The door to my little slice of heaven creaked open, and in waltzed Marie, my trusty maid, giggling like a co-conspirator in a teenage caper. Oh, the sheer ecstasy that gossip brought her! (I detest it, by the way!)

I couldn’t entirely absolve myself of fueling her appetite for scandal.

“Lady Eli! Hihihi—” Marie started, her enthusiasm unhindered.

“Easy there, you cow! Remember, I still hold a noble title,” I teased with a grin. “Now, spill the tea—what rumours are swirling through the town today?”

And off she went, spinning her yarns.

“First and foremost, do you recall Sir William?” Marie asked.

Ah, yes, that young knight—Zach had introduced him during one of our training sessions. An eighteen-year-old man, recently knighted, from one of the wealthier families in the county.

“The knight with the dazzling armor?” I responded, envisioning his shining exterior.

“…And the somewhat lacking wit,” Marie chuckled. “Well, he was caught trying to joust with the scarecrow by the barley fields. I daresay, the scarecrow may have won the bout!”

A stifled laugh escaped me. Zach would surely whip that man into shape soon enough; I had seen his no-nonsense approach, especially with newcomers. Despite my best efforts, a twinge of sympathy nudged me for Sir William.

“And remember Mrs. Higgins, the seamstress I told you about?”

I didn’t.

“Yeah, yeah, of course I do.”

“Reportedly, she took it upon herself to outfit each Enquana in the village with these tiny, glistening capes. Now, they’re strutting around as if they’ve secured invitations to a royal banquet!”

Enquanas, those fantastical wingless avian beings resembling crows of various hues, were known for their fleetness.

Imagining a flock of bedazzled Enquanas clucking and sashaying down the narrow streets, their capes catching the sunlight, indeed painted a comical scene.

“…..a fashion show of fowl proportions,” I managed between wheezes, succumbing to a fit of laughter like an old hag. Marie gazed at me with wide eyes, seemingly wounded by my pun.

But Marie wasn’t done. She embarked on another tale, this time about the County Blacksmith and his belief that his anvil had acquired a distinct persona.

“He’s taken to having heartfelt chats with it, even christening it as ‘Sir Anvilsworth,’” she explained.

The County sounded anything but boring.

However, reigning in the conversation became imperative once again, especially with Marie’s tendency to veer off course. Skilfully, I guided our discussion back to the topic at hand—the conspicuous absence of Zach.

“The townsfolk whisper about increased Knight patrols,” Marie conveyed, her voice laced with unease. “Miss Martha, our innkeeper at the county’s edges, mentioned a surge in nearby Mercenary activity. She also remarked on heightened Knight presence along our borders.”

“Preparation for a monster invasion?” I speculated aloud, skepticism tainting my words. “Seems unlikely; such a significant development wouldn’t slip by unnoticed.”

“Indeed, Milady, no monster sightings in the past fortnight,” Marie confirmed. “And an oddity—Mr. Holloway, our local merchant, reportedly delivering hefty rations to the border.”

Moments of contemplation followed, weaving together these disparate threads into a single, foreboding conclusion.

An expedition.

Was it time for that already? The implication triggered an urgent stirring within me.

But the absence of monster attacks in the recent weeks puzzled me. Our northern border, linked to untamed wilderness, often served as a gateway for grotesque, deformed creatures, widely known as Monsters. They were an ever-looming threat, their assaults as routine as the ebb and flow of seasons.

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Ah, the Forbidden Northern Woods—the locals’ rather drab term for this treacherous expanse.

In the pages of the novel, it boasted a far more fitting title—the Spectral Glades. A name that didn’t just whisper danger but bellowed it across the landscape.

Within these woods danced a motley crew of fantasy creatures—magical tigers, colossal cows, crocodiles that fancied themselves avian, and even fungi with aspirations of grandeur.

It was a menagerie straight out of a vivid dream… or a vivid nightmare.

Now, thinking about these creatures made me shift uncomfortably in my seat. They say ‘curiosity killed the cat,’ but in these woods, the cat could probably kill you, write a sonnet about it, and compose a symphony as an encore.

And then there were hints of an ancient civilization lost in the woods, shrouded in mystery like a badly written plot (or so I presumed, given the original novel’s reluctance to delve into its depths).

These woods remained an unexplored territory—a place so unfriendly, the monsters spawned there would probably prefer to teleport to the neighbour’s backyard. They knew better than to hang out where they were the snacks instead of the snackers.

And, the shallow parts of the Spectral Glades—an area not so treacherous compared to the depths but still dangerous that even the bravest souls tiptoed cautiously.

The novel hinted at such expeditions, those forays into the safer shallow fringes of the woods. Zach, my dear brother, had survived till the later parts of the story, ruling out any likelihood of his venturing deeper into that abyss.

An audacious notion crept into my mind—a wild and improbable desire to join this expedition.

Ridiculous, wasn’t it? Yet, I hesitated to dismiss the idea outright. There lingered an unspoken purpose, a task awaiting completion—one that demanded familiarity with the dangers lurking within those woods, and the peculiar gifts they held.

But before entertaining this mad scheme, there was a vital step to take.

“Marie,” I called upon my trusty maid, “I need you to verify something for me.”

Her inquisitive gaze met mine, awaiting my command.

I relayed my request, watching as her eyes widened before transforming into a grin. The pieces were set; now, all that remained was to wait.

*******

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A clash of wooden swords echoed through the training grounds.

Incoming attack from the left—I shifted my stance, weight forward, a nimble adjustment to counter the anticipated strike.

An opening—time to turn the tables.

But wait, something was amiss.

His grin.

It was a ruse, a clever feint. Abort!

The realization struck a moment too late as I felt his knee gently brush against my torso. In real combat, that misstep would have signalled defeat, launching me backward like a mere ragdoll.

A resigned sigh escaped my lips. There was still a vast distance to traverse on this journey.

“Milady, you almost had me there,” chuckled the towering knight who stood before me, his smile warm with encouragement.

“You don’t need to downplay it, Sir Percival. Let’s call a spade a spade; that move was a tad too thick-headed on my part,” I quipped.

“Ah, but you underestimate yourself, Milady,” Sir Percival countered with a reassuring tone. “Your determination and skill are commendable. Besides, every misstep is a lesson learned. In combat, one’s greatest adversary is often oneself.”

Percival, my mentor and personal guard appointed by my brother.

Initially, Zach himself undertook my training, but for the past few days, his absence persisted, undoubtedly tied to the anomaly in monster activity and preparations for the impending expedition.

“Perhaps, but it’s hard not to feel like a squashed grape when you’re the one hitting the ground.” I mumbled.

Percival, undeterred by my self-deprecation, began offering guidance and a comprehensive assessment.

“Milady, your technique, while promising, can benefit from small adjustments. Your agility is your strength—exploit it. Use your smaller stature to your advantage, swift movements to outmaneuver opponents. And remember, not every opening is as it seems; stay vigilant.”

I nodded; the lesson freshly learned.

“Lower your center. It grants stability and agility. And when you parry, use your wrist more. It’ll add finesse to your strikes and conserve energy.”

I shifted my stance, implementing his instructions as best as I could.

“When you’re engaging, don’t overextend. Swift strikes, then retreat if needed. You’re not aiming to overpower; you’re aiming to outmaneuver.”

Precision over brute force. Gotcha.

He paced a few steps, eyes scanning the practice area. “Ah, and your footwork—light, swift steps. Always be ready to pivot or sidestep. It’ll confound your opponent and give you openings.”

“Remember, Milady,” he added, “combat is not solely about strength. It’s strategy, adaptability, and finesse. With time and practice, you’ll become a formidable adversary on the battlefield.”

In my mind, I grappled with the notion that utilizing the blessing would render the bout effortless—a temptation I wrestled against. Engaging without them felt akin to wielding a wooden sword(…yeah, couldn’t think of a better comparison), a self-imposed handicap that didn’t sit quite right.

Yet, I yearned to construct a foundation reliant solely on my physical prowess—a groundwork that would allow my blessing to complement and amplify my innate abilities.

Almost every skill in my blessing enhanced the aspects already present.

There was an intricate synergy between innate capabilities and bestowed gifts.

So, with a decisive nod, I shifted my stance, aiming the wooden sword at the towering figure of Sir Percival. “I understand, Sir Percival. How about another round?”

“As Milady wishes,” Percival replied with a grin that, infuriatingly, stirred an unexpected rush within me.

My brother’s choice of mentor suddenly seemed, to put it mildly, questionable.

Oh, the audacity of that grin. It nearly set my cheeks ablaze. What on earth was my blasted brother thinking when he assigned this… hunk as my mentor?

“I won’t fall for the same trick twice.”

He merely smiled in response.

And, inevitably, I fell for his feint yet again.

Blast it all!