Chapter 7: Trials of the Blade
The morning sun cast angled beams of gold across the castle’s private training courtyard. The scent of trampled earth and oiled leather filled the crisp air. Lyra stood in the center of the yard, wearing a reinforced leather tunic and trousers that allowed for fluid movement. Gone were the heavy velvet gowns of the court; she needed something practical, something that felt like survival. Facing her was Master Gareth, the royal weapons master, a grizzled veteran with graying hair and countless scars earned on distant battlefields.
""A princess does not merely sit upon a throne and issue commands,"" Gareth said, tossing a wooden practice sword through the air. Lyra caught it instinctively by the hilt, her grip firm despite the unfamiliar weight. ""In times of crisis, a leader must be able to defend not only herself, but the people who look to her for protection.""
Lyra assumed a defensive stance, remembering the countless times she had dodged flying pots and angry foremen in the kitchens. ""I've never held a real sword in my life, Master Gareth.""
""Then you have no bad habits to unlearn,"" the veteran grunted, stepping forward with his own wooden blade. ""Defend yourself!""
With surprising speed, Gareth lunged. Lyra reacted on pure instinct, parrying the strike just in time. The impact sent a sharp jolt up her forearms, but she held her ground. She tried to counter, but Gareth easily sidestepped her clumsy thrust, sweeping her legs out from under her. Lyra hit the dirt hard, dust rising around her.
""Again,"" Gareth said, extending a calloused hand to help her up.
Lyra took his hand, pulling herself back to her feet. She brushed the dirt from her trousers, her jaw set with fierce determination. She had spent fourteen years being pushed down by circumstances; she refused to stay down now. As Gareth lunged a second time, she didn't just block—she anticipated his movement, pivoting on her heel and using her momentum to deflect his blade wide.
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A sudden surge of warmth rushed from her chest outward through her arms, amplifying her reflexes. The phoenix tattoo flared brightly beneath her leather tunic, though Gareth was too focused on the combat to notice the subtle glow. With a swift, decisive motion, Lyra disarmed the veteran, pressing the tip of her wooden sword against his chest.
Gareth stared down at the blade, then looked up into her blazing brown eyes, a slow smile breaking across his weathered face. ""Well,"" he murmured, lowering his weapon. ""It seems the bloodline comes with natural instincts after all.""
