"What is happiness? A fragment of bliss that feels the soul with a sense of accomplishment and desires long yearned for—though for a fleeting moment."

  —SEVEN YEARS AGO—

  Wooden swords clashed in a fevered rhythm, echoing across the training grounds of Valedrin Castle. Dust stirred beneath the stomping feet of dozens of trainees, all clad in the brown sleeveless tunics and black breeches of Valedrin’s foot soldiers-in-training. Their uniforms clung with sweat as they struck and parried under the unyielding gaze of Commander Zenva.

  Then just a commander—before his rise to captain—Zenva stood on an elevated platform, arms folded across his broad chest. A true son of Virelia, his light brown skin and dark auburn hair, the same shade as his neatly trimmed goatee, caught the sunlight. His voice rang out in curt commands, his eyes sweeping across the troop of men and women—though men dominated the ranks.

  Behind him loomed the King’s Tower, tallest of the six structures forming the castle’s iconic hexagonal layout. It rose above two-story stone buildings, each flanked by slender towers painted white with green bands. Together they enclosed the massive compound, except for one side that descended in steep stone steps to the jetty.

  At Zenva’s command, sparring ceased. Pairs broke apart, forming ranks for formation drills.

  Ryob Koril stepped back from her latest opponent, panting. Sixteen years of age, like most here, she moved with a soldier’s grace despite exhaustion. Earning her place as a soldier of the First Rank should have guaranteed active patrols, but under Zenva, rest was a luxury. Drills never stopped. He promised they’d live long enough to thank him.

  Another soldier approached, tan-skinned and athletic, her short auburn hair framing a serious face.

  “Drink,” she said, passing Ryob a waterskin.

  Ryob gulped deeply. “Thanks, Shai.”

  Shai sat beside her. “What rank are you aiming for?”

  Ryob shrugged. “Royal Guard would be nice, but… I’m looking higher. Elite Knight.”

  Shai arched a brow. “That’s no small ambition. That role’s built for men with bigger arms and fewer thoughts.”

  Ryob smirked. “Then they haven’t met Zenva. If I can survive him, I can survive anything.”

  Her words trailed off as a group of cavalry Knights strode into the courtyard. Whispers rose. Girls giggled at one in particular—the soldier they called the Lion of Valedrin.

  He was striking. A smooth beige complexion marked him as true Valedrin, yet his jade-green eyes betrayed mixed blood. His mane of curly dark-blonde hair, streaked with black, only added to the legend. Rumors swirled—of him dueling one of Valedrin’s ten captains. Even the Princess Heir herself was said to have eyes for him, and indeed, Ryob spotted her on a third-floor balcony above, watching.

  Ryob stared too long.

  Shai nudged her. “Stop gawking, or I’ll think you’re in love with him.”

  Ryob cursed under her breath. Her gaze flicked to the giggling girls. Maybe I’m no different from this sorry bunch… but that has to change. And what better chance than this?

  She smirked then rose suddenly and shouted across the courtyard. “Ser Cael!”

  The courtyard hushed. Cael—the Lion of Valedrin—lifted his head, eyebrow raised.

  “I challenge you to a duel.”

  Gasps rippled. Cael tilted his head, curious at her audacity, then nodded.

  A ring formed instantly. Shai pressed Ryob’s practice sword into her hand, smirking. “You’ve got this. But when you’re face-down in the dirt, I’ll happily massage the bruises.”

  Ryob chuckled, brushing damp strands of chocolate-brown hair from her face. She stepped into the circle. Cael was taller, his stance confident, movements sleek and practiced.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  The crowd began clapping, steady and rhythmic.

  They circled. Tested stances. Then— The clash.

  Wood struck wood. Ryob’s arms rattled with each parry. Cael was faster, his counters sharp, his style advanced. It felt as though he saw her moves before she made them. But she held her ground—dodging, feinting, pressing him back. They moved like dancers across the circle, the crowd erupting with every exchange.

  Breath of Virelen. He’s no fraud.

  Her muscles burned. Sweat stung her eyes. Ten minutes? More? Cael hardly broke a sweat. Then, with a swift maneuver, he disarmed her, her sword clattering away.

  Ryob lifted her hand, grinning in defeat.

  The compound roared. To her shock, the crowd surged forward, lifting her up in celebration. Through the mass of faces, she caught Cael’s eye. He dipped his head, smiling faintly in respect.

  —————

  Ryob rode through the cobbled streets of Iskavell’s capital as an Elite Knight, astride a bay light-horse that moved with quiet strength. The city bustled, but crowds parted at her approach.

  The streets wound upward toward the royal castle, its high walls gleaming under the morning sun. Around her, timber-and-stone buildings pressed close, market stalls spilling color into the thoroughfare.

  Beside her rode Lady Dalmia Effion, wife of Lord Elfic Effion, daughter of foreign nobility. Slightly older than Ryob, she carried herself with delicate grace in flowing pink robes embroidered with purple thread.

  Ryob’s own uniform—a short crystal-green silk coat over black breeches and boots—clung to her curvy yet toned frame. Her short, rich chocolate brown hair swept to one side, exposing the bold shave of her scalp.

  The people bowed to Dalmia, but their eyes hardened when they looked at Ryob.

  “Still haven’t warmed to you, have they?” Dalmia murmured.

  Ryob smirked. “They love me. They just don’t know it.”

  Dalmia laughed softly, her voice like porcelain hiding steel. Ryob’s eyes flicked to rooftops. Too many places to hide.

  “I can’t decide if I should feel proud or insulted,” Dalmia mused.

  “About?” Ryob asked.

  “About Valedrin. About this escort.” She gestured to the retinue behind them. “Valedrin soldiers protecting an Iskavell lady. Strange, don’t you think?”

  “Politics is stranger than war,” Ryob muttered.

  “Mm. And more dangerous.” Dalmia tilted her head. Then, casually: “Do you ever think of loving someone?”

  Ryob blinked. “Where in winds tail did that come from?”

  “I’ve known you four years. Sharp. Loyal. Deadly. But not once have I seen you look at someone the way a woman does when she’s lost in thought.”

  Ryob smirked. “And how should that look be?”

  “A little softer. A little foolish.”

  “Then I’m grateful to be neither.”

  “Are you?” Dalmia’s tone lowered. “They say you’re in love with my husband.”

  Ryob’s hand tensed on the reins—not because it was true, but because the rumor had reached Dalmia too. Her laugh was hollow. “Who’s they? Washermaids? Bored squires?”

  “Everyone,” Dalmia said simply.

  Ryob’s face hardened. “I’ve served Lord Elfic since he was crowned under King Isen. That’s all. But if whispers trouble you, I’ll guard just you from now on. Besides, if I wanted a husband, I’d pick one with less paperwork and more brains.”

  That drew real laughter at last. “So there is someone,” Dalmia pressed. “A man?”

  Ryob sighed. “You’re too sharp for me. You baited me.”

  “Well, asking directly is like paperwork. So, I used my brains.”

  Ryob chuckled, conceding. “He’s miles away. Blind to affection, thick-headed to love. But caring. When this is over, I’ll have to seduce him.”

  Dalmia grinned. “Careful, Knight. That’s swordplay you lack. Luckily, I’m an expert. Elfic stood no chance.”

  Before Ryob could answer, a Valedrin soldier rode up, face grave.

  “High-Ser Ryob. Report from Second Post—dissidents spotted entering a tavern. Could be rebels.”

  Ryob’s jaw clenched. She turned to Dalmia. “Stay with the guard. I’ll meet with you later, I'll handle this.”

  “Alone?”

  Ryob smirked. “Wouldn’t want to get rusty.”

  She spurred her horse, hooves drumming through the streets.

  The alley was dark, her squad waiting. A soldier pointed at a tavern.

  “Meeting’s inside.”

  Ryob slid on her black gloves. “Stand by. I’ll handle it.”

  She pushed the doors open. The tavern fell silent. Sweat, smoke, and stale fermentation thickened the air. Shadows clung to the corners.

  At the back, ten men sat hunched around a table. Scarred hands. Hardened eyes. Rebels.

  Ryob crossed the room like she owned it, tossing a silver to the counter, ordering a drink. She sipped, then turned toward them.

  “Good day, gentlemen. If you don't mind, I’m looking for a sorry bunch.”

  No answer.

  She smirked. “Is this rebellion now? Looks more like a sad party.”

  A hulking man rose, face a map of scars. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, walking in here alone.”

  “And you’ve got a lot of chin for someone about to lose it.” Ryob eyed his thick chin.

  Another sneered. “Thought Valedrin dogs only barked behind walls. Looking for a warm bed, girl?”

  Ryob’s smile was slow. “Let’s find out. But if you turn yourselves in, I’ll only break a few bones.”

  Laughter erupted. Steel flashed.

  Ryob laughed with them—then struck.

  Her boot cracked into the brute’s groin. He collapsed, and she smashed her mug over his skull. She spun, elbowed another in the throat, flung a third across a table. A blade grazed her arm. She countered with a brutal fist to the nose.

  Bodies fell. Groans filled the air.

  By the time her soldiers burst in, it was over. Ryob stood bloodied but grinning among the wreckage.

  “Orders, High-ser?” one asked.

  She nodded at the groaning heap. “Bind them. The big one pissed himself—clean that before tossing him in my cell.”

  She strode into the street, wiping blood from her mouth. A cool breeze brushed her cheek.

  “Breath of Virelen. If this is me out of shape… winds help the next bastard who crosses me.”