Concerning danger, it is as natural an instinct as it is an absolute one that mothers protect their children. And, despite their reciprocating love for their mothers, young girls, winding their way through their adolescence and unlocking the catalog of powers and persuasions they possess and boys do not, often try those things to which their mothers would surely protest. Thus, it is under the covers at night, at sleepovers, or during extended stays away from home that young women truly come into their own, much like boys. Tristanué’s mother, Taris, would have grounded her for a dozen summers had she known the battles, intrigues, and duels she had committed on behalf of the Sablers of Anzioch. And indeed, for the new ones she was already planning on her return. The children of the Loring King were fit and fearless, and their children after them. Fortunately, none of Tristanué’s letters gave any hint at such misadventures. And there were plenty of letters as her extended family included three brothers, one sister, six aunts, two uncles, and over a dozen cousins ranging from just a little older than her to newborns.

As for Tristanué herself, the last few years revealed she had not inherited her mother’s slim Nymirian figure but her grandmother’s proud Khytherian stature. No longer tall and gangly with blue hair, boyish shoulders, oversized eyes, and lips, Tristanué was now a beautiful young woman — a Khytherian. Her hair, once an embarrassment, had grown so thick and luxurious as to be coveted by those who previously teased her on account of it. Against the background of her cousins’ uniformly amber eyes, her own bright blue eyes were now distinct and envied. Her body had caught up to her bones, now wrapped in a lean concord of muscle that, owing to her family’s strict regimen of calisthenics, weight training, and sparring, permitted her athleticism to extol her femininity instead of obfuscating it. Adding to her sensual profits, her breasts outpaced the brassieres she bought to reduce their proud sways until they had bloomed to the bold size and shape of her grandmother’s, who, somehow having kept her young look, appeared no more than thirty years of age. Tristanué’s full Khytherian lips, Nymirian nose, large blue eyes, cheeks, chin — all now set in a configuration so astonishing that few men, or women, could look at her without captivation. All except her younger sister Tristana, who only saw her sister’s exquisite beauty as proof of her own inevitable allure, mere years away.

Though prepared, if not anxious to leave, Tristanué waited a few days until her new armor was ready. Given her enthusiasm on the matter, one could imagine she would have halted the war entirely until she was appropriately dressed to return to it. It was not the vanity of a young debutant demanding the latest fashion before gracing a gala — though Tristanué could have been accused of that in previous years. No, this armor was the work of Sephragelo, the most celebrated armorer on Arbonhale. Eccentric and irascible as all good artists should be, Sephragelo had been the personal armorer to Andruin of Saarke, the Foundress of the Sabler Order, now translated to glory. Put simply, aside from magic, there was no workman in the world who could make better armor and better-looking armor than Sephragelo. The few women who counted him their private armor-maker swore as much by the name of Sephragelo in the matters of crusading and comfort as priests did by the name of Proya in all their holy affairs. Everything from the belts to the boots, plates to pleats, grommets and buckles, and every lace and strap were meticulously positioned for maximum efficiency, durability, and comfort.

Working alone, Sephragelo personally measured each client with his secret measuring system. Regarding those softer requirements unique to the fairer sex, no balance was better than his own hand, which, being intimate but inoffensive and certainly never raised without consent, infallibly assessed those appeals every woman’s body silently made on her behalf. It was said the work of Sephragelo was the only armor no one ever wanted to take off. His clients, being overwhelmingly women, were quick to repeal those small reproaches they cast against his method when, having worn his military fashions for the first time, could not conceive of anything more divinely conformed to their figures and regarding dangerous deeds and actions, far exceeding every demand they had made of it.

So too did Tristanué submit to this master’s touch. Her reward for it was armor so comfortable, supportive, elastic, and right in all the right places, she could scarce imagine how a man could so perfectly comprehend a gender to which he was not born.

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Her armor honored the style of Kazmiranda, the extolled First Queen of the Ecclesiarchs. Being neither men nor front-line infantry but sky-riders who soared over battles on giant falcons, ancient Ecclesiarchs maximized their dexterity by minimizing their heft by wearing barely enough armor to protect them from lucky archers. Adopting pliable, featherweight plates made from the lacquered cartilage of giant starfish, they remained unconfined by the mash of heavy metal plates and unrestricted in their ground movements when they landed. Accordingly, history regarded the Ecclesiarchs as ‘swift and terrifying airborne auxiliaries’ who could escape engagements as fast as they entered them.

The classic style of their armor was distinct, consisting of thigh-high leather boots, laced, and latched up the back, with tall block heels that caught the stirrups well. The boots integrated greaves to protect the shins, poleyns (or knee cops) to protect the knees, and small cuisses to protect the thighs. At their hips, they wore front-laced lambions (a tight high-cut brief) under short drapes of leather, rings, scales, or hinged metal patterns that resembled flexible steel doilies. They often wore a metal plate belt latched in the back where their lesser arms hung. For some Ecclesiarchs, the lambion was separate from their corselet, while others wore a singular maillot, fitted by darts and pleats. Given the long history of women warriors among the Vyn Vanir — sword-wives as they were known — the corselet, a woman’s undergarment, had been reimagined as an outer garment, even armor. Depending on the style, it was called a corsel, corselon, corselyn, or maidencourse. Sephragelo had chosen a high-cut lambion and a bold strapless top known as the corselon. Ecclesiarchs preferred to wear one battle sleeve held in place by a diagonal belt or two. Tristanué’s sleeve incorporated a leather-wrapped pauldron to protect the shoulder, a matching rerebrace for the upper arm, a couter (or elbow cop) to protect the elbow, vambrace, or forearm guard, and a gauntlet—all slimmed and fitted for comfort and motion. At the shoulder, Ecclesiarchs often displayed large feathers from their best raptors, cartouches indicating their order, or aiguillettes that revealed their rank, class, and kills—all left off in Tristanué’s case. As their battle style was unconventional, so was their partial battle dress, one that left no ambiguity in the minds of their foes that they were fighting the fittest and fiercest of women. And being women, they relied neither on their strength nor their bulk, but—

from the air: diving, master archery, and javelin throwing.

From the ground: slashing speed, swift movements, innovative spearplay, precision sword thrusts, slips, feints, and no small measure of deception.

The only article that gave Tristanué pause was the lambion — the thin elastic brief worn under the drapes. Narrow in front, it was far less in back and left only the short back drape to conceal her backside. Worrying that her mother would upbraid her over the armor’s risqué hems, she donned a leather poncho that matched the armor in style, cut, and color and, more importantly, concealed it. No battle horn is as loud or dangerous for a young girl as her mother's angry voice calling her by every name she was dedicated to the world.

Having grown up on the legends of Tzyar Paal, that Avenger of old, Tristanué had expressly asked for black armor, but Sephragelo ignored her (as he did everyone) and cast the whole work in varying shades of azure: glossy, matte, satin, textured, plain. The suit was accented by black and silver and enchased with runes, especially around the edges of the plates. Tristanué was initially furious over the change until a chorus of compliments convinced her that Sephragelo, the legendary artist, knew far more about art and beautiful women than she did.

Being Khytherian, Tristanué’s sense of smell and taste were extreme, far more than the average person. For this reason, Khytherians were nearly as famed as Saarkans or Sang Vanir for their ability to track men, stalk monsters, and pace animals across great distances. Fresh from the workshop, Tristanué could smell nothing but the fresh steel, leather, new oil, and lacquer: it was hers and no one else.

Now dressed for victory, she was ready to return to Anzioch and the great struggle there.

But there was a problem, and it was an unexpected one: the armor was so pretty she did not want to see so much as a scratch on it.

Unfortunately, lots of things get scratched in battle.

Even the soul.