“That was fairly close that time, Wrena!” Lori yelled out from his spot in the stillwood trees nine meters from the group. He pulled the knife from the ground and brushed off the dirt with his moleskin gloves.

  “Quite right, if the target was on the ground,” Wes said with a snicker.

  “I say she’s doing right well,” beamed Arlo.

  “Shove off, Wes. You couldn’t hit the target if it was a pair of golden teats an inch from your face,” Wrena said. Wes stared slack-jawed at his sister as the other boys’ laughter played through the trees.

  She heaved a great sigh. “I’m no good at this, Arlo.”

  “You know, I said the same thing to myself when I started at the smithy. But Master Fin kept pushing me and I’m blessed for it. I wouldn’t have been able to even dream of making you that knife if I hadn’t kept at it.” Arlo said. He had such a kind look in his eye it made Wrena resolved to try again.

  Before dawn, Wes had pulled Wrena out of bed and told her to dress in her trousers. They’d ventured under the quiet yawn of the moon’s surrender to morning to the Stillwood with Lori in tow. Arlo had been at the entrance of the south gate waiting for them with his usual toothy grin and hopping with excitement. He had brought more knives to practice throwing, ten in all. The only thing that gave Wrena hope was that her brother and Lori were not skilled at throwing knives either. Honestly, they were just as poor at it as she was. The group had been practicing their throws for the past hour in the dim light of dawn with only a few marks landed on the swath of leather padding tied to a large stillwood tree.

  The drowsy appearance of the sun woke the sounds of the forest; the chatter and skitter of birds and other woodland creatures that called the Stillwood their home. The Stillwood forest, homonymous of the trees that inhabited it, was comprised of monstrous trees as old as the ten thousand year old realm. Maybe even older, Vitasan Marsun often said. With a deep black bark that towered up to a canopy of golden leaves in the height of summer, to tread under the cover of its leaves was to walk closest to the known gods in their honeyed realm, it was said. The sun spilling through the gilded canopy cast an ethereal glow to the air, and with the outstretch of your arm, your hands could touch the golden rays of the heavens. As a small child, the stillwoods had inspired awe and a sense of panic in Wrena. The expanse of their trunks was too wide for her father to wrap his larger-than-life arms around, and with such a blackness to them, she worried if she fell into it she would be sucked to the unknown. Their limbs bare in the winter as it was and at the bold age of twelve, the trees were not as foreboding to her. The air was not golden today, for the leaves of last year and the thousands of years before littered the forest floor underfoot and the light shined uninterrupted—its normal spirited air laid to rest for the winter season.

  Lori walked up with all of the slender blades in his arms for another round. Arlo offered to be the fetchman this time, so Wes, Wrena, and Lori practiced their throwing stances.

  “You should probably hold the blade like so, Wes,” Lori said. He pinched the pointed tip of the blade between his index and pollex fingers.

  “Oh? And how would you know how to hold it?” Wes asked. “You realize we’ve both received the same training, none of which included how to hold daggers for throwing, you twat.”

  Wrena chuckled. “Should we have invited Ser Eviyn to train us this morning?”

  “I don’t know,” Lori said, his voice wary. “He’s been growing strange about you joining. I believe your lord father may have had a talking to him.”

  “He loves Wrena like a daughter—er—or perhaps more like a son since he sometimes entertains her swordplay,” Wes said. “So, I think he may be agreeable if we were in the Stillwood like this and not the yard.” The end of his sentence sounded more like a question than a statement.

  “Have you heard of the wandering sword who is staying at the inn in Moss Shire?” Lori asked Wes.

  “Aye,” Wes replied. “From Brunyre the other day, I believe. What’s he have to do with anything?”

  “Well,” Lori started, “I’m wondering if he would help our little harpy, here.”

  Wes and Wrena were silent as they looked at each other, then both burst into laughter.

  “You can’t be serious, Lori,” Wrena said.

  “What are you lot waiting for? I haven’t got all morning!” Arlo called out from the target.

  Lori ignored Arlo’s call and leaned in toward Wes. “Listen here, I know it sounds bloody ridiculous—”

  “You’re correct on that,” Wes cut in.

  “—but no one knows our Wrena like the three of us. She’ll never make it as a lady wife cooped up in a keep managing the house, rearing children, and hosting lords—no offense meant, Wrena,” he paused. “It’s our duty to help her, lord Westyn.”

  Addressing Wes with his honorific conveyed the seriousness with which he spoke. When the four of them were all alone together such courtesies were dropped and they were simply childhood friends. The Stillhour children saw him more as an older brother than the ward that he was, and Wrena knew Lorens Wilburn as anything but a serious boy. Every memory of him was him smiling and chatting animatedly to everyone, telling wild tales, and flirting with the women of Westermin. He was the dance of a merry flame in the hearth, in spirit and the likeness of his auburn hair. He had been a ward of House Stillhour for all of Wrena’s life, having come to their house after the death of his lady mother when he was three years old—the same year Wrena was born. Lord Wilburn had sent his youngest children to be wards at various westlands houses while mourning the loss of his lady wife. He had been unable to care for all seven of his children without her, so had parted with the youngest three aside from his only daughter, Lissa, the Rat. Would that he had shipped her off to the Hrishelli Isles or the deserted Nordal continents so Wrena never became acquainted with such a loathsome creature.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Lori sounded close to desperate to make his case for her and this wandering sword, though she had no clue why. The tension in his jaw conveyed an anxiety he wished to remain hidden beneath the surface. There was something he wasn’t saying. Wrena was about to ask as much when Arlo came up to the group begging answers for their hiatus in practicing.

  “We were being lulled to sleep by Lori’s chatter, that’s all, Arlo,” Wes said. The look in Wes’s eye as he stared at the ward conveyed that Lori’s odd demeanor was also troubling him.

  “Right—well, I should be off now, sadly. Sun’s fully crested and Master Fin will have my head if I’m late again."

  “Of course,” Wrena replied, inclining her head to Arlo. “Thank you again for bringing the practice knives. Say hello to Master Fin for me, please.”

  Arlo nodded his head in reply. He flashed a sheepish smile and retrieved the knives from Lori, then darted off through the stillwoods.

  “He’s smitten with you, you know,” Wes said.

  Wrena wrinkled her face. She, of course, knew that Arlo favored her. All of Westermin seemed to, if Wrena’s observations were correct—which they were more often than not. Romance and love did not play a role in her interests, heedless of how kind or handsome a boy was. And Arlo Smith was very handsome and kind, even for a lowborn craftsman. She was far too young to be expected to think of these things yet. And she was grateful for that. Romance, courtship, beautiful and strong knights dueling for a lady’s hand were all Neta seemed to care for. Though Wrena recalled that Neta had always had those interests regardless of her age. Perhaps aspiring for love was the key to being the perfect lady, thus why Wrena was such a wretched one. She had no dreams of being wooed by a prince, or a knight kissing her warhammer hands and begging to wed her.

  “What do you propose she do about it?” Lori asked. “He’s a good lad, he knows his place. He won’t be trouble to Wrena.”

  “Aye, I have no doubt about that. I just find it—”

  “Oh, shut up, Wes!” Wrena cried. Heat blossomed in her cheeks, and she quickened her pace to be ahead of the boys. It was bad enough that everyone knew about it, worse still that now they spoke to her about it. She’d never imagined this would be an issue for her. Wrena could not boast the graceful beauty of her sister and had been made aware of that fact by Dinna Lestreyne and the boys when they were younger and cruel, and, of course, the Rat. She had taken more after her lord father but with hair the color of bleached sand and a more slender jaw. Her eyes were the strangest of the four children, more like a sea storm than the glacial blue the rest of them possessed. Granny Clem had said her eyes were more akin to the grey eyes of the North than the westlands. She had cried when Granny Clem first told her that at eight years old, thinking she wasn’t a true born Stillhour but a ward like the Rat claimed. While she knew she wasn’t a breathtaking beauty, she didn’t find herself horribly ugly, though rather small for one of her lineage. Those things were better left to other people to worry about, she thought. Her looks didn’t matter if she never planned to use them for gain.

  Lori caught up to her and placed a gloved hand on her shoulder. “He’s just being a big brother. Don’t mind him.”

  Wrena let the silence stretch between them as they walked.

  When the expanse of Westermin filled the line of the horizon, Wrena asked, “Why were you so insistent on the sellsword in the Stillwood?”

  “He’s a free sword,” Lori corrected. “But I suppose it’s because I wish for you to have the proper tutelage to fulfill your Known Calling.”

  “Ladies don’t have Known Callings,” Wrena said. “It’s just a stupid dream.”

  “Stop that.” Lori whirled on her, his face stern. “Don’t let their words poison your well, Wrena. You’re the bravest person I know—lord or lady. I see you standing up for Arlo and other lowborn children in the village against cruel men when no one else will. Wes told me about that young guard yesterday, how you couldn’t bear the thought that he had to die simply for being mad. And remember that time you climbed up the highest ironwood on the castle grounds to save that sparrow whose wing had broken in the branches? You were shaking like a leaf the entire time but continued despite it to save that little bird. That is who you are. You’re a protector and a savior, Wrena. The Stranger’s hells with your sex; being a knight is your bloody Calling.”

  She cast her eyes down, unsure how to respond to the conviction in his voice.

  “Then why do you and Wes call me little harpy?” She finally asked. The way he’d just spoken of her made her feel more like a dove. A harpy was a bird of war and wrath and vengeance, not the peace, innocence, and salvation of the dove. She’d never asked why they called her that, assuming it was because she was argumentative and brash, often flying into danger and the unknown with little care for the consequences.

  Lori smiled at her and tipped his head to the side. “I believe that’s something you’ll discover when your feet tread the right path. And right now, that path is finding a way to train with the sword—and that little knife—any way you can.”

  “Aye,” Wes puffed out as he put his hands on his knees and breathed heavily. The leather target pad laid at his feet where it had dropped after his dash. He must have turned back to grab it then ran to catch up with them at the gate. “I think that wandering sword may be a prime idea, Lori. So may the whole of Westermin—I heard you yelling your case to Wrena from easily a mile out.”

  Lori chuckled. “I’m pleased you’ve acquiesced to my sentiments on the matter.” He looked behind him into the grounds and rubbed the back of his neck. “Because he may or may not already be here.”

  “What!” Wrena and Wes cried in unison.

  “How are we going to explain a wandering sword to our lord father? How did he even get past the bloody gates?” Wes said.

  “I told Brunyre he was coming, naturally,” Lori said. “He’s on the eastern gate watch today, thank the known and forgotten gods.”

  “And Father?” Wrena asked. She jittered with excitement and apprehension. A trainer. For her. The dinna and Neta would lose their heads. Her lady mother might rap the rod across her hands herself. She couldn’t think on what would happen if someone found out. Her mind was whirling like wine in a goblet.

  “I don’t have a solution to that yet, but I’m working on it. Wes will help me.” Lori prodded Wes with an elbow, bearing a roguish grin.

  “Oh, of course,” Wes said. “Wes will help. Wes doesn’t have burden enough being the heir to the ruling house of the West. He has all the time in the realm to help Lori untangle his messes.”

  “Where is he?” Wrena asked.

  “I requested him to wait in the guest keep. Shall we go introduce ourselves formally, little harpy?”

  “Aye, I think we shall, Lord Lori.” Wrena smiled.