The wooden sword slashed clumsily through the air as Art took a confident step back. The young teen girl before her stumbled from over-swinging as the sword in her left hand almost spun her around like a top with the excess force.

With her own wooden sword, Art aimed at the young girl's sword wrist as the latter frantically brought it back up again in an attempt to block, only to have her weapon knocked out and onto the floor as the slapping strike got through to her hand.

‟Focus, Morgan,” Art instructed. ‟Centre your body weight and dig your foot in when you strike, or you'll swing over again.”

Through wispy pants that misted in the cold Autumn air, Morgan retorted, ‟I'm trying! But your arm's longer than me. How do I hit you if I don't lean in?”

The girl bent over to retrieve her sword, the crackled skin on the mutated side of her face scrunched in pain. Her hand was shaking as she lifted the sword. Even through the leather glove and gambeson, a strike on the bone would not be a painless experience.

Art suggested, ‟Shall we take a break?”

‟No!” Morgan exclaimed. ‟I'm fine. We keep going.”

The knight sighed. ‟Squire, you can't even tighten your sword arm.”

Morgan casually tossed her sword into her cracked right hand. ‟That's why I was given two.”

Art smiled at Morgan's gutsiness and readied herself.

Morgan gave a breath and swung. Her right arm was just slightly longer than her left, and the girl had a clear talent for gauging a weapon's reach. But right was not her dominant arm, and the attack was sloppy, with a long wind up over her left shoulder.

Art moved to deflect with a strafing left, a technique that would once again hit Morgan's wrist. Tough with the added momentum, the counter would hurt far more than the previous. It would make for a good point of learning though, and she was sure Morgan could handle the pain.

But the moment Art's sword touched Morgan's wrist, Art knew something was wrong. The girl's wild swing was not stopped by the pang of pain, and it felt as if she had just impacted stone. Morgan forced through the parry, pushing Art to step back.

Still, the swing was clumsy and with a push, the blade barely missed Art by the tip of her nose, creating an opening to which Art launched into a trust that slammed into the young girl's chest, knocking her off her feet and onto the floor of snow that had piled up the night before, a white cloud kicking up.

Standing triumphant over the child, Art announced, ‟I guess that's it.”

With a grunt, Morgan slowly got up to her feet. ‟I can still keep going!”

‟I'm sure you can,” Art said with a reassuring smile, setting her sword aside and giving the girl a pat on her shoulder. ‟But if you get injured any further, the recovery will be longer than the rest.”

They sat together on the sole bench in the training yard. Merylin, a newly minted knight and Art's former squire, waved to them as she passed the upstairs corridor.

The young Morgan rolled up a ball of snow and set it on her injured wrist. ‟Why are you training people to beat you?” she asked, unexpectedly.

‟Why, I need you to watch my back.” Art answered honestly. ‟Do you have my back?”

‟Of course,” Morgan answered. ‟But wouldn't it be better to learn to fight with you than against you?”

Art found the girl's logical brain impressive. She was able to point out fallacies and inconsistencies in the world better than anyone Art knew at her age.

‟Well,” Art replied. ‟I have a different definition of 'having one's back'.”

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Morgan raised a questioning brow.

The knight continued, ‟I think people make mistakes as they grow, and we don't always make the right choices. So to have my back means being able to stab it when I'm in the wrong.”

Morgan looked shocked. ‟Betray you?”

‟Not betrayal. Having my back. Watch me, to make sure I don't go off the wrong path. But to do that, I'll need to train trustworthy people strong enough to do it.”

The young Morgan looked down on her hardened arm pensively. ‟Do you have my back?”

Art could not bring herself to smile as she answered,

‟Always.”

Art woke up in a familiar white room. Her first instinct was to jump to her feet, weapon drawn, but her mind quickly caught up to stop her. If she was where she knew she was, the fight was over.

‟Art...”

She turned to the voice to find Gwen's eyes staring back at her, the green seemingly faded even more so than before.

When art breathed to speak, it strained a muscle in her right lung, but she held back the pain. ‟My queen.”

Gwen stood up from her seat. ‟Welcome back, my friend.”

They were in the keep's infirmary. A long clean room in the familiar marble white. Through the glass of a single window at the far end opposite the door revealed a morning sky. Of the three beds in the room, only hers was filled. A kettle of water was set on the side table next to her. What surprised her was the missing bowl of water and cloth she had been used to having, usually there to clean her wounds.

An image of her arm being blasted off its joints had her looking down her right, but nothing was missing. She opened and closed her fists, and they were indeed there. In fact, while the rest of her body ached, her arm felt strangely renewed. Was it all a hallucination in the midst of combat?

‟What happened?” the knight finally asked.

Gwen raised a brow. ‟That's what I wanted to ask you. We found you at the gate of the keep. Was it the Aleynonlians who did this?”

She shook her head. ‟No, I don't think so. I think they saved me, even.” With a grunt, she tried to sit up in the bed.

Gwen moved to help, and despite Art's protest that she was the queen, the monarch helped her friend into a sitting pose.

‟Nevertheless,” Gwen said, ‟We need to find them.”

‟They're missing? How long was I out?”

‟Five days,” Gwen admitted. ‟A lot has happened, but I want to know what you know first.”

Art rubbed her forehead in thought and frustration. She was famished, which, given her being unconscious for days, made sense. Her memory fought its way back to the night of the attack.

‟I was following The Watcher, Lua, and Joachim. They were expecting me though.”

‟You were ambushed?”

Art shook her head. ‟They told me who they were looking for. Someone called Moira. Then, we were attacked...” The flash of light returned to her mind. ‟I think by a cannon.”

‟A cannon?!” the queen almost raised her voice. ‟As in, the same as those on ships?”

‟I don't know. I didn't get a clear look. But it was explosive”

‟A house was destroyed in Stallion Rise on the same night.”

‟That would be us.”

The queen folded her arms, creases of crunched stress lining her face. There was something else. She had known the queen for hundreds of years and had seen every expression she made.

‟Gwen? What's wrong?”

The monarch forced a smile. ‟Nothing's wrong.”

‟Don't lie to me.”

‟You rest up, then we'll talk.”

‟I'm rested.” Art threw the blanket off her body, revealing the white gown underneath. ‟And I'm serving. The country. You.” Her legs swung out from the bed and touched the stone floor with their bare skin.

Gwen stared at Art for a moment with a face of refusal, before relenting with a sigh. ‟A lot happened since you were out. Coun Taliesin has gone missing, and The Council suspects foul play.”

‟What?” Art exclaimed. ‟By whom?”

The queen shook her head without an answer. There were now two parties missing, the Aleynonlian delegates, and a high standing member of The Council. It seemed the queen's hunch to suspect something nefarious was afoot turned out right.

‟There's one more thing,” Gwen added, which snatched Art's attention with its tone of voice. ‟Lands Lord is missing as well, and he might have been the last person to see Taliesin alive.”