(Nora's POV)
I've always been tall for my age, my frame built more for fighting than sitting still. My long black hair falls down my back like smoke rising from a forge, and the villagers often whisper about my eyes—strange, unusual, a shade of purple that doesn't belong in a place like Steelhaven.
Steelhaven has been my world from the very beginning. A village of warriors and blacksmiths, where the clang of hammer on metal is as constant as the wind, and the smell of burning coals lingers on every corner. Some say our walls echo with the roars of past battles, others claim the forges never truly cool. For me, Steelhaven is both home and challenge.
I grew up with only my father. My mother died the day I was born, leaving him with the impossible task of raising me alone. He always said he had to love me enough for both of them, but I could see the heaviness in his eyes whenever her name was spoken. His way of showing love was keeping me safe, which often meant keeping me from the very path I wanted most.
Books never held my attention. Stories written on paper felt small compared to the thrill of real action. What I loved—what set my heart racing—was the feel of metal in my hands, the weight of a weapon I had forged myself. On quiet nights, after the shop had closed and the village streets were empty, I would sneak to the yard. There, beneath the flicker of torchlight, I tested the balance of blades I had shaped in secret. Swing after swing, strike after strike, I drilled until my arms ached and sweat dripped down my back. I dreamed of becoming more than a blacksmith's daughter. I wanted to be the strongest warrior Steelhaven had ever known. The first woman to wield a sword in battle.
One afternoon, while polishing the edge of a man's axe, the thought slipped from my mouth before I could stop it.
"Father," I asked, my voice careful but eager, "do you think I'll ever be able to beat Jack in a fight?"
His hammer froze for just a second, then came down harder than usual on the iron before him. The shop filled with the sharp ring of metal. Finally, he muttered, "We've talked about this. No one will take you seriously. Stop daydreaming and work. We'll speak after the shop is closed."
The words landed like stones in my stomach. I knew he was only trying to protect me, but each dismissal felt like another chain binding me to the forge. I bit back the argument building on my tongue and lowered my head, focusing on the grind of the whetstone against the axe blade. Still, inside, the fire only burned hotter.
One day, I promised myself, I would prove him wrong.
(Astara's POV)
I've always thought of myself as fairly average, nothing extraordinary beyond what the villagers insist on pointing out. To them, I'm the "true beauty" of Everbloom, with hair like spun gold that gleams whenever the sun touches it, and eyes as bright as crystals pulled from the riverbed. But beauty never mattered much to me. What did matter was Everbloom itself—my home since the day I was born.
Everbloom is a place of color and sweetness, where flowers spill over the edges of stone fences and orchards stretch as far as the eye can see. The air always carries the fragrance of something blooming, and the market stalls are heavy with baskets of ripe fruit. Outsiders come here for beauty and trade, but for me, the village is simply the background of my life.
I was raised in the home of the village chef. That meant there was always the smell of stews and bread drifting through the windows, but not much warmth from the people who should have cared the most. My mother still lives, though she has never truly loved me. My father is no different. They keep busy with their own lives, and I have long since accepted that their attention doesn't belong to me.
Books became my refuge. I loved them more than anything, slipping into their pages when the rest of the world felt too cold. I wasn't fond of fighting, but I wasn't helpless either. If someone forced me, I knew how to draw a dagger. My aim was sharp, my legs strong—I could run fast, jump high, and hold my own if I had no other choice. Still, I preferred the quiet rustle of pages to the clash of steel.
That afternoon, I was curled on my bed with a book open in my lap. The story was about great battles, strategies, and heroes who rose against impossible odds. The kind of tale that set my mind alight with possibilities. My younger brother came crashing into the room without knocking, his usual whirlwind of energy disrupting the peace.
"Why are you reading again? Aren't books boring?" he asked, planting himself in the doorway.
I didn't bother looking up. "This is how people get smart, Abram. And I'm not reading nonsense. This one is about battlefields and combat. What do you want?"
He shifted, frowning when he realized his interruption hadn't drawn much attention from me. "My friend's brother came over. He asked to see you. Derk… I think that's his name."
Finally, I lifted my eyes from the page. "Derick," I corrected calmly. "His name is Derick. And he's my boyfriend. Just send him up when you go back downstairs."
Abram sighed, rolling his eyes the way he always did when I dismissed him, then shuffled out of the room. A few minutes later, there was another knock, softer this time, before Derick stepped inside.
He looked around, spotting the book still in my hands, and shook his head with a faint, amused smile. "Reading again? I told you, you don't have to. I'm the man. I'll protect you."
I forced a small smile, though inside my chest a flame flickered hotter. I sighed and lowered my gaze back to the page, the words blurring as a single thought echoed through me: One day, I'll prove them all wrong. Every last one of them.
(Clover's POV)
I've always been small for my age. People never let me forget it, as though my height was a measure of my worth. Maybe that's why the memory of being abandoned doesn't sting as sharply anymore—because in a way, I've always been overlooked. Left behind the very day I came into this world.
Hidehall has been the only home I've ever known. A village built on hides and meat, where the streets smell of smoke from the butchers' stalls and leather hangs drying in the sun. Everywhere you turn, there are racks of salted meats and pelts stretched taut across wooden frames. Outsiders call it harsh and unrefined, but to me it's the place that raised me, even when its people didn't.
At first, I was left at the orphanage. A squat stone building with creaking doors and too many children crammed into narrow beds. For a while, it was all I had. Until the day they decided I wasn't worth the trouble. Too stubborn, too outspoken, too different. They sent me away, and suddenly the world was mine to survive in alone.
I found work with a farmer on the edge of the village. His land stretched wide, dotted with cows grazing in pastures and ducks splashing in the pond. He wasn't unkind, but he wasn't warm either. Businesslike. Still, he offered me a chance when no one else did. Each month I earned enough coin to keep myself fed, and in exchange, I milked his cows and plucked the feathers from his ducks until my hands ached. It wasn't pleasant, but it was honest work, and for me that was enough.
He let me stay in one of the spare rooms of the farmhouse. Four walls, a roof, and a bed softer than the ground—it felt like luxury compared to the cold nights outside. I came to love the rhythm of farm life: the lowing of cattle at dawn, the soft quacks echoing across the yard, the smell of hay in the loft. The animals became companions of a sort, steady and dependable in a way people had never been.
On my rare days off, I slipped away with a bow in hand. Archery became my true escape. There was freedom in the stretch of the string, the whistle of the arrow cutting the air, the satisfying thud as it struck dead center on the target. From a distance, my aim rarely faltered. I could shoot from farther than most boys dared try, and more often than not I hit the bullseye.
Of course, they laughed. The boys of the village—loud, arrogant, full of their fathers' words—mocked me. Said I wasn't ladylike. To them, "ladylike" meant cooking, cleaning, and tending children. It meant bowing heads and serving hands. It meant waiting quietly for a husband to decide the shape of a woman's life.
I hated it. Hated the smirks, the dismissive laughter, the way they spoke as though my worth was less simply because I wasn't a man. And deep inside, I made a promise to myself: one day, I would prove them wrong.
I would change the way things were. I would show them that women are not lesser. That we can stand beside men, not beneath them. That strength has no gender.
Until then, I train. I wait. I endure. And with every arrow I loose, I whisper the vow again: I will rise. I will fight. I will prove it.