The sounds of clacking filled the air as two warriors sparred with wooden polearms, the training ground around them full of spectators shouting insults, encouragement, or bets. The battle appeared even, with neither holding the advantage, until a furious exchange of parries and ripostes left the large man with the greater momentum. He pressed his advantage against the tall, lanky woman, who gave ground in an attempt to stall out her attacker and create a new opening to turn the tide.

“Spi—!” Shaya gasped as she tripped over a discarded weapon, the cry turning into a pained grunt as her back hit the ground hard. As she blinked the pain away, the wooden point of a halberd pressed against her throat and she reluctantly tapped the ground to indicate her surrender. She spat out dirt as the weapon disappeared and was replaced by a gauntleted hand. With the help of her sparring partner, she stood to her feet and gave him a lopsided grin. “Let’s go another round!”

Shaya had grown since her time on the streets a few years ago, her voice as deep as expected for someone who stood closer to seven feet tall than six. Broad shoulders made her otherwise thin frame appear lanky and awkward, despite the added bulk of the bronze-clad brigandine she wore over her gambeson. Her wild mane of golden blonde hair stood in sharp contrast with her reddish-brown skin. She used a dark claw to pull rebellious strands of hair out of her large feline eyes and behind the horns that swept back from her forehead.

Her size did not make her stand out in Kelahk, where giant-blooded people were common, though she lacked the average kitahm’s heavy physique. Even her horns and the red hue of her skin fit in amongst the nobility of Kelahk, where those descended from Tarrak, God of Strength and Bloodlust, often ruled—just as nigh immortal nephilim did in all six kingdoms across the Arcadian Empire.

Her wild hair, eyes, and clawed hands, on the other hand, drew the eye. The bestial traits marked her as a demigol, who were more common amongst the Asharans: Kelahk’s usual enemies in the Empire’s many civil wars.

Her sparring partner’s weathered face crinkled as he smiled back at her, his voice a deep basso: “Sure, after a quick water break.”

He moved to the nearby bucket, his bronze plate-and-chain armour rattling. He stood almost as tall as Shaya and was broader than her, even without his heavy armour. Pale skin and blond hair marked him as a Zothirian, and his mithrite-blue eyes and luminous veins suggested that he had inherited enough blood from Astoria, God of Justice and War, to be considered a true nephilim by the Empire’s standards. These qualities made him stand out against the dark-skinned Kelahkese soldiers around them, though they exchanged quips and even showed him respect despite his foreign origin.

“Getting tired, old man?”

“Hardly,” he chuckled, “I just want the lesson to sink through my pupil’s thick skull. Or see if I’ve caused any brain damage from all the thrashings I’ve given you today.”

“Don’t let Krebo get to you, princess!” one of the watching soldiers shouted in mock support. Like Shaya, many of the soldiers around them possessed some amount of giant-blood and even the barest hint of demonic skin, though not enough to be called a nephilim. “You’ll get him next time!”

Shaya wrinkled her aquiline nose at the woman. “First, we’re barely a duchy. And second, luckily, I’m not the one set to inherit the responsibilities of turning this into a fine establishment.” She emphasized her point by gesturing to the decrepit castle around them—collapsed walls and weathered battlements that had all seen better days. Only the castle’s main keep and primary buildings showed signs of repair and maintenance, and even that was limited to keeping the weather out. “Which means I get to spend my days having fun thrashing you lot and studying interesting things, like magic and war, instead of cooped up studying who married who and why we need to make nice with them.”

“Shame you can’t move your feet as well as you run your mouth,” Krebo stated, earning another laugh from some of the soldiers. He took swig from a tin cup and dropped it back into the bucket. “Unfortunately for you,” he turned back to Shaya, “it sounds like I need to humble you some more, maybe even beat some respect for your father’s efforts into you.”

“Oh, I respect everything Lumir has done,” Shaya said, blanching as Krebo narrowed his eyes at her.

“I’ll accept ‘Duke Lumir,’” he stated, “or ‘Dad.’”

Despite how good he had been to them, Shaya had never grown comfortable calling her adoptive father “Dad.” She continued to think of him as the family friend that let them play with his weird, custom-built arrows when they were young and other more explosive things that kids probably shouldn’t have had access to.

“Er, I mean Duke Lumir. It’s just…” she gestured around her again, “not something a gutter rat like me ever expected to be a part of, but I’m thankful for the opportunities he’s given me and my brother by getting us off the streets and especially out of the orphanage.”

Krebo nodded in approval, his expression easing into a slight smile seen more in the crow’s feet of his eyes than his mouth. “That sounded humble and apologetic. Very well, just a regular beating for you then.”

She returned his smile. “Ah, that I can handle.” Shaya cracked her neck from side to side, then eased into a guard position with her training halberd once more. “Then can we practice magic?”

Without signal, Krebo lunged. She deflected the polearm’s tip and countered with a rising slash, but Krebo flowed out of the way and put himself behind her. He recovered his footing in a flash, chain mail ringing with his sharp movements, and attacked. Shaya spun, but was back on the defensive again, giving ground just to avoid his advancing jabs. No matter how fast she moved, he stayed close to her and made sure she couldn’t use her reach as an advantage.

“I think it’s cheating that someone your size can move so fast,” she grunted, out of breath, and dodged a heavy slash that forced her back another step.

“If you exercised as I told you to, and ate better, you could be stronger and faster too. Life is vaguely fair at times, at least.” He recovered from his slash, parried her counter thrust, and riposted with a wide sweep.

“I lived my whole life without honey cakes, I’m not about to give them up n—” Shaya didn’t have time to block or parry and dodged back again, eyes wide as the wooden halberd howled past her—a mere hand’s-breadth from her chest.

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Is he trying to kill me? she thought to herself, then saw some of the spectating soldiers snigger and point at her.

Not at me—past me. Her eyes narrowed in understanding. Oh, that prick.

“You’ll need to exercise a lot more to be able to keep up with enemies in iron armour. There are some downsides to being a mage, after a—”

His halberd whirled back into another slash, but this time she stepped into the blow, blocking it with her body and sweeping her polearm at Krebo’s legs. There was a thunderous crack, and as she staggered sideways from the force of the strike she managed to channel some of that momentum into her sweep as Krebo stumbled forward. Her weapon broke as it tangled up in his legs, tripping him to the ground and into the water bucket he had intended to dump her into.

Krebo recovered faster than a mongoose, but before he could roll to his feet Shaya pounced on him and pinned him into the mud with a knee. He looked up to stare at a broken, jagged piece of wood hovering a few inches over his eye.

“Just as planned.” Shaya grinned down at him.

He chuckled. “You’re a quick study, but still a spit liar.” He tapped out graciously. “At least, I hope you are. If your plan included getting staggered and shattering your weapon, I’m afraid people will think I’m a terrible teacher. Now, can you get that thing out of my face? Your arm is wobbling so much I’m a little worried for my eye.”

Shaya withdrew the weapon as she stood, giving him a nonchalant shrug. “Okay, almost as planned.” She tossed the broken shiv to the ground and offered Krebo a shaking hand. He eyed it warily for a moment before accepting the help up, his armour creaking as he stood.

Pulling him up took more energy out of her than she cared to admit, even to herself.

“Hmph,” he grunted, looking down at his muddy equipment, “I admit this is less fun when I’m the one who has to clean up their armour.”

“Good!” Shaya responded with mock indignance. “Now can we get back to practicing actual magic? My formulae still need a lot of work.”

He rolled his eyes. “Just like exercise, you can’t rush magical development. Your eyes are still bloodshot from pushing your circuits too much yesterday, which isn’t making them grow faster—”

“Um, Lady Shaya?” asked a high-pitched voice from behind her.

Shaya turned and looked down at the boy standing before her, dressed in an immaculate tunic and breeches of the Duchy’s livery—primarily black with red and gold trim. The tunic bore her adoptive family’s heraldry: a rampant, red gryphon gripping three golden arrows with purple fletching. He stood out amongst the dirty, armed, and armoured soldiers like a sore thumb.

Or a clean thumb against calloused fingers. She smirked to herself.

“That’s me. Just call me Shaya, though.”

“Oh, um, my humblest apologies La—Shaya.” The boy blushed, his eyes darting to the soldiers that chuckled at his nervous energy. “Umm, message for you, La—ma’am.”

“Of course, you can hand it to me.” She held out her hand.

The boy just looked at it, still holding his precious scroll in both hands.

“Oh, yeah.” She looked down at her muddy, calloused hand and her clothes stained with dirt, mud—and her own blood? She turned to Krebo. “Am I bleeding?”

“Oh, definitely,” Krebo responded, amused. “Nosebleed from the force of the blow and it looks like some splinters nicked your head. All superficial, but head wounds like to bleed ceaselessly. I’m sure you’ll start to feel it all once the adrenaline dies down in a bit.”

Sighing, Shaya did her best to wipe her hands on the cleaner parts of her armour before extending one again to the messenger.

He handed the scroll over with extreme reluctance, her hands dirtying the crisp white paper and gilded edges in moments.

The boy gave her a deep bow and scurried off without another word, carefully stepping around the muddy patches of ground.

“Thank you!” she called after him, causing him to turn around and bow to her again in thanks of her thanks, before turning and continuing his flight from the dirty yard. She turned back to Krebo with a frown. “I don’t think I’m ever going to get used to this life.”

“Good,” he replied, “don’t let it get to your head. The people here will respect you for it.”

“Not elsewhere?” she asked with amusement.

He scoffed. “At least not the capital. The Imperial nobility doesn’t tend to respect those who acknowledge the existence of anyone beneath their station, unless it’s with disdain.”

She turned to look at the distant horizon to the southeast, towards the Imperial Capital of Arcadia. “Trust me, the average Arcadian isn’t much different from the nobility.”

“Careful, we’re all part of the Arcadian Empire.”

“You know what I mean.” She gave him a sour look and waved at him dismissively with the scroll.

Krebo nodded at the scroll. “Are you going to open that thing? I haven’t seen you this nervous since you snapped your father’s favourite bow. Or since you misused his favourite arrows. Actually, what trouble have you gotten into this time?”

Smiling at the thought, Shaya turned the scroll over until she saw the teal wax seal she knew would be there: the Imperial War Academy’s crossed sceptre and sword.

“I don’t need to,” she sighed. “There’s no way they accepted me given that I’m still only First Circle and my heritage. I’m sure their applications are overflowing with nephilim that have more than the mere drops of divine blood that I have.”

And none from a cursed god.

“Don’t let this hold you back,” Krebo chided. He tapped the small amulet she wore around her neck.

The same amulet worn by all of the Empire’s sanctioned mages: a small circle with one or more small gems of aethercyte at its centre. The aethercyte corresponded to the colours of the spectrum the mage could access, in her case: Ruby, Amber, and Jade.

“What you may lack in raw power or heritage, you’ve more than made up for by your hard work. No matter the physical or spiritual advantages a full nephilim holds over you, I bet none of them have cast a spell or swung a weapon in an actual combat situation—unlike you.”

“That’s right!” The soldiers around her added their agreements, and Shaya looked up to see that they crowded her now. “And if they don’t want you—screw those fancy turds anyway!”

Her arms master frowned at the crowd of soldiers. “Shouldn’t you lot be busy training? Get back to it.”

The crowd dispersed without hesitation, leaving Shaya alone with Krebo and the scroll.

“I’ll leave you to it then,” he said.

“No,” she stuttered, “it’s fine, you should stay. If you don’t mind.”

Krebo nodded.

With a deep breath, Shaya broke the scroll’s seal, smearing a bit of blood and mud across the parchment as she did so. Unfurling the scroll, she read the gold-inked script within, and hung her head. She exhaled with a sigh.

Krebo put a hand on her shoulder and gave her a comforting squeeze. “I’m sure we can find you a local mentor that can get you tested and continue your training. It’s going to be alright.”

Shaya raised her head, meeting Krebo’s eyes. “Yeah, you’re right.” She sniffed, then turned back to him and grinned. “Because I got accepted!”

“You—wha—why did you—”

“Ha! Who’s a spit liar now?”

“You…you…” Krebo’s mouth opened in shock, his brow twitching between rage and confusion.

Shaya’s only response was to cackle as she ran towards the keep.

“How could Phaedra’s child be so…evil?” Krebo said, watching her go.