As an honorable warrior.

POV Change: You are now Allinia Umerie.

15 Years Later.

“Hyah! Take that!” you shout as you swing your wooden sword at your best friend, Arn Käresson.

He blocks your attack, but is reeling from the **** you put behind it.

He may have been your best friend for many years, and you’ve sparred with him about a hundred times, but he still tends to underestimate you because you are an elf and a girl. He seems to forget that you were raised by the best damn warrior on the Astineki Coast. Either that, or he does remember that you are the king’s daughter and doesn’t want to upset you for fear of your father’s wrath. Honestly, it would upset father more that he went easy on you rather than giving you a thorough thrashing. When father started training you in the ways of the sword, he threw you to boys twice your size, and you left with a bloody nose almost every time. You had to wear an eyepatch for a week one time.

“Come on Arn.” you taunt, holding your sword in one hand as you hop back and forth on your toes, facing him profile, never taking your eyes off him. “I know you can do better than that.”

He regains his footing, facing you squarely while holding the short sword in both hands. He had his back hunched as he panted heavily. “I thought you elves were delicate creatures. Not much ones for fighting.” he lunges forward with a wide swing.

You easily parry the attack. “That’s just a myth perpetuated by crackpots who think the invasion of Castle Stålbjörn was faked.”

Arn swings again. “Seems rather suspicious to me that a single elf could infiltrate the castle and nearly cause it to burn down.”

You dodge. “She had an army to distract the guards while she snuck in and tried to kill dad. Plus, they had magic.”

“Do you have magic?”

You freeze. No, you do not have magic, as far as you know. You don’t have a way to learn magic. No human wizard has been able to teach you, and any elf who knew magic after the invasion was either killed by superstitious crusaders or went into hiding. Those who managed to survive the initial crusade before your father stopped it refused to teach her because of her affiliation with the crown. You begged father to use his power as king to **** them to teach her, as they were considered citizens of his kingdom, but he refused.

“**** may be the way of the warrior.” he had said. “But **** for small things is the way of despots. We are no despots.”

Your distraction was long enough for Arn to get the jump on you and make you struggle for once. He even got the upper hand as he disarmed and knocked you on your butt.

“Ha.” he said breathlessly, pointing the training sword at your throat. “I win. That makes us even.”

You give him a bemused smirk. “That makes it fourteen to thirteen at best.”

“Are you still counting that one time I was sick? That doesn’t count! You ambushed me!”

“A good royal guard must always be prepared for any eventuality.” You respond glibly, in the tone of a lecturer. “The enemy will not wait for you to feel healthy if you are sick.”

He drops his sword arm and looks away exasperatedly. “But you’re not the enemy, are-”

You took his distraction to kick the sword up and out of his hand, knock him down with a spinning kick, grab the sword out of the air, and point it at his neck. “In the ring, I am your enemy. Never take your eyes off the enemy.”

He pants heavily before he lies back and closes his eyes. “I yield.”

You sheath the training sword. “That makes it fifteen to twelve now.”

“Fourteen to twelve.” he says, not moving.

You roll your eyes as you stretch out a hand to pick him up.

He opens his eyes and takes your hand as you bring him to his feet.

You hear hoofsteps approach from behind and turn to see your father on horseback, wearing his bear pelt over his shoulders, pinned to his simple steel breastplate that matches the steel crown on his head with a few dark red jewels embedded in it. His beard has grown long and bushy, with some grey hairs starting to show at the sideburns. On his right wrist was a leather armband embedded with jewels or small engraved plates of precious metals. These were signs of his rulership over various elven tribes, a list of those under his protection. He approaches you with a neutral expression. “Has Lieutenant Arn here given you a thorough beating in training today?”

“Not for lack of trying.” You respond, putting your hands on your hips.

He maintains his neutral expression, but you can see him trying to hide a smile. “Are you sure he isn’t going easy on you?”

You shrug. “I don’t know. Are you Arn?” you turn to Arn.

Arn tenses up and is sweating stones. “Absolutely not, sire! I would never disrespect another warrior such as herself, the daughter of the greatest warrior who ever lived, by not fighting at my fullest effort!”

Your father breaks down and guffaws at Arn’s response. You join his laughter, picking on Arn and the other men in the royal guard like this was a pastime you and your father shared, though Arn always had the best reactions. “Good answer, boy. I know you would never do such a thing. Relax, I’m just teasing you again.”

Arn relaxed just a little bit, but he seemed to be holding his breath.

You look behind Vidar and see another horse carrying a woman. She was wearing a long, black, sleeveless dress with a spider-web design over her exposed cleavage, long black gloves, a rusted copper necklace with a small pink jewel, and a wide-brimmed, conical, dark purple hat with the point collapsed to one side. Her hair was a pale purple, and she looks at you with piercing turquoise eyes and a calculating expression under a soft smile.

“You told me your daughter was en elf,” the woman said, her voice soft but clear. “I didn’t expect her to be this rugged yet still beautiful.” She shrugs. “But that’s elves I suppose.”

You look down at yourself and notice your suit has some dirt and stuff marks on it. Embarrassment flares in your heart as you recall memories of attending balls with other noble women. You then remember that you are currently in a warrior’s armor, straighten back up with pride, and give the woman a curtsy, your armor clinking as you do so. “Thank you, my lady. I am Allinia Umerie-Asgeir, daughter of Lord Vidar Asgeir. Might I ask for your name?”

The woman gives a bow as best she can from atop a horse and responds. “I am Cassia Sharpe, Witch of the Blood Forest.”

Your eyes go wide. A witch? A practitioner of magic? Has father found a sorceress willing to teach her? Wait a minute, what was her title again?

“The Blood Forest?” Arn exclaims. “The forest filled with deadly mutated monstrosities?”

The woman turns to Arn, a smile still on her face but with less calculation behind it. “Yes, though they’re nowhere near as threatening once you know how to deal with them.”

“How?” Arn says astonishingly.

“With a bigger fireball, obviously,” she says with mirth. “I jest, of course, but a large enough fireball will most certainly do the trick if you don’t mind burning down half the forest. Which I most certainly can do.”

You and Arn stare at the witch with awe, but for different reasons.

“She is here to establish terms of employment in my defense council.” Vidar says hurriedly.

You release a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. You feel both relief and disappointment. Relief that she’s not here to embarrass you with your lack of magic and disappointment that you will not be given a chance. What would it be like to have magic? You’ve always wondered. This witch looks like a powerful spell-caster, and she has the stories to back her up. What would it be like to tutor under her? Would she be strict? Would she be kind? Would she give up after only a day of no progress in your magic manifesting?

After a moment of silence, Vidar clears his throat, “Well, we best be going.” he says. “Wouldn’t want the lady to have to trek home after dark.”

You shake yourself back to the present and plaster a smile on your face. “Of course not.” You jump to hang off the side of your father’s horse, using your natural elven agility with plenty of training, to plant a kiss on your father’s cheek. “Love you, dad.”

Unable to stay up for long, your feet fall back to the ground, and Vidar is left with mussing up your hair from its tightly braided ponytail as a response. “Love you too, sweetie. Now keep training, and train hard. Even as the king’s daughter, there’s no excuse for being lazy.”

You and Arn salute King Vidar as he and his guest ride off. As she passes by, Cassia looks at you and gives you a wink. Your heart skips a beat for a moment, and you begin to wonder what that could possibly mean, but the thought is tossed aside when she wriggles her fingers in a wave at Arn. You see him blush, and Cassia covers her mouth like a dainty aristocrat snickering at something she shouldn’t be.

You smile at Arn.

“What?” he says, his voice rising defensively.

“I saw that blush.” you tease.

Arn purses his lips and looks aside, his blush persisting. “Yeah- well- I saw you looking at her too.”

You roll your eyes. “I don’t swing that way.”

“Ok, but she is a magic user.” he says, turning back to face you, his blush dying down.

You shift your weight to one foot. “What about it?”

“You’ve always wanted to do magic, right? You’ve gone through many tutors attempting to teach you, and none have been able, right?”

You work your jaw uncomfortably. “And?” you say dangerously.

“Well, all those wizards learned at some academy.” he said, undeterred by your warning tone, aside from a half-step away from you. “If the stories are true, the Witch of the Blood Forest is self-taught. She probably has some different perspective that she can teach you that the other old fogies couldn’t.”

You shift your weight to the other foot and grip your toned bicep under your leather armor. “M-maybe.” you mumble.

Arn drops any pretense of defense and walks up to you, gently grabbing you by the upper arms. “You should go ask her. You’ve got nothing to lose.”

You are unable to meet his eyes. He may be right, but you still do not want to deal with the embarrassment of trying one more time and failing completely. Also, Arn is really close to you as well. He seems to notice it, too, as he looks over your body, and his hands slowly make their way up your shoulders.