west through the streets of High Hill, turning southward at Spurrose Gardens, through the streets of the Allgate, into The Carcass, run a loop around The Palaestra, through The Shambles, The Fetters, past Browall Keep, and then circle Falls Keep once before reentry.

And then, the training would begin.

 

[Spark]

It was only natural that the recruit’s cerulean eyes scanned each knight as they appeared. In truth, however, Verona’s attention sought only one among them: Sir Haldavar Neumenstrati.

Her quest was interrupted by the scene of a young man making his dash towards the recruit area in the final moments of the tolling bell. She gasped with genuine concern as it seemed reasonable to fear that he’d be trampled; one of the knights urged his horse to jump over the moving obstacle, the young man ducking as he continued to run, just narrowly avoiding injury. The onlooker was thankful when the recruit was scooped up by the next knight in line, though in the theater of the moment she failed to look upon the man that was the savior. Instead, her attention quickly snapped to moving slightly to the side of where the young man was tossed into the collective body of his peers. Being the shortest among them, Verona had secured a standing at the front of the pack so as to ensure she’d be able to clearly watch the events at hand. Being the smallest among them, she didn’t attempt to catch the projectile of a body on her own. Instead, she side-stepped, offering her arms in an attempt to help soften the recruit’s landing. As soon as the man found his feet, the half-elf’s eyes shifted back ahead, continuing their former search.

Verona’s breath caught in her throat when her hero emerged upon his charging steed, her sight eagerly tracing the sharp and flawless features of the Sir Haldavar Neumenstrati’s face. His continued approach left her unable but to stare, and for a moment she was oblivious to all else: she ceased to hear the beating of hooves, her ears filled instead with the heightened beats of her own heart. She failed to feel the jostle of her peers as the group constricted back upon itself. She didn’t feel anything for several moments. There was no fear, no excitement; her focus was so intensely set upon the knight that she was lost even to herself. A skip in time, her mind committing every detail of the hero to memory, the background and self so easily being bled away.

The knight and his mount veered sharply to the side, a single stride away from trampling the awe-struck recruit. Her sight trailed after him briefly, to the point that she’d need to turn her head and be so obviously staring that she was forced to tear her eyes away. The respite of a long blink somehow reminded her to exhale and resume breathing.

But as her sight returned to the display before them her mind lingered on previous interests. How could it not? Sir Haldavar Neumenstrati was truly a knight with no equal. His physical appearance – inspiring and glorious all on its own – paled in comparison to the merits of the man himself. Verona’s admiration and glorification of the knight had been seeded well before she had ever thought to wonder what he might look like; though it was only fitting that he was the embodiment of beauty, the half-elf ceased to marvel at the discovery as her thoughts shifted to paying other tributes to the hero.

He was why she was here. She hadn’t dared to hope that she’d have the opportunity to train beneath him, or even meet him, but the honorable tales of Sir Haldavar Neumenstrati unquestionably fueled her passion for knighthood. If it hadn’t been for his far-reaching influence, or his achievement of being the first (and to date, only) elf to serve the human king – to which Verona could credit the man for defaulting the acceptance of her own race – the recruit wouldn’t be standing on the academy grounds.

Her attention shifted to the knight commander as he placed the banner at the gate. Steadily watching him, her expression solemn and eyes alight with the fresh determination that only gazing upon one’s hero could inspire, her stare did not falter or shy away as the man gave her a turn of being studied.

The mounted commander flanked the recruits as he began his speech. Verona felt a swell in response to being one of the best the realm could offer, to having somehow earned the Crown’s attention. She failed to take any particular pride in being the best in any of the mentioned categories or otherwise, though, and she certainly hadn’t caused a flock of women to fall at her feet. Her medals and trophies from the tournaments had been melted down and sold. Her household was fortunate, of course, but not nearly so fortunate as most others of similar status: the half-elf had reason to prefer the funds such trinkets could fetch over basking in a display of her own glory.

“For all that you have accomplished, I tell you this: YOU ARE NOTHING!”

The half-elf couldn’t help but crack a smile at the sudden turn. As the knight commander continued to speak, dismissing former accolades and proclaiming their equal lowliness, the half-elf was unable to return to her formerly stoic expression.

“You will all have to earn the right to be here every minute, of every hour, of every fucking day!”

She could only hope that her continued smile wasn’t misunderstood. For once in her life, Verona felt as if she had an equal footing with her peers; whether it was true or not, the notion was as amusing as it was welcomed. There was no fear in her at the prospect of proving herself: it was just another chapter in the story of her life. Verona was accustomed to earning her right to be anywhere, being thoroughly and constantly reminded that she didn’t belong, especially among those of the nobility. It was pleasant to listen as the supposed specialness of her peers was so vehemently dismissed.

Verona managed to sober her expression as the knight commander spoke of the difficulty of the days ahead. The man’s forewarning of the possible unfortunate outcomes: injury, shame, death… the half-elf took it seriously enough, but was not immune to believing herself invincible to these pitfalls. Her inexperience and lofty dreams convinced her well enough of her ability; and so she merely felt a pang of regret for those that had suffered such outcomes.

The recruits were given ten minutes to drop their belongings in the barracks, or else take their leave. The final chance to escape was not considered for even a moment, of course, by the half-elf who believed this path to be her destiny. She couldn’t help but steal another glance at her hero as the group of recruits burst and scattered to claim their beds. Sir Haldavar Neumenstrati seemed to be looking through them all, as a collective body, and did not grace his admirer with a gaze in return. Attempting to appear casual, the young woman kept her stare brief, quickly turning her attention as her feet carried her to the barracks.

Her own belongings already stowed away, Verona used the opportunity to observe her peers. She took note of the names upon the beds as the other recruits found their places and overheard some conversations that enabled her to identify existing friendships among the group. Not everyone in the barracks was a stranger to her: most she recognized from the tournaments, at least by name, and a few she had competed against directly.

“Victor,” a familiar voice spoke from the side, requiring the woman to turn to face the speaker. “I’d heard that you received an invitation: I’m glad to see that you accepted.”

“Was there any doubt?” the half-elf responded with a small but boastful smile.

The young human seemed amused. As he approached, the significant height difference between the two became starkly obvious. Their contrast struck on many chords, the initiator of their conversation the embodiment of the tall, dark, and handsome: his features mirrored the sort of masculinity seen chiseled into the marble likeness of a war god. “Honestly, I feared I’d knocked some sense in to you in our last engagement,” he teased playfully.

“If only,” Verona chuckled. It was true, Raab Jherric had defeated her quite soundly in their last match; though that was not to say that he had won their rivalry. Being from neighboring territories, the two had attended many of the same tournaments and had faced the other in a plethora of events and occasions. They were fairly well matched and likely were even on the win count, though neither of them had gone so far as to keep track directly. “Alas, I am a glutton for punishment.”

Raab placed a friendly hand upon the woman’s shoulder, flashing a dazzling smile. “You’ve come to right place, then!” he responded cheerfully. “The suffering is about to commence,” he remarked as he moved to place his belonging upon his bed. “You’re familiar with the Run of Deciding, correct?”

============​

Crossing the finish line was a mercy. Verona’s run quickly dwindled to a walk, her mouth agape and her face darkly flushed as she huffed for air. Her legs suddenly felt impossibly heavy, and her head inconceivably light, causing her to fear that she might pass out.

Keep moving. Your muscles will seize up if you stop.

The recruit moved herself just far enough from the finish line to be considered out of the way of whomever came after her. With a heavy groan, she doubled over, allowing the burlap sack to fall from her shoulder as her hands found purchase upon the bend of her knees. Bursts of light obstructed her vision. It took several moments for her to summon the strength to lift her form back to a standing position; as she stood upright the intensity of the light spots increased and a numbness spread throughout her extremities.

Don’t faint. You can’t collapse.

Taking a cautious step forward, Verona stretched her arms out from her sides, giving the appendages a series of firm shakes. Her hands clenched and sprang open in tandem with the light lashes. Head tipped back, eyes closed: she focused on breathing more deeply.

One foot in front of the other. Just keep walking.

The side pain seeped back into her awareness, offering a heavy stab as retribution for her lack of recent attention. The recruit clenched her jaw and her expression twisted in pain, even as she was trying her damnedest to look like she was okay. She tilted her head forward and forced her eyes to open as her hands settled upon the flair of her hips.

Focus outside of yourself.

Her walking transformed to a pacing, her trajectory changing direction back towards whence she had come. Sight seeking the other recruits, she found three others had thus far completed the Run of Deciding. Sight too blurry and pocked for her to witness the finer details of their faces, she couldn’t recognize any of them, though their various forms of coping with exhaustive misery assured her that they were her peers. She knew at least one of them had beat her to the finish line…perhaps two? The woman couldn’t be sure. The second half of the run had been nothing but a blur of suffering and self-talk; the half-elf couldn’t rightly say she had been concerned with keeping tabs on her place as her lungs and whole body felt as if it had been set ablaze. But in the afterglow of such trials, one could not help but be curious. Surely, at least, one of these three had finished after her.

Despite her best efforts to ignore it, the half-elf continued to feel dizzy and weak; then, suddenly, she experienced a surge of sickness. Huffing out a heavy breath, Verona closed her eyes, trying to suppress the urge to –

Gods, no.

She retched. Doubling over once again, the contents of her stomach spilled onto the ground before her.

It was humiliating. In her exhaustion, however, Verona was unable to feel properly mortified. She allowed herself several long moments, hands gripping their purchase upon her bent knees, simply unable but to wait out the potential of a second wave. When she felt confident that her dispute with her stomach had been settled she released an anguished moan, straightening her stance as she wiped her mouth with the back of her forearm.

She very pointedly did not observe the witnesses of the scene as she begrudgingly trudged towards the stables. No doubt she had shown her weakness to the majority of the knights, the indignity of the fact entering her awareness without the benefit of seeing their expressions in response to the display.

“You okay, Victor?” asked Henry, one of the stablehands, in genuine concern.

The half-elf nodded affirmatively, failing to verbally respond.

“Can I help?” he asked. “Do you want water? Or… I could clean up—”

His offer was interrupted. “No, no,” Verona responded breathlessly. I need to do this myself, she wanted to respond, but lacked the energy to voice the sentiment. After washing up, she gathered the necessary supplies and departed the stables to clean up her mess. She didn’t have the strength to argue as Henry followed her; the stablehand didn’t attempt to force his assistance in the actual endeavor of mopping up vomit, but when the job was done he collected the waste and supplies so that Verona wouldn’t need to leave the finish line for a second time.

Rather than dwell on the most humiliating recent event, Verona used the short reprieve to reflect on her mistakes. Early on in the run, she’d pushed herself too hard: to attain a more distinguished place, motivated purely by her underlaying issues with her extended Ravenholt blood relations. The Run of Deciding had sent the recruits around Falls Keep, through Santor’s Grace, in to High Hill, and along Spurrose Gardens: Ravenholt manor was located at the intersection of the latter two. While Verona had doubted that her grandparents – or first cousins, whom lived at the estate – would take enough interest in watching for her (or for Victor, as the case may be), she nevertheless felt an intense pressure to perform better for their potential witness. She’d invited a sharp pain in to her side, a physical manifestation of the intangible hurt she felt whenever she allowed her family’s contempt to touch her sensitive soul, by expending far too much energy far too early in the game. Thereafter remained the run through Allgate, the Carcass, a loop around Palaestra, the Shambles, the Fetters, past Browall Keep, and then around Falls Keep before crossing the finish line beyond the gate. If nothing else, her faults during the Run of Deciding had served as a lesson to be mindful of stupid impulses – such as serving an unreasonable desire to impress people who would never approve of her, regardless how great she might become – and reminded her to consider the larger picture. Surely she would had suffered less if only she had kept a level head and properly paced herself.

…And just maybe she would’ve been able to hold down her breakfast.

 

[Traveler]

He should have bet a week, not a month. He’d be getting his hands on those fourteen hundred gold crowns that much sooner.

Sir Haldavar and Sir Thomas were the two knights who removed their armor and lifted packs to run alongside the recruits. The other knights, Sir Edward and Sir Hubert, sat astride their mounts and rode up and down the line, ensuring that no city troublemakers would jeopardize the run. They were also there to pick up any recruits who could no longer run and dump the lad unceremoniously across their saddles to be brought back to Falls Keep. Failing out of the run did not necessarily mean the recruit was ousted, but it would be a shame they’d have to bear under until they could run it intact.

As the motley group of lads began to make their way from the academy, some raced ahead of the two senior knights, wanting to impress their vitality upon their aged instructors. By the time they pass the Santor’s Grace parkway gate, some were already clutching at their sides where muscles had stitched in protest for their unwise eagerness.

The elf and human passed a few of these lads, and Sir Hubert astride his mighty warhorse took great delight in ridiculing the recruits. “Look at you! Letting a tiny elfling run faster than you! Is that all you have? Are you going to run home to your mothers and cry now?”

Sir Thomas chanced a glance at his previous mentor. “He’s laying it on thick this year,” he said between pants.

The muscular knight wheeled his horse around and trotted down the line of runners, calling on other recruits to breath, pick up their feet, and keep moving. “You just started, you lazy sluggards! Did you spend your entire lives doing needlework? I thought they sent me men, not little girls to train!”

Haldavar shot his partner a smile. “Remember your first run?” He wasn’t breathing any heavier than if he had been on a morning stroll.

“I’ll never forget. I thought I would never stop throwing up.” He glanced back as they came up to the Spurrose Gardens. “I think I’ll take up the rear from here on out,” he said, slowing his pace until he was jogging in place.

The elven knight nodded once, and continued, soon joined by William and Raab, two recruits that no one thought would have a problem passing the first year’s test, and set the pace for the rest of the run.

As other recruits passed him Sir Thomas called out encouragement. “You’re halfway there!” he yelled. “Breathe, pace yourselves, you can do it!” He caught the eye of Sir Edward as the Master of the Joust rode by, a collapsed recruit groaning across the saddle. He was surprised to see the diminutive form of Victor dashing by, despite the lad’s expression of pure torment. “Just breathe, one foot in front of the other!” he didn’t know if the lad could hear him, but he found himself grinning as he watched the youth run by. Then came the flailing arms and flopping feet that belonged to Richard, the young man who barely made it into the gates that morning.

Sir Hubert rode by. “He’s the last of them,” he said, nodding at Ricard to Thomas before spurring his horse onward.

Thomas fell in beside Richard. “Good job, let’s run together. You can do this.”

“The, (gasp!) bag…bigger’n…(pant) me,” he managed to say.

“Don’t talk, just breathe,” Sir Thomas counseled. He had taken a liking to the whip-like lad every since scooping him up at the gate. “We’ll run together. You can do it, just one feet in front of the other.” He thought of how much of life was like that. Success wasn’t in finishing first, or strongest, but merely in sticking to it until the task was done.

At the keep those who finished first with Sir Haldavar were invited to discard their packs, take a drink of cool water, and rest in the shade. Sir Jonathan encouraged them to walk around lest their muscles seized up. He was more monk than knight in many ways and was concerned with the temperament of the young men who passed through their gates. His eyes kept going back to the entry every time Haldavar returned with another single recruit or pair, hoping that he wouldn’t find Victor slung across Sir Hubert’s saddle.

He was surprised, then, when he saw Victor come in fourth. Fourth! That was a feat for any recruit, but for the half-elf, it was beyond encouraging. ‘Perhaps it’s the elven blood,’ Sir Jonathan mused. Despite their slight build and stature elves were known for having endurance that surpassed many humans. He watched the lad walking in a small circle, then began to huff heavily as if he was going to—

‘Yep, he hurled,’ Jonathan turned away to keep his smile from showing. Sixteen recruits started the run. Of those, only two had to be carried back. By the time Thomas and Haldavar ran through the gates with the final recruit, Ricard, the ones who had finished first had nearly ten minutes to rest.

Sir Tristan, the Black Knight, leaned towards Sir Hubert. “So, how did the cannon fodder fare?” He asked, his voice low enough to be heard by the brutal one without being heard by the others.

The muscular knight slid off his horse and handed the reins to a stable boy. “E’s not one of the ones we carried back,” he turned and regarded the lad who had retched so miserably, and was now cleaning up his own refuse. “The lad has heart.”

“Oh, cry me a lullaby,” Tristan sneered. “Heart’s only half the battle.”

Sir Edward, ever the leader of the training knights, walked over to where the young men were resting, sprawled across the dirt or leaning against the walls as if they were needed to hold them up. “Those of you who were finished first have had ample rest…” there were a few groans from the group, “and those of you who finished last don’t need it. Quickly now: AS-SEM-BLE!” He shouted the command and expected the sixteen to line up as they were before.

“We have a few squires who have preceded you and have succeeded where many of you will not.” He held out his hand and three young men walked over, marching in order and looking very official in their squire clothing. Sir Edward introduced them to the recruits.

The most advanced of the three, Reginald Martin, was a third year squire who served under Sir Robert Henry. Reginald was a tanned young man, not very tall, but stern of eye and looking stout and strong enough to carry his own in a battlefield, despite his status as still a knight’s assistant. He had a reputation that many were aware, of being viciously accurate on the tourney field.

The other two squires had been those chosen at the opening ceremonies that year and were second years squires. The taller of the two, Andrew, was blond-haired and lanky, and looked at the recruits with a hint of arrogancy in his eye. The other, Blaine seemed as solemn as the recruits before him.

“Alright!” Reginald clapped his hands once, loudly, to get the younger boys’ attention. “Your first task is simple: everyone take a burlap sack and a shovel. Go yonder,” he pointed to where Duncan was standing by a large hill of composted manure, “and fill your bag. Bring it to there,” he pointed to where Sir Jonathon stood in the shade of the other end of the yard, a good hundred yards away. “And build another pile. When you’re all done with that, report back here.” He glanced at the sun. “You have fifteen minutes, go GO GO!”

The cadre knights and the more advanced squires would do most of the training. Today that meant moving the dung pile four times, memorizing the knight’s credo before lunch, going through a series of exercises meant to stress them mentally, if not physically, by teaching them to move in formation, and then a quick shower, a meal, and bed. A few hours later they’d be roused from sleep to dress and do the Run of Deciding unfettered and in formation. The knights of choosing, Sirs Charles Brighton, Haldavar Neumentati, Thomas Garret and Tristan Beodin had retired to the upper balcony of the Azure Tower where they could watch the recruits, take notes, and judge them. Already some of the recruits were balking at this task and deeming it beneath their standing as sons of noble families. It was likely some of these would be gone at the end of the week.

Sir Thomas leaned against he stone balustrade and regarded the youths below them. He was a sucker for the underdog, and had already started hoping privately that the scrawniest of them all would somehow make it through. He turned to regard Haldavar as the slim elven knight moved to stand beside him. “You look disappointed my friend.”

“I look as I always look,” Haldavar cast a glance his way.

“Something is troubling you.”

His dark eyes moved to look beyond the bastard knight, then he returned his gaze to the field. Understanding that the elf did not wish to speak upon personal matters in the presence of the others, Thomas relented. There would be time, and if the occasion arose, and Haldavar deemed it necessary to share his concern with his once-squire, he would. Otherwise nothing would budge the man. As Thomas turned back to look at the field as well, he began to jot down notes regarding the recruits. Every day would be weighed, every obstacle, expression, and reaction, until those worthy to continue on the path to knighthood were chosen.

 

[Spark]

The recruit assembled at the call. She had been fortunate enough to have a moment of rest, though it was merely a moment; after cleaning up her mess, the woman had continued pacing, afraid that if she lost her momentum she wouldn’t be able to recover it. Even as she stood in line and listened to Sir Edward make his introductions of the three squires, the half-elf found great difficulty in staying still. She rocked her weight from one foot to the other. When she became aware of the sway, she forced herself to stop, and found her digits springing to life in protest. A few twitches and she balled her hands in to fists in attempt to control her compulsive movements.

Focusing upon the squires, Verona took a steadying breath. She corrected her posture, aiming to reflect the composure of those before her, squaring her shoulders and letting them drop as she released the tension of her muscles. Her sight traced each squire in turn, her eye recognizing two of the three from this year’s ceremonies. All of them had earned her respect, she acknowledged, and she was inspired by their presence: these men were tangible proof that her goal could be achieved.

Before she could romanticize too much on the subject, or realize that she was unwittingly wiggling her toes within her boots, Sir Edward gave the collective body of recruits their next task. Verona sprang from her position at the first go. She was grateful for the task, or at least for the opportunity to move, and no doubt she’d be the least deterred of her peers by the prospect of handling manure.

“Gods, the smell,” one of the recruits groaned as he approached.

Verona had already begun dropping heaps from her shovel in to a burlap sack. Her outward expression remained level, though at hearing the speaker her mind couldn’t help but smile. She didn’t have any advice to give – nor did she care to brag about how well suited she was to handle shit – and so she silently found amusement at others’ difficulties in the matter. It was downright comical to watch as some chose to carry their bags at an arm’s length from their bodies, attempting to spare their senses or their clothing. Such theatrics were short-lived of most, whereas they begrudgingly accepted their fates, though one young man was quite unable to overcome his distaste for the degrading task on his own. Ren Rowen did as he was commanded, of course, but he did so with a disgusted twist of his features, hands ever at a full arm extension from his body as he handled filth. It took taunts of his daintiness from his peers for him to conquer his shyness in the matter, and even then he looked on the verge of puking for the entirety of the exercise.

The recruits were all worn out: even the most physically advanced of them. There wasn’t much banter as they meaninglessly moved the mountain of manure four times. Nor were there complaints. Grunts of labor and intermittent sighs of exhaustion was all there was to hear as the young man fell into the routine. No doubt Verona wasn’t the only one to take a mental break as the mindless repetition took on her existence.

Thankfully, despite the volume of their labor, the morning seemed to pass quite quickly. For the half-elf, at least.

Her body felt numb as she recited the knight’s credo. She had known the words well before she arrived, and she had taken them to heart, and so even in her weariness she spoke with a passion that could only be fueled by righteousness.

Lunch came and went uneventfully. Verona gravitated towards the only recruit she’d spoken to since their arrival, though neither she or Raab had the energy or desire to make conversation. Sitting across from each other, they ate silently, both content to save their strength for what fresh hell might await them next.

Formation exercises. Exhaustion.

“It’s going to be miserable,” she recalled her brother’s words. She nearly laughed out loud at the memory, but thankfully managed to contain the inside joke – and its mirth – to her mind. She hated to admit it, but… So far Victor was right. This was miserable.

Why was she so happy, then?

The exhaustion is making you delusional.

Eventually the suffering came to an end: for the day, at least. The recruits, despite their fatigue, raced for the showers. Verona drug her feet, but couldn’t think of a reason to wander away from the group before she found herself standing inside a large tiled enclosure. There were a dozen stalls and a suspended pipe overhead that fed down to multiple showerheads. Pretending to be really interested in the plumbing – which was, admittedly, pretty advanced for the day – Verona missed the opportunity to be among the first to wash off the filth. It was but moments before more than half the recruits were stripped naked and gratefully cleansing and scraping themselves while soaking in the warmth of the water.

I wonder how it’s heated, the half-elf genuinely wondered, eyes tracing the pipes towards the source. In her experience running a bath involved boiling water to pour in the tub. Before she could speculate too much on what design might be behind the wall, however, she was approached by Raab.

He was nonchalantly removing his shirt. “Was the suffering enough to sate you?”

“Never.” She felt obligated to look towards a person when she spoke, and she did so now out of pure reflexes. Her gaze locked on to his face as she desperately avoided taking liberties of his exposed flesh.

Raab laughed good naturedly. He continued to undress, obviously not having any hang-ups such as modesty. “I’m glad to hear it,” he remarked sincerely. Raab was the eldest son of a wealthy merchant who had bought his title and land in Aarenthol, the Jerrick bloodline being of foreign nobility. As such, Raab had always been regarded as somewhat of an outsider. He couldn’t help but sympathize for the half-elf, who was even moreso an oddity than himself. He said something, but as he spoke, the tanned man dropped his pants.

Verona averted her gaze, failing to hear what he had just said, while suddenly finding interest again in the pipes. “Are showers as amazing as I think they are?”

“…What?”

“Maybe it’s because I’m from the country, but… I’ve never actually seen a shower before. Much less such an impressive plumbing arrangement as this.”

Raab’s gaze followed the trajectory of Victor’s sight. “Oh, uh…” he gave a nervous laugh. “Yes, I’m pretty sure that is only amazing because you’re a country noble.”

“Oh, well…” Verona fought the instinct of returning her gaze towards her conversation. “I guess I will stop marveling out loud, then.”

Her companion’s sight returned to her. For several moments he just stared, a quizzical expression on his face. It was obvious Victor was uncomfortable but Raab couldn’t quite decipher why. He finished undressing and fetched two towels. Upon his return he tossed one to his unofficial friend.

Verona saw the movement from her peripheral vision and turned just in time to catch the projectile. She also caught a bit more of a glimpse of Raab than she had intended. Thankfully she wasn’t embarrassed by his nudity, but she felt an immense guilt at being thusly exposed under false pretenses. “Uh…thanks.” She forced a small smile and counted the moments until she could turn her gaze away without it appearing that she was trying to look at anything else.

Suddenly certain that he understood Victor in the moment, Raab wrapped his towel around his waist. A lot of Aarenthol nobility believed the flesh to be sinful, or nudity to be distasteful, or…whatever. It wasn’t much of a concern. A little awkward, though. The two made idle niceties chat to fill the void. It was enjoyable for neither of them.

“Showers are open,” Raab eventually pointed out.

“I’m…going to wait.”

Again, the dark and handsome man considered Victor with a curious look. It wasn’t his style to pry, however: he knew that an extended silence was a query all of its own.

Verona returned Raab’s look a little defensively. “I only shower alone.”

“Suit yourself,” he returned casually. He was taking this information and speculating, of course, but he wasn’t going to pressure his peer to justify this seemingly firm limit. For all he knew there had been something serious in the half-elf’s past, like abuse, and so he felt a compulsion to make a joke to offset the heaviness of it all. “Just don’t take too long or there won’t be any food left in the mess hall,” he spoke as he wandered towards a shower stall. The first rotation of recruits were racing to get dressed, eager to have their dinner, rushing out the door as if to prove Raab’s point.

============​

Verona, despite her tardiness, was still fed. She loaded her tray with food and sought out Raab, sitting across from him once again. He appeared to just be starting to eat while most of the other recruits had already inhaled their dinners. She watched him for a moment. Something seemed off…

“…You’re left-handed?” Verona inquired, her expression showing uncertainty in the observation.

“Indeed I am.”

A pause lingered between them as the half-elf retraced her memories. “I am almost certain that you wield the blade in your right.”

“I’ve been known to do so,” Raab conceded easily, his lips creeping in to a sly grin.

Her gaze shifted from the man’s hand and to his face. “Why?” she asked in the tone of someone who had been betrayed. She had, after all: her victories against him in the tournaments hadn’t been victories at all.

“Just trying to level the playing field.”

His tone was devoid of pride and yet Verona found offense at the immenseness of his ego. She clenched her jaw and stared at him coldly.

“Oh, don’t take it so personally,” he spoke, the deep velvety quality of his voice aiming to soothe. “When I began registering for the tournaments, I was half a decade the senior to most contestants. With my experience and size advantage, what fairness could there be?”

Verona continued to regard him unfavorably. And silently.

“I take no pleasure in mopping the floor with little boys,” Raab continued, knowing the playful jab would at least spur his companion to respond.

“I am not—” Verona started. She stopped when she realized she had been baited. Rather than continue to deny the assignment, she interrupted herself with an annoyed huff. “I hope it was entertaining, at least,” she spoke bitterly.

“Entertaining?” Raab questioned innocently. “No. But it was useful exercise.”

Verona was ignoring him now – rather pointedly – her attention focused upon her plate. She took a bite, showing no enjoyment or gusto in the endeavor.

“I think everyone should spend time learning to wield their weapons in their non-dominant hand,” Raab continued, unshaken by his companion’s disgruntlement. “How well do you think you’d fare, dear Victor, if your right arm was injured in battle? Could you even swing a sword with your left?”

“Not without hurting myself,” Verona admitted dryly.

Raab laughed. Obviously, the half-elf hadn’t been making an attempt to be humorous, and yet – or perhaps because of the fact – the delivery was spot on hilarious.

Verona reluctantly lifted her gaze. She didn’t think it was funny, of course, but the musical quality of Raab’s laugh had an almost magical ability to lighten the mood. She stared at him between bites, her expression stoic.

“It’s a common enough issue,” her naturally tanned companion continued. “Everyone is so concerned with reaching their maximum potential, and so they fixate on their strengths. But what is most important is survival. One must train for the worst-case scenario, as often combat causes for unexpected or unfortunate circumstances.”

“Ah yes, very good training advice,” Verona responded flatly. She stabbed a morsel of food with her fork. “Justifications aside… I’m curious. How would our matches have gone, if you hadn’t handicapped yourself?” The half-elf stuffed a bite nonchalantly in her mouth, as if the answer to the question wasn’t significant.

Raab studied Victor, all too well aware of the sensitivity of the moment. The dark-haired man flashed a cocky grin. “Like I said… I would’ve mopped the floor with you. You and everyone else.”

Verona nearly choked. She wouldn’t admit it, but she had been hoping for some sort of ego reassurance. Struggling to swallow, she took a sip of her water to wash the food down her throat. “You’re a jerk,” she accused him after a couple of controlled coughs.

“At least I’m not a liar~”

Their conversation continued for some time, though the two mostly concentrated on feeding themselves after the initial banter.

Soon afterwards, they’d both retire in the barracks – only to be roused hours later to the Run of Deciding part 2, formation edition.

Three hundred and fifty-seven days to go...

 

[Traveler]

“What are you thinking?” Sir Thomas moved to stand at Haldavar’s side as the elven knight peered down into the courtyard. The human knight’s rugged face, further hardened by long hours spent in the sun, was a stark contrast to Haldavar’s smooth visage. Thomas looked upon his once-mentor curiously, wondering what qualities the man was seeking in an initiate.

It had been nearly twenty years since Thomas himself had been down in that court, hauling piles of manure back and forth. He remembered his struggles as a lad; his station in birth being more problematic than the tasks they were assigned. And the tasks, each and every one of them, had been so difficult that at times he had thought it would be a blessing to simply die where he stood. Now as he turned his own gaze down and looked over the lads as they hustled to and fro with their bags, he better understood the reasons behind such seemingly meaningless undertakings.

No one ‘needed’ manure to be hauled from one pile to another. A simple turning and watering by a stable hand would ensure it composted in the springtime sun. The task wasn’t about the piles of shit; it was partially about building young men’s strength, hearts and lungs. But that was only the physical development. The true growth in this task was whether they would humble themselves to do a something so lowly, or if they would balk.

Haldavar leaned his arms on the stone balustrade and looked at the recruits. He flicked an elegant finger towards a group of them. “Those men believe this task is beneath them,” he observed. “Or else they are offended by the task.” He looked to Thomas.

“And what of those who aren’t?” Thomas was watching a few who had thrown themselves into the task. Among them were the half-elf, the prince, the late-comer, and the foreigner.

The elf’s impassive eyes gleaned over the recruits. Despite his desire not to, he found himself watching Shalendra’s son. “I do not know. They may wear themselves out early, taking on more than their fair share of the work. The others may take advantage of their eagerness.” Hie gaze continued to follow Victor. The boy was smiling as he loaded bags of manure. Haldavar reflected on the week prior; Victor was doing this task a full week before anyone else arrived. He was well-suited to this chore, and seemed to be encouraging others in his own enthusiasm.

So, too, was the prince. William had much to prove. The sandy-haired, tall young man had striven to demonstrate that he was worthy not because of birthright but because of skill. Little did he know that he would be chosen if he made it through the academy without dropping out. His father had ensured that fact. Which meant, if unworthy, the prince would be taking the spot rightfully earned by one of the others instead of one that he deserved.

Sir Thomas clapped a hand on Haldavar’s shoulder. “Come on, there’s only so much you can evaluate in one day,” he said. “You’re running tomorrow, I take it?”

Haldavar smiled grimly. “I run every day, Thomas. Even when I am standing still.”

---

The barracks were quiet, though occasional snores and coughs interrupted the night. Young men shifted in their beds, their bodies aching from the day’s exertions and the excitement of finally being in the academy. The first day had been rough, but not overly so. The two recruits who had been carried back from the first run had somehow managed to make it through the dig and lug exercise, though they hoisted far less than their other companions.

There were sixteen in all, a motley group of noble sons, both by birth and by purchase, all measured against the same line. It was somewhat cruel; some where born to be taller or stronger by birth. Others were faster, smarter, or had better training. Yet all were expected to cross the same line in less than a year, and then once they did, only three would be chosen. It seemed unfair to those who had proven themselves worthy. ‘But it wasn’t unfair,’ thought Andrew Silverman as he sneaked into the dormitory. “Only the very best of the best get selected, and this sorry lot is far from worthy.” He grinned to himself as he brought the sword and shield in his hands together and began to bang them together, startling the recruits from their beds.

“Get the fuck out of bed you worthless maggots!” He pulled one from his cot by his feet and kept banging on the shield. “It’s time to run! Get into formation! What do you think this is, a vacation?” He enjoyed traumatizing the new ones, making their lives miserable and gleaning out the chaff.

William had anticipated the run, having had a more in-depth knowledge of the academy process than others, and pulled on his shoes quickly. He was one step behind Matthew, a tall lanky lad who seemed like he was all elbows and knees. When they tried to get through the door at the same time, Matthew’s elbow ‘accidently’ hit the young prince in the chin, sending him back into Richard, the tardy recruit who was carried through by Sir Thomas.

Down in the courtyard Blaine and Reginald, the two other vetted squires, were waiting to line up the recruits. As the younger men began to pour out into the dark yard, they yelled at them to line up, showed them their spots, and chided the stragglers.

Sir Hubert, the muscle-bound, short haired knight who was the permanent hand-to-hand instructor waited with his hands clasped before his hips. One everyone was in place he spoke.

“Good morning men! We’re going to start off with a light run around the city. You’ll be in groups of four, grouped by your time yesterday.” He grinned at them all, raking his eyes over the bleary-eyed recruits. “The fastest four, Raab Jherric, Victor Ravenholt, William Olmstein, and Karl Penerbrook – you’re running with Sir Haldavar.”

The second group was to run with Sir Thomas, the third with Sir Hubert, and the fourth with Sir Jonathan, the monkish knight who brought in Ricard. Each squad of four would run in formation and stay together. Sir Haldavar was dressed lightly today. He wore a close-fitting green jerkin over brown leggings, a short sword on his hips, elven forest shoes, and had tied his hair back to keep it out of his face. He was at least a head shorter than three of the four in his group, and though his eyes paused momentarily on Victor, he paid the half-elf very little mind.

“We will run in line,” he began, “stay an arm’s length behind the person in front of you. When I call ‘sprint,’ the one in the back will run quickly to the front of the line and take the lead. Questions?” He barely gave them time to think before clapping his hands once. “Good. The sooner we leave, the sooner we will be back. But before we begin, we stretch.” He led them through a short stretching period in which time Sir Hubert’s group left. Once the stretches were done, Haldavar started them off in a light pace. At the half mile mark their pace increased, and a hundred yards later he called for the first sprint.