Six months later, in the small rural town at the edge of the Kingdom of Dalles, dawn broke gently over the autumn fields. The rising sun cast a warm, golden hue across the fading darkness, brushing the horizon with soft amber and rose tones. The land stretched out in gentle undulations, its grain fields heavy with ripened crops awaiting harvest. Chickens clucked softly within their coop, while cows shifted lazily in the dim light of their shed, the quiet rhythm of farm life beginning anew under the crisp, cool air of the season.
Meanwhile, in a shabby cabin, Reed was busy preparing his breakfast—two crisp toasts spread with his favorite berry jam. Once finished, he took a cold shower and slipped into his brown uniform. With his freshly polished black shoes on, he stepped outside to begin the day.
The town guard station sat at the very edge of town, where cobblestone roads gave way to the forest's edge. It was a small but sturdy stone building with a single holding cell for prisoners, a small archive and a modest office for the captain. Behind it lay the so-called training grounds, which were really just a patch of forest that had been cleared of undergrowth.
This morning, it was already alive with the sound of steel striking steel. The rhythmic clash echoed through the crisp air, broken only by the occasional grunt or the crunch of boots on dirt.
Reed stepped into the open dirt clearing just in time to jerk his hand away from a near miss. Before he could recover, his opponent lunged, her blade catching the morning light in a sharp flash. He brought his sword up, but she was faster—two quick steps closed the gap, and the cold edge of her weapon hovered at his throat.
"I surrender!" he blurted, feeling the faint chill of metal against his skin.
Helena didn't lower her weapon immediately. Her gaze swept over him with the cool, weighing calm of someone judging both his skill and his nerve. Only after a long beat did she step back, lowering the sword with a small, precise flick of her wrist. Her expression a mixture of confusion and disappointment.
"Say, Reed—you're not hiding some amazing swordsmanship skills or something, are you?" Helena asked, letting out a light sigh.
Reed blinked at her, unsure if she was joking or serious. "Of course not, Lieutenant Helena. Why would I ever do that?"
"How would I know?" she replied, tilting her head slightly. "It's just… your rank doesn't exactly match your skills. You sure you didn't pull something shady to get it? Then again…" She gave a short, humorless laugh. "That's not even possible—not with our system. Not even with a bribe."
He forced a dry smile, though the jab landed harder than he cared to admit. Reed had never been great at handling her bluntness—it was like sparring with her sword all over again, except the blows went straight for his pride instead of his neck. And then there was the part he tried not to think about—the real reason for his rank, the one he preferred to keep buried.
"Glad to know my incompetence is officially verified," he muttered, trying to brush past the comment, dusting off his uniform sleeve more for something to do than out of any real need.
Helena's brow twitched upward, but she didn't comment. Instead, she turned and gestured toward the sparring circle again. "Come on. Let's see if you can last longer than a minute this time."
Reed sighed inwardly, already bracing himself for the inevitable humiliation.
They took their positions in the packed dirt, the faint morning mist still clinging to the air. Reed gripped his practice sword tighter this time, telling himself he'd stay on the defensive until she made a mistake—if she ever did.
"Ready?" Helena's voice carried no warmth.
"Not really," he admitted.
"Good. That means you'll pay attention."
She moved first, as he knew she would—quick, decisive, the way only someone with years of muscle memory could. The first strike came high; he blocked it, the impact jolting up his arm. She pivoted instantly, swinging low toward his side. He barely twisted out of the way, his boots skidding in the dirt.
"Better," she said, her tone suggesting she meant slightly.
Reed tried to counter with a thrust, but she parried it effortlessly and closed the distance again. Their blades locked for a heartbeat, her strength pressing into his until his grip faltered. He felt the shift in her stance and knew what was coming—but still couldn't react in time.
A quick flick of her wrist, a step around his guard, and the tip of her sword hovered at his chest.
"Fifty-five seconds," she announced. "An improvement."
"At this point, you're just forcing me to improve," said Reed, slumping his shoulders in an exaggerated show of fatigue, as though the weight of the sword alone might pull him to the ground.
"Hey, who's forcing you? If I remember correctly, you're the one who asked me to train you. You should be grateful I'm even free enough to waste my time on a novice like you," replied Helena, her words sharp enough to cut without the sword in her hand. She fixed him with a glare that wasn't entirely hostile, but carried the kind of authority that made him straighten his posture a fraction despite himself.
"That's not what I meant, Lieutenant Helena. You know how grateful I am to you. It's just—" Reed's sycophantic smile wavered, shifting into something more hesitant, "—is there really a need for real swords? I mean, since I'm just a novice, couldn't we use wooden ones?"
"A true fight is done with real swords," Helena replied without missing a beat, her tone flat but edged with something that cut sharper than her blade. "If you don't want that, then feel free to quit. Only pick up a sword if you're ready to face a real fight—one where death can come for you at any moment. If you don't even have that much resolve, then you're better off staying far away from the blade."
Her words hung in the air, firm and immovable.
Reed didn't answer right away. He felt the weight of them settle on his shoulders, heavier than the weapon in his hand. After a moment, he lowered his gaze, then gave a small, deliberate bow. When he straightened, his voice carried a hint of genuine warmth behind its usual levity.
"Thank you, Lieutenant. I'll try my best not to disappoint you—" his grin returned, lighter now, "—too much."