“Face it, Calenbry wench. You’ll never make it as a knight!”

The memory of Mord’s mocking laughter sickened Jess even now, three years after a far more innocent version of herself had first attended this college of war. She still remembered accepting the young man’s challenge, despite dark whispers of what a savage he could be when he fought to win. How utterly confident she had been in her own skills, more than willing to compete with the unofficial favorite for the approval of Lord Hyve, one of King Richard’s knight commanders. Renowned throughout Erovering, Lord Hyve was a celebrated warrior who was rumored never to have never lost a jousting match while in his prime. Jess and Mord had both coveted the prize of victory, which was nothing less than a chance to squire under Lord Hyve himself, one's path to knighthood all but assured.

It had been hot as a cook's griddle that day, with the crowd of noble onlookers cheering on their favorites. The training grounds had baked to a near rock hard surface, most of the grass long since trampled under the armored feet of endless scores of college students over the years.

Electing not to stay and witness the bouts lest he distract her, Jess's father bade her a gentle farewell the very morning of that first-year student competition, reminding her she needed to pace herself and not overly risk her person in any one competition on a mad gamble for victory.

“Many of the lads also vying for Lord Hyve's favor come from Houses houses with reputations for ruthlessness," her father cautioned with the stern blue-eyed gaze of a onetime general, Jess stiffening to attention as crisply as any soldier.

He relaxed his gaze then, giving a fond shake of his head. “You are as fine warrior as any commander could hope to have under his wing, my daughter. It would ill suit us both for you to allow yourself to be used and cast off cheaply. Preserve your well-being above all else, these first, most perilous days, my Jess.”

Jess nodded in complete agreement, earning a faint smile from the man whose regard meant so very much to her. “Very good, my Jess. And fear not, Highrock is home to the finest generals in Erovering now that we live in a time of peace, however tenuous a state of affairs that it may be. Lord Hyve is not the only commander of note at this institution, for all that so many lads have their eyes on the prize of serving under him.”

Her father adjusted his stirrups then, observing the care of her own mount with an approving nod, the pair of them having ridden out together early that morning to view the training grounds, the future field of battle, much as any good tactician would. “I have no doubt that you will make nothing less than an excellent impression upon your future martial instructors, whoever they may be. I only ask that you be prudent in choosing your battles and allow conflicts to resolve themselves, when opportunity permits.”

Jess smiled in turn at her father, gently stroking her own destrier's mane. “You mean let the most brutal applicants batter themselves silly in the early bouts before accepting challenges to place myself, do you not, Father?”

Her father's bright blue eyes twinkled then, his oft times grim features softening, blond locks rustling rustled in the wind. He looked for a moment the mirror image of her brother Geoffrey, a recent graduate himself of Highrock, now content to learn the intricacies of Court by his father's side. "I know I trained you well, Jessica. Just remember that no matter how convoluted your mother and sister like to make these things, politics and intrigue are but battlefields of a different sort." He chuckled wryly at that. "And for all that I have little more patience for innuendo and backbiting than you do, my daughter, the wise commander learns to recognize and counter his opponents, no matter the field of battle."

Jess smiled. “And the wisest commander of all leads his enemies to the terrain of his choosing. And if my opponents would rather fight amongst themselves than come for me, whether it be upon the training grounds or the field of battle, so much the better. And I know my strengths, Father. A sly wit and a cutting tongue will never be my weapons of choice. For anyone who slanders me with insults, sophistry, or nasty innuendo, it's a slap to the face and a challenge for the dueling grounds. I shall let my blade prove the worth of my character, and dare anyone to disparage me upon that most sacred of arenas, where steel takes precedence over a sly tongue.”

“Fortunate for your peers that all such contests are only to be conducted with wooden swords and wasters exclusively.” Her father chuckled, before piercing Jess with a stare that brooked no argument, one that demanded instant deference. It was a look Jess knew all too well. “A true leader, however, does not make enemies unnecessarily, my daughter. Your blade is a tool. Not a crutch. Far wiser to take the time to learn the motivations and needs of the people before you, to forge alliances and accords and assure yourself fast friends to fight by your side when needed, than to allow arrogance or aloofness to turn every man's hand against you.”

Jess bowed her head with her father's gentle reprimand. “You are right, of course, Father. I will try to be worthy of your words.”

The baron's gaze turned momentarily wistful even as he ruffled his mount's mane. “I am fortunate to have your mother by my side, Jess. You, I'm afraid, are going to have to figure out the intricacies of school life on your own. Just remember that you are a warrior first and foremost. So long as you take the measure of any possible opposition, weigh carefully the honor of potential allies, and proceed cautiously into any new situation you find yourself in, I have no doubt that you shall prosper, even thrive, here at Highrock.”

Her father had hugged her farewell then, gently reminding her to write often, as her mother would worry.

Even as her heart ached to see her father's retreating form, she gazed back at the grim stone edifice that was Highrock College, feeling as if the future was comprised of limitless possibility, as if she had the entire world in the palm of her hand. She donned her carefully packed and maintained gear the moment she had returned to her private quarters, her body well used to the weight and feel of padded gambeson, mail hauberk, and a custom suit of brigandine armor, constructed of small plates of steel riveted to specially treated leather jacket and leggings, personally fitted to her frame by the master armorer who had constructed it.

Steel helm and sturdy reinforced gauntlets were donned last of all before she headed out to the training yard, feeling great pride in wearing armaments her father had gifted her with solemn ceremony, several months before. Jess had trained in them with a dedication that gave even her brother pause, till they were as comfortable upon her frame as a second skin. Armaments that would be the envy of many a knight, she knew, able to serve her well in any field of battle, so long as not upon open terrain in the height of summer.

Of course, being a bit too excited to memorize the route the first time, she earned more than one bemused glance by veteran students as she politely asked for the way to the training grounds from her quarters. it was only the terrain outside the school that she and her father had gone over til she knew it all like the back of her hand.

Her first glimpse of the training grounds as she exited the stone keep had set her heart to racing. A sea of people roared and cheered. Scores of students all sparring together, warming up before the formal matches were to begin. Jess calmly stretched even as she shivered with excitement, wondering in that innocent moment what it would be like if that sea of students and onlookers were all cheering for her.

It was then that the announcements washed over them all, carried by a powerful baritone voice, resonating across the field by dint of a mage no doubt well versed in battlefield magic. There was to be a change in the program. No longer would individual challenges be offered and accepted. Rather, all students would be paired off in two rows, given wooden placards, and randomly assigned to fight the nearest aspirant of the opposing row who had a matching placard. A student could, of course, decline the bout, but it would constitute a loss and count against that aspirant's point total for the day.

Jess gave a grudging nod even as she heard the moans of numerous others. Though she didn't like the changes, she certainly understood the logic behind them, as it minimized the risks of preplanned fights being deliberately thrown for discrete gifts. It also prevented the strongest of contestants from racking up points by continuously challenging the perceived weakest. Of course, it also prevented Jess from choosing which opponents she'd most like to test her mettle against, or make use of any long-term strategies, as she had no idea who she would be facing. She could make no study of an opponent's strengths or weaknesses until the moment she crossed blades with them in earnest, making the contest far truer to actual warfare than the game it had been before.

And before she knew it, the students had all been paired up, formal challenges offered and accepted. For Jess, the first and only match of the day was about to begin.

Pale of complexion, her opponent possessed saturnine features and cold dark eyes that peered at the world around him with barely concealed contempt. Jess disliked him on sight. The condescending sneer he had favored her with made it clear that the disregard was mutual.

“These are the challenges, girl. I do not know what vapors have infected your poor little brain, but if you don’t get out of that sad excuse for a suit of armor and put on a proper dress, you are likely to get seriously hurt.”

Armored in a full suit of plate and mail that spoke of his family’s wealth and connections as much as anything else, his cold smile made it quite clear what he thought about the idea of hurting her, and it left Jess feeling slightly sickened.

Jess all but snarled in response. “I’ve trained with steel since I was twelve. I have as much right to be here as you!”

He barked a derisive chuckle. "Very well, wench. But don't say I didn't warn you." He then turned to the cool-eyed overseer of their bout who had shown absolutely no reaction to their discourse, instead looking over their training blades with a careful eye and testing point and edge with forefinger before handing the blunted weapons back to the pair. "I am ready, overseer," the arrogant young man declared.

Jess had nodded in turn.

“Very well then,” the overseer said, coming over to both of them, inspecting their armor, assuring no straps would come loose in the heat of the bout. “You both know the rules: You shall treat the first match as if you were unarmored, second as armored. You fight in full earnest, with blade and grappling as you choose. All blows are allowed save thunderstrikes to the head, all grappling maneuvers are allowed save neck and finger manipulations. Should one of you be responsible for the death or permanent maiming of the other, your family will owe a blood price, and you shall be summarily expelled. Are we clear?”

Both nodded solemnly, readying their blades.

“Then announce yourselves, and begin.”

The young man’s lip curled into a sneer before he slammed shut his visor. “My name is Mord de Plaga, wench. And before this day is over, you will know your place.”

Jess felt her heart race with furious contempt even as she closed her own visor, doing her best to reign in her temper. “Jessica de Calenbry,” she said coolly as she faced the man she already despised in Ochs guard, point towards her opponent’s face, mirroring his own stance as they circled one another. With a final clap from the overseer, the bout began in earnest.

The first thing Jess noted was that Mord was fast. Near as fast as she herself was. Their first cautious exchange of blows made that clear, he easily countering her quick darting slash, immediately off-setting her blade while slamming forward with a vicious thrust. She managed to counter it, barely, chilled by the savage strength propelling the blow. Raw power did not necessarily equate skill, Jess knew, but it was a decided advantage.

They both leaped back then, he with an eerie little chuckle that grated on Jess's nerves even as they continued to circle one another. Mord quickly took the initiative, seizing the Vor. Blade raised in high guard, he charged into her, striving to knock her off balance even as he lashed into her with a series of vicious overhand strikes, powerful diagonal blows at all angles that could easily cleave through an unarmored warrior who did not counter the blows quickly enough. When perfectly placed, those strikes could crack the bones of even an armored man, crippling them, and an excellent tactic to use against any foe whose shoulders were not exceedingly well armored and padded. And despite the overseer's cautionary warning, it was increasingly clear that her shoulder blades were his target, hammering down with his blade as hard and fast as he could.

He wasn't just seeking to gain points upon her. He was out to maim her. That much had become chillingly clear.

Heart pounding, Jess frantically parried, knowing her foe’s considerable strength was getting the best of her, and she needed to retake the initiative if she was to have any hope of besting him.

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It was her father’s cardinal rule. She must always seek to seize the Vor. She must always strive to make her opponent dance to her tune, force him to work to counter her maneuvers. For if she failed to do so, then the tune of her opponent's blows hammering her flesh would be the last notes she ever heard.

Thinking fast, Jess immediately strove to bind his blade with her own. She sensed more than saw his smile, having gained a glimmer of his true strength, and when he used his might to force her blade she immediately gave way, throwing him the slightest bit off balance, countering strong with weak as her father would say. And in that split second of grace she had, she snapped her blade about in a high tight arc even as she stepped back and pivoted, feeling a sudden surge of exultation when her blade slammed hard against Mord's helm. A killing blow, had he been unarmored.

It was a feeling of triumph that was short-lived.

Mord, roaring in fury, slammed into her before the overseer could call the fight. Suddenly they were in close grappling range where swords were near useless, the force of his hate knocking her off balance every bit as much as the force of his slam, Jess stumbling back even as he viciously tore back her unsecured visor with one steel-gauntleted hand, smashing her naked face as hard as he could with the other.

It was only then that the overseer’s whistle cut through the din sharp and loud, even as Jess fell on her rump, dazed and humiliated, her face a hot throbbing mask of agony.

Had her spirit been any less, she would have surrendered right then; dizzy, nauseous, sobbing from the awful pain. As it was, she did her best to grit her thankfully unshattered unbroken teeth and bear it, feeling the hot tang of blood pour into her mouth, realizing that her nose had been badly broken.

“Mord de Plaga! The bout is over! To your corner this instant!” shouted the overseer. Mord, however, had already quite calmly turned around and walked to his side of the training ring.

The man then turned a concerned eye toward Jessica, helping her to her feet. “My Lady Calenbry, are you fit to continue?” he quietly asked.

Feeling a bit shaky, Jess collected herself, spat out a gob of blood and nodded, this time locking her visor once she slammed it shut once more.

The overseer gazed coldly at Jess’s opponent. “Why did you not cease immediately, as per rules, once your opponent scored the point?”

Mord had already raised his own visor, his honey-laden voice designed to soothe, even as Jess could feel the cold hatred of his eyes burning into her own. “Forgive me, overseer, but in actuality the match is not over until the whistle is blown, and of course it is for us to act with all vigor while in the midst of the contest. Now, as the whistle had not been blown, I had assumed it was your intent we continue, as we all know such weak cuts delivered at a poor angle to the temple are rarely fatal.” Mord flashed a condescending smile. “Surely, good overseer, that is time enough for a man whose life was in peril to seize the Vor and charge into his opponent, snatching life and victory from the jaws of defeat. Would you not agree?”

Jess fumed inside, despite her dizziness and creeping nausea. Her snapping strike had been neither weak nor off angle. Had her blade been sharp and he not wearing a finely forged helm, it would have cleaved deep into his skull, killing him instantly. She wondered if the judge understood this, or if it even mattered, really, at that point.

The overseer paused, considering. “Even were that the case, young Mord de Plaga, it does not justify why you went out of your way to raise your opponent’s visor whilst pummeling her. You could have simply grappled.”

Young Mord actually had the gall to fake thoughtful surprise. "A good point regarding the grapple, overseer. But as you know, we who train for war are taught to act with ruthless efficiency, to seize any opening. I suppose in the heat of the moment I did what I had been trained to do. Yank up the visor before striking in close quarters, a viable tactic whilst battling the common masses. But surely any knight worth her salt would have a helm that precludes such a maneuver, or at least have the common sense to lock her visor before the battle?"

Jess fumed as the young lord smirked, somehow implying it was her fault for not having locked her visor, never mind the fact that they were mimicking an unarmored bout for this first contest. His actions had been clearly designed to hurt and demoralize her far more than they were to win the match.

He hated her for scoring a point against him and had wanted to make her suffer for it, and that was all there was to it.

Bitterly, Jess swore to herself she'd never go into a challenge or even a training bout without locking her visor shut in the future, and could well imagine her father's rueful smile. "The lessons of war are often hard ones, my Jess. Best you learn them well, and count yourself lucky to be able to do so, no matter how humiliating the lesson or bitter the defeat." Those words echoed through her as a memory came unbidden, her father sighing, gazing off into the hearth fire one night, haunted by visions only he could see. "All too often, a poorly taught student's only chance at redemption is in the next life. As long as you live to see another day, my Jess, you should always count yourself lucky."

Jess realized then that she had never before had to worry about securing visors or expecting dirty blows from corners unseen. Safe in the warm bosom of her family, secure in their love, Jess had never before faced a formal bout with opponents who wished to do her actual harm. She would never take an opponent’s sense of honor for granted again, she promised herself.

The overseer gazed coldly at the young man for a few moments more before speaking. “Point and match go to Jessica de Calenbry. Your helm rang with the blow, sir. Unarmored contest decided in Jessica de Calenbry’s favor. Next match is armored.”

The judge’s sympathetic gaze was one Jess found oddly touching for all that it shamed her. Jess wondered if he’d take such pity, were she other than a girl. “Are you fit to continue, Lady Calenbry?” he asked quietly.

She gave a slow nod, not trusting herself to speak. She carefully breathed out of her mouth as the blood dripped down her throat, knowing she would rather die than cry yield to the hateful man before her, shattered nose or no.

“Very well then. Ready yourselves… Begin!" And with a sharp clap, Jess faced her nemesis once more, even as Mord favored her with a mocking wink before slamming shut his visor and making a deliberate show of locking it, approaching her in half-sword grip much as she held her blade; one hand on the hilt and one on the blade itself. Armored gauntlets protected their palms even as they prepared to use their blades as half spears of sorts. The grip allowed for extra precision and power when attempting to ram the point into chinks in their enemy's armor, or crack bones and bruise vulnerable flesh under mail, even if the links themselves proved difficult to rupture. Of course, the training blades they had selected their weapons from were all blunt with deliberately rounded tips, but the overseer would score points judging on how effective their maneuvers appeared.

Jess grimaced, knowing in her gut that Mord wouldn’t settle for half-swording. There were other ways to use their blades and bodies to deadly effect even against armored foes, and she had no doubt that Mord was just as well versed as she was in the implementation of those techniques.

Jess gripped her blade cautiously, waiting for him to commit before she tried to seize control of their contest. Sure enough, the moment he met her half-sword to half-sword and felt her tense against him, he adroitly stepped back, expertly flipping his sword as he spun around with the hilt of his blade now raised high over his head. Mord gave a terrific roar as he swung his weapon thunderstrike style, the blade itself gripped near the point, allowing for devastating blows against even a well-armored opponent, as the center of balance was but inches from the crossguard.

Jess felt a fierce moment's exhilaration as she crashed into him, having sensed his feint, instinctively propelling herself forward to close the gap before his weapon could complete its deadly arc, fluidly darting under his overreaching blade even as her own half-sword slammed with considerable force into the lightly mailed gap in his armpit. For all that thunderstrikes could be devastatingly powerful, they were also slow. Having sensed what Mord had intended, she had countered perfectly, or so she had thought for that single triumphant moment.

“Half point to Jessica de Calenbry,” the overseer dutifully called even as Mord bellowed, dropping his torso, and ramming into Jess’s gut with such terrible, unexpected ferocity that she was left breathless, her blade utterly unable to counter the force of his body crashing into hers.

Jess found herself slammed to the ground in a dazed heap, chilled by Mord's unnatural strength even as he raised his blade high. A blade she had thought wrenched out of his grip, yet somehow, he had hung onto it. And with a hideous laugh that clawed at her brain, Mord began pummeling her supine body with a berserker's fury.

Over and over again he slammed the crossguard of his sword thunderstrike style into her torso and legs with mad, frenzied abandon, yet still possessing the cold discipline to avoid her off-limits helm.

Terror instantly replaced disorientation, and Jess’s desperately raised sword, even gripped in two hands as it was, was barely sufficient to ward off the worst of his furious onslaught, knocked flat as she had been by the force of his slam, the occasional blow that got through a fierce bolt of pain hammering into her, even well armored as she was.

For all that she knew she should roll over and stumble to her feet, she was both stunned and overwhelmed. Worse, she was coldly certain that blood price be damned, if she dared lurch to her feet he would slam the crossguard of his blade into the back of her neck and skull with every ounce of his awful strength, happy to kill her even if he was expelled.

In those nightmarish moments Jess kept her blade gripped like a quarterstaff in a desperate bid to ward off the madman’s blows. She realized that she was no longer fighting to win, she was fighting for her very survival. And Mord with his terrible strength was happily savaging away at whatever parts of her body she could not protect with her sword, her back flat upon the ground.

She screamed as she heard something crack, even as the overseer’s fierce whistle shrieked loud and shrill.

“Mord de Plaga! Withdraw!” And as abruptly as if someone had pulled the strings of a marionette, the berserking lord did just that, halting his terrible thunderstrike in mid-swing, spinning about and walking back with a chilling precision. Jess was coldly certain Mord would have deliberately slammed his crossguard into whatever bone he had managed to break with furious savagery as many times as he could have gotten away with, had the overseer not blown his whistle at that very instant.

The overseer’s rough, concerned features soon filled her visor. “Lady Calenbry, are you all right? Let me get that for you.” Carefully the man unlocked her visor. His fingers, bare of armor, were far more agile at the maneuver than a knight’s gauntlets would have been. Jess felt her gut plummet to see his suddenly grim expression. He gazed at her carefully. “My lady, can you carry on?”

She nodded and grimaced before carefully righting herself, then screamed, falling into an agonized ball, her ankle sending out a shrieking blast of pain.

“Well, my lady? Can you carry on?” Mord’s taunting voice mocked her from the other end of the training circle. Jess spat an angry gob of blood at him and he laughed, cold eyes mocking her.

“That is enough, Lord Plaga!” the overseer’s voice cracked, the young lord seeing fit only to give the barest nod of his head, mocking smile still firmly in place.

“I believe, good overseer, that if this lady here is unable to continue the match, victory is mine.”

The judge’s eyes turned flat. “Such blatantly savage attacks are reserved for enemies of Erovering, young lord. I have never before seen even students, let alone knights, thunderstrike the extremities of fallen foes just to cripple them.”

Mord’s eyes flashed. “The rules were clear. No thunderstrikes upon the helm. No neck or finger manipulations. I followed those rules to the letter. It is not for you to judge the virtue of a lord’s tactics, sirrah, merely to score the match!”

Jess could sense Mord suppressing a snarl, looking for all the world like a rabid beast at that moment, and Jess dizzily wondered if he would dare strike the very overseer of the bout. With what looked to be a fierce act of self-control, his fists visibly shaking, Mord put on his fake smile once more. “Besides, good overseer, if there was any problem, why did you not blow your whistle beforehand?”

And Jess simmered, understanding exactly what had stilled the man’s hand. She had no doubt that Mord would probably have been able to wrest victory from her if he had hooked away her blade or crashed on top of her, placing the leather wrapped batons they both had secured at belt to mimic a thrust under chin or at eye slit. Of course, she might have surprised him, might have flipped over him or somehow turned the tide. By not landing a decisive blow, by not closing, by carefully following the letter of the instructions, Mord was neither breaking the rules nor finishing the fight, so the match could not be called. And by deliberately breaking a bone, he could both cripple her and guarantee his victory. Not just for the bout, but for the match entire and any possible rematches they might both have found themselves in later that morning, this having been but the first contest of the day.

Mord’s cruel eyes locked with her own. She simmered at his condescending smile. “I believe, overseer, that all else aside, if the Calenbry woman cannot fight, she automatically forfeits the match.”

The overseer of their contest looked less than pleased even as he nodded. “If the lady is permanently maimed there will be a blood debt to pay, Lord Plaga,” he coldly reminded Mord.

The arrogant young lord laughed such concerns away. "Come now, sir. All know Highrock possesses the best-trained healers to be found anywhere outside the capital. I have no doubt the young lady will be right as rain, and back in a dress where she belongs, before the week is out."

The judge spared Jess a single glance, filled with such pity that her heart lurched. She seethed with humiliation at having been so bested by Mord's ruthless savagery, denied any chance to prove her worth that day, having lost her very first contest, unable to fight again until she healed. Their bout had garnered an increasing number of onlookers. She wondered if she would ever live this match down.

“Match ends! Jessica de Calenbry can no longer continue. Mord de Plaga wins the contest by default.”

Mord taunted Jess with his laughter, even as he gazed down at her with a look of smug satisfaction at having so soundly bested her. “You have no place in this arena, nor this school! Face it, Calenbry wench. You’ll never make it as a knight!”

The last thing she recalled clearly about that day, even as gentle hands helped her to remove her armor, Jess screaming at least once in the process, was Mord’s vindictive grin. She could tell he savored her maiming, and she loathed the man with a fierce purity that transcended mere hate.

Yet her father had spoken nothing less than the truth. Highrock was home to more than one famed general of the Velheim Wars, one in particular so reviled for his savagery upon the battlefield that he was wanted for war crimes in nations that actually recognized such accords. Yet his brilliant ruthlessness had been the key to Erovering's victory, and the king himself had nothing but praise for the man who had no qualms about butchering every last opponent who dared to face him on the field of battle, no matter how the pleaded or begged, save a single terrified soul who would break enemy moral with tales of horrific acts of savagery. A man who knew that the ability to instill terror in one's foes was but one more weapon in a tactician's arsenal that could spell the difference between victory and defeat. And for three long years since the day of that fateful bout with her reviled nemesis, Jess had trained in the arts of war under her most ruthless master with a fierce dedication that was almost fanatical.

It was only now that Jess realized, after an unexpected letter from her mother, that her place in the world she had fought so hard to make for herself could be turned on its head in an instant. That her sense of independence and empowerment was no more than an illusion. A transient thing based on nothing more than her own desperate hopes and dreams.

Fiercely earned, effortlessly taken away.

For the man who had so humiliated her and savored her disgrace on the very first day she had formally attended Highrock, the man who had so enjoyed mocking her whenever she passed him in the hallways, was the very man her father had asked her to marry.