The training square was subdued the following morning.
No jeers. No mocking whispers. Just the scuff of boots and the low murmur of breath held too long.
Mira stood at the edge of the sparring circle, her blue-stained skin still carrying yesterday's humiliation like war paint. She was steady, silent, eyes locked on the boy across from her—Garren. A towering recruit, several years her senior, with arms like firewood bundles and a cocky grin carved deep from repeated victories.
"She doesn't belong here."
"She's a kid."
"She's a mute."
Charlotte, reclining lazily on a carved bench beside the ring, twirled a parasol above her shoulder despite the generous shade. She popped a sugared grape between her lips and murmured, half to herself, "She's going to kill him."
Elias, arms crossed beside her, cast a wary look toward the ring. "You stacked the odds against him, didn't you?"
Charlotte blinked innocently. "Whatever do you mean? I merely suggested Garren as her opponent because he looked so smug and punchable."
Elias groaned, though a twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed amusement.
The Match Begins
Garren didn't bow.
He didn't even grip his wooden sword correctly.
He charged.
Mira moved.
Before the training master could say "Begin," she was behind him.
The boy whirled, irritated. He swung wide, reckless. She ducked low, fluid as a stream, and struck his calf with the flat of her blade.
Whap.
The crowd blinked.
Garren growled, enraged.
What followed was a blur: the clack and thud of wooden swords, dust spiraling beneath their feet. Garren swung with brute strength, each strike wild but powerful. Mira, in contrast, flowed. She slipped through his defenses like smoke through fingers—darting, weaving, striking with precision.
Then—an overhead blow.
Heavy. Predictable.
Mira didn't block.
She stepped aside—and smiled.
The blow came down exactly where she'd dropped a polished apple moments earlier.
Garren's foot hit the slick skin.
He slipped.
And fell.
Hard.
The training yard exploded into laughter.
Charlotte leapt to her feet, clapping with all the poise of a drunken noble at a masquerade. "Bravo! A performance worthy of an encore!"
Mira, composed, walked to Garren's side and held out a hand.
He stared at it. Jaw tight.
Then—grudgingly—he took it.
As she helped him up, he muttered, "You fight like a shadow."
Mira signed swiftly.
I fight to protect.
He paused. Then nodded—this time, not grudging at all.
"You're one of us."