The corridor leading out of the training hall—called the Armory Hall by the elders—was packed with boys, all lined up one behind the other, stomping in rhythm as they made their way into the yard. The clatter of armor was steady, like thunder rolling in the distance, and Thalia Drale walked with them, her fiery red hair bound into a single braid that bounced against her armor.
She kept her eyes forward, her steps measured and purposeful. The wooden axe she'd chosen was slung over her shoulder, its weight both comforting and grounding. But her ears... her ears betrayed her calm.
"I heard she had an episode during the whole situation report from the scouts," came a whisper.
"She's a witch, alright. That red hair says it all," another hissed.
Thalia's brow furrowed. Her shoulders tensed, jaw clenching tighter with every venom-laced word.
But it was the final whisper that burned like oil thrown on fire.
"To be a witch, a woman who wishes to pursue the path of a knight, and then be a princess too? Surely, she'll be no queen of mine."
The voice was behind her—close. Young. Arrogant.
Thalia stopped. For the briefest moment, everything around her slowed. The world faded into a tunnel of breath and blood. She heard nothing. She felt nothing. Just the deep, molten fury boiling in her veins.
She spun.
In one fluid motion, her body twisted, her grip shifting the axe from shoulder to swing. Her eyes locked on the source—the boy behind her—and aimed the blow for the soft space just beneath his chin.
Gasps erupted. Armor clattered.
Time seemed to freeze.
The axe halted—mere inches from his neck.
The boy stood frozen, eyes wide, too stunned to flinch. The wooden edge hovered there, humming from the force of her stopped swing. Despite being made of training wood, it was solid and shaped to kill. It could've taken his head.
Her breaths came fast, wild, her shoulders rising and falling with every ragged inhale. Her green eyes—once lively and curious—now flared with unfiltered wrath.
"Say it with thy chest," she said, her voice low, trembling with fury. "To my face."
The boy's mouth moved, but no sound came.
"I said," she barked, her voice now louder, rising over the murmur of the crowd gathering around, "Say it! With your chest, boy!"
"I... I... know not what you mean," he stammered.
"Save it for the yard!" came the thunderous bellow.
Everyone turned.
The old knight—scarred, gruff, with one eye clouded and lifeless—was standing just beyond the doorway. His hand rested lazily on the hilt of his own wooden sword.
"Lower your weapon at once," he said, voice firm and commanding. "You may be a princess, but here, you are simply a lad."
Thalia didn't turn. She kept her eyes locked on her opponent. But slowly, her shoulders began to fall. Her chest heaved with a long breath as she brought the axe down, the tip hitting the ground with a muted thud.
The scarred man studied her for a moment. Unimpressed. Unbothered.
"Tch," he scoffed. "I've seen that look before. It'll do you no good on the field."
Then, louder, for all to hear:
"Rage can either be your greatest weapon in battle, or your greatest undoing in war. Wield it—don't be ruled by it."
The boys shifted uncomfortably in the silence that followed. But before Thalia could respond—
WHAM.
Her legs were swept clean from beneath her.
The ground rushed to meet her. She hit the mud hard, the breath knocked from her lungs. Her braid splayed out beneath her like a fallen banner.
Stunned, she looked up.
The boy had swept her—his move fast, unexpected, and brutally effective. His face was a mask of anger and fear, a twisted mix of pride and panic. Around them, the others formed a circle.
Thalia blinked. Then... she smiled.
The corner of her lip twitched. She smirked.
Rolling onto her feet in a single motion, she adjusted her grip on the axe. Her knuckles were caked in mud, but her stance was sharp, precise. Her eyes now gleamed—not just with fury—but with anticipation.
The boy squared up, a wooden sword gripped tightly in his hands.
Their trainer began circling them slowly, his eye flicking between stances and feet.
"Second lesson, lads," he said. "To close your eyes before the enemy is to offer your neck to the sword. Stay awake. Stay alive."
Thalia's gaze was fixed.
He was nervous. She could see it in the way his fingers twitched, the slight shift of weight from one foot to the other. But beneath the fear, she also saw something else—potential. The flicker of a fighter. He just didn't know how to use it yet.
She smiled again. This time, no smirk. No mockery.
Just hunger.
Her boots struck the ground hard as she broke into a sprint. The snow crunched beneath her as her cloak flared behind her like a banner in storm wind.
The boy braced.
Too slow.
She lunged, raising the axe above her head, leaping high, her shadow looming over him.
He ducked and rolled, narrowly missing the crushing blow. The axe slammed into the mud where he once stood.
Thalia spun, turning to face him.
He was ready—sword aimed in a thrust.
She moved before he could.
In a blink, she was at the tip of his blade. Her hair whipped across her face as she twisted, bringing the axe down in one fierce stroke.
CRACK.
Wood splintered.
His sword shattered, fragments flying like dust. All that remained was the hilt.
He stared at it. Disbelieving.
Then—he tried again.
Another spin kick.
This time, she wasn't fast enough to dodge.
He swept her legs once more, and Thalia landed flat in the mud again, her armor thudding heavily against the earth. The circle erupted in murmurs.
She growled, rolled, and sprung back to her feet with a snarl, this time more feral.
The boy stood, panting, gripping his broken hilt like it still had power. Mud covered his face, his eyes red with humiliation.
Thalia approached slowly, step by step. Her axe raised.
He lifted the hilt like a shield.
She brought the axe down.
"Yield! I... I yield!"
The words came sharp and desperate.
"Enough!" the old knight roared.
He stepped between them, waving Thalia back with a flick of his fingers. She halted, her breathing still heavy.
He turned to the boy in the mud.
"Ought to be ashamed of yourself. Bested by a woman. And younger, too. Gods save this kingdom."
Then, to Thalia:
"A Drale, eh? I suppose you are."
He turned away from her, addressing the crowd.
"Drale wins this one! Two others!" he barked.
A pair of boys stepped forward.
"You two, off to the benches. Fritzberg—get yourself out of the mud. Unless that's where you'd prefer to sleep. I can assist with that."
A chuckle rippled through the yard.
Thalia turned. Her gaze lingered on the boy—Fritzberg—still on his knees. For a second, she considered offering him a hand.
She didn't.
Instead, she walked toward the benches. When she sat, several of the other lads joined her. One to her left. Two to her right. A few nodded, subtle signs of respect. The scorn was fading, if only slightly.
They watched the rest of the matches together. Blow after blow. Mud flying. Boys bruised, bloodied, battered.
When the last pair finished, the old knight stepped forward.
"You all are going to die," he said, his voice flat.
Silence.
"Train hard. Fight hard. Die hard."
He turned, pulling a flask of ale from his belt as he walked away.
Thalia stared after him. That phrase... die hard. It echoed in her mind.
What did he mean by that?
She didn't ponder long. She stood, brushed the mud from her leggings, and made her way back to the keep.
Her chambers were quiet, her braid undone. She was doing pushups, the sound of her breath the only thing breaking the silence. Sweat trickled down her temple.
The door opened.
A servant entered, carrying fresh linen.
Thalia didn't stop.
Pushups became pull-ups. Pull-ups became sit-ups. Each rep burned. Each breath stung. She counted aloud, voice breaking with effort.
Four weeks passed.
Every day, she was there. At dawn. At dusk. In the mud. In the snow. With axe in hand. Swinging. Sparring. Winning.
Boys who once mocked her now nodded as she passed. A few even trained with her. None could best her.
She stood taller now. Stronger. Her muscles more defined, her stance unshakable. She was learning. Growing. Becoming.
A knight not just in name, but in being.
This was what she wanted.
And now... she was becoming it.