barracks held a different silence than the rest of the manor—not the oppressive quiet of a house in mourning, but the comfortable hush that settled over warriors at the end of a long day. Nyx moved through the common room with her bucket and rags, the familiar weight of exhaustion settling into her young shoulders as she scrubbed away the day's accumulation of mud, sweat, and spilled ale.
The soldiers had begun their evening retreat, their heavy boots echoing against the stone floors as they made their way to the sleeping quarters. Some nodded at her in passing—a small kindness that never went unnoticed—while others simply stepped around her as if she were part of the furniture. She preferred it that way. Invisibility was safety in the world she inhabited.
As the room gradually emptied, Nyx found herself alone with the weapons that lined the walls. Swords of every length and design hung in neat rows, their blades gleaming despite the day's use. Practice shields bore the scars of countless training sessions, and suits of armor stood at attention like silent sentinels guarding the memories of battles past.
It was here, surrounded by the tools of war, that her mind began to wander.
She could almost see her mother in this very room, moving with the fluid grace of a born warrior. Lady Elara would have been magnificent, her golden hair bound back in a practical braid, her violet eyes focused with deadly intent as she faced opponent after opponent. Nyx imagined her dancing through the ranks of the Duke's finest soldiers, her sword singing through the air as she disarmed one, then another, then another still.
"The Valkyrie of the Battlefield," Nyx whispered to herself, pausing in her scrubbing to gaze up at a particularly fine blade mounted on the wall. "She must have held swords just like these."
Without thinking, she reached up and carefully lifted the weapon from its resting place. It was heavier than she had expected, the steel cold against her palms, but there was something undeniably right about the weight of it in her hands. She had only intended to clean it—polishing the weapons was part of her evening duties—but as she held the sword, something shifted inside her chest.
For the first time in her short, brutal life, Nyx felt a spark of something that might have been hope.
She moved the blade tentatively through the air, watching how the lamplight played along its edge. In her mind's eye, she was no longer a servant girl scrubbing floors—she was her mother's daughter, swift and deadly, commanding respect instead of bearing contempt.
"Well now, what have we here?"
The voice made her freeze, the sword suddenly feeling like a blazing brand in her guilty hands. She spun toward the sound, expecting to see her father's furious face and preparing for the beating that would surely follow. Instead, she found herself looking up at a man she recognized but had never dared to speak with.
Knights Commander Gazef Blackwood stood in the doorway, his weathered face creased with curiosity rather than anger. He was a mountain of a man, broad-shouldered and battle-scarred, with graying hair that spoke of decades spent in service to the realm. Unlike the other knights, who either ignored her completely or whispered behind her back about the "cursed child," Sir Gazef had always looked at her with something that might have been kindness.
More importantly, he had never looked away.
"I'm sorry, Sir Gazef," Nyx stammered, moving to return the sword to its place on the wall. "I was only cleaning it, I swear. I didn't mean—"
"Hold." His voice was gentle but commanding, the tone of a man accustomed to being obeyed. "Don't put it down just yet, child."
Nyx froze, the sword trembling in her grasp. She had seen what happened to servants who overstepped their bounds, had watched from shadows as her father's displeasure fell upon those who dared to touch what belonged to their betters.
But Sir Gazef was studying her with those keen gray eyes, and there was no anger in his expression—only a careful, measured interest that made her heart race for entirely different reasons.
"Tell me, little one," he said, stepping fully into the room and closing the door behind him. "What do you know of your mother?"
The question caught her off guard. No one spoke of her mother to her—not the servants, not the nobles who occasionally visited, and certainly not her father. Lady Elara had become a forbidden subject, a ghost that haunted the halls but was never acknowledged in daylight.
"I... I know she was called the Valkyrie," Nyx said carefully, unsure if this was a trap. "I've seen her portrait."
Sir Gazef nodded slowly. "Aye, that she was. The finest warrior I ever had the privilege to serve alongside." His eyes grew distant with memory. "She trained in this very room, you know. Bested every knight in the duchy, including myself, before she was eighteen summers old."
Nyx's breath caught in her throat. To hear someone speak of her mother with reverence instead of sorrow, with pride instead of blame—it was like water to a woman dying of thirst.
"Would you like to know a secret?" Sir Gazef continued, and when she nodded eagerly, he smiled. "The first time I saw your lady mother hold a sword, she was no older than you are now. Even then, there was something special about the way she moved."
"Really?"
"Really." He gestured toward the blade in her hands. "So tell me, daughter of the Valkyrie—can you show me what flows in your blood?"
Nyx stared at him, hardly daring to believe what she was hearing. "You... you want me to...?"
"Show me," he said simply.
For a moment, she hesitated. This felt like standing at the edge of a cliff, knowing that the leap might save her or destroy her completely. But as she looked into Sir Gazef's weathered face and saw only encouragement, she made her choice.
She lifted the sword.
What happened next defied explanation. The blade seemed to come alive in her hands, its weight shifting from burden to extension of her very soul. Without conscious thought, her feet moved into a perfect fighting stance, her grip adjusted to the precise position that would give her maximum control and power.
Then she began to move.
The sword sang through the air in a series of graceful arcs, each motion flowing seamlessly into the next. She had never held a weapon before, never received a moment's training in the arts of war, yet her body moved as if guided by muscle memory older than her own existence. The blade danced around her like liquid silver, weaving patterns in the air that spoke of ancient knowledge and inherited skill.
When she finally came to rest, the sword lowered to her side, she found Sir Gazef staring at her with undisguised amazement.
"By the gods," he breathed. "You truly are her daughter."
Nyx felt tears prick at her eyes—not tears of pain or fear, but of something she had almost forgotten existed: joy.
"Sir Gazef," she whispered, "what does this mean?"
The knight commander was quiet for a long moment, his gaze moving from her face to the sword in her hands and back again. When he spoke, his voice was filled with quiet determination.
"It means, little Valkyrie, that your real education is about to begin."
For the first time in her young life, Nyx smiled—and meant it.