My eyes take in what I suspect is the arena where most of these first tests shall take place. Lining the broad sandy floor is a wall of stone four horse lengths high to prevent whatever is happening in the arena from harming the folk in the stands. The spectator area begins after that, with many rows of wooden benches that are near deserted at the moment except for palace staff sweeping the stands and gathering garbage.

The slope of the stands towers above me in a majestic appeal of strength and might. A partially sheer domed ceiling encases the arena into the castle itself, even though this arena is actually on the opposite end of the castle from the city and I can almost see the blue of the ocean just through the large sister entrance on the other end of the arena.

The domed ceiling looks like fabric, almost as if someone cut a lady's pantyhose open and draped the fabric over the sandy pit and stuck it in place with cold lard. But I imagine it's something much studier, seeing as it's held up under wind, snow, and storms for far longer than I've been alive.

Weapons of all kinds line one wall to the right of the arched entrance. As I glance up, I realize this entrance arch is high and broad enough to fit a dragon. Which is indeed what fought here in ages long past. But now... dragons are no more.

My gaze turns back to the arena. I remember from my reading that in times long past it was used to send criminals to their deaths. Here they would fight in mock battles, slave against slave, all in the name of justice. Personally, I thought it barbaric.

But with a glance along the people in the sand, I imagine it wasn’t much different back in those bloodthirsty days. I shake my head as I watch one man split another’s lip. His contender growls and knocks him to the ground. A bout of wrestling ensues until they both lay on their back panting.

Many other such warmups are taking place. I count at least twenty pairs of men from where I’m standing. These knights and peasants and soldiers have corded muscle and war scars. Plus, many blond heads. Many, many blond heads. Nice.

I thought I was stepping into a pond to find my shiny assassin creature and stab him before he got the prince. Instead, I have found myself in an ocean of golden-haired competitors.

I’m reminded of Gollywagot and the Giant. He also faced insurmountable odds. A smirk lifts my lips. Perhaps The King has me after all. The smirk fades as I see the Timber Killer, slapping around a man and laughing as he does it. I gulp. Great King, now would be a good time for a sling and stone, please. My sword didn’t work out last time, I plead.

A slight chuckle comes to my brain, and I glance at the sky in surprise. I don’t often use the same method twice, Daughter. Surprises beget trust.

Surprises. Sure. I absolutely love not knowing how I’m going to defeat a giant of a man who hates what I love. I’m very not comfortable not knowing if my life is going to end or if I’m going to be separated from one of my limbs or if... the chuckle turns into a full-blown laugh from above. My cheeks tingle. Daughter, don’t you trust me by now?

I glance at the bright blue sky peeking between fluffy cotton clouds seen through the almost sheer fabric above. Yeah, it’s just... I’m scared. Terrified, really, but he knows this.

For I use the weak to shame the strong, the voice whispers in my ear. Trust me, my Daughter. I will be with you always. I’ll give you a way. My way.

I smile at those clouds as peace fills my heart. He has shown me how I can trust his ways many times over. That’s the best Way.

I feel His contentment in me. His love and pride that are beyond words and are a deep warmth cradling my soul.

“Alrighty, then. Let’s do this. Together,” I whisper aloud.

Together.

“Hey you!” A man with dusky blonde hair and deep emerald eyes comes my way. His slightly crooked nose twitches as he stares down at me. “This is no place for young nobles. Be on your way, Little Lord.” He shoos me off like a fly.

I look the man up and down, categorizing the things Father always taught. One of the biggest things to watch is the walk. One may see quite a lot by how a person carries him or herself.

Something in my eyes must have unsettled him as he freezes. “Please tell me you aren’t here for the competition?” he almost pleads.

“I can’t do that.”

“Just another who must be made an example of." He scrubs at his forehead, as if a headache is growing there. “Alright, come with me then.” He turns face and heads to the center of the arena. I’m afraid he’s going to put me against the Timber Killer, but no, he passes right by Wolfsbane and his scarred cronies to a few almost normal sized men.

He gestures and the men clear a small area.

“I am Sergeant Glasson. I will grade your performance here today. As with a normal duel, the first one to three strikes wins, or a yield will do. There will be no unsportsmanlike conduct nor unwarranted force. No blows to debilitate or kill. If you draw blood twice, you will be granted a pass. Then you will battle the rest of these good men here come tournament time.” He throws a hand around at the gathering crowd.

Most have stopped their wrestling and swordsmanship to watch the runt get pounded. I attempt to hide a smile. If it’s truly Sergeant Glasson I’ll fight, I might just have a chance.

The Sergeant points to a man in the ranks. “Sir Robert, you will be Lord...” he gestures to me. It takes me a slight second to pick up what he’s asking for.

“Sir Ri.” Snickers abound as my cheeks turn red at my delayed response.

They all appraise me with a bit more confusion at the title. “A knight? How young would he have had to start his apprenticeship?” one says.

The man beside him shrugs.

I can’t help the smirk that graces my lips. Sir Hans himself knighted me before we left his estate, saying I'd been fighting for longer than any apprentice.

If they knew I was knighted by a Knight of Honour, they would give me a bit more respect. Can a lady even be a knight? I shake off the thought. For now, I’m impersonating a man. A boy knight is fine, right? Right.

As it is, I’m fine with them underestimating me. Only, I must be sure not to do the same. Pride was my downfall against the Timber Killer before, and I shall endeavor to be better and learn from that experience.

Sergeant Glasson waves off the confusion around us like it’s a pesky fly. “Sir Robert, please take your place across from Sir Ri here.”

My heart drops as a man of at least forty stands across from me. Strong shoulders rippling with muscle. A long scar trails from his chin to ear.

I wince in sympathy. That hurt.

His age will slow him a bit, yet the experience gained from many battles and living to tell the tale is worth its weight in gold... in other words, he is better than a youngster who is quick on the feet.

He has kind eyes, but regards my size with pity. He thinks to make short work of me. I hide my smile again by looking down and scuffing the ground with the toe of my black boot.

If The King wants me here, he will make a way. He’s never let me down.

I draw my twin blades. Before, I thought it would be better to fit in than bear my second blade. Such a thing... it threw off my balance and my speed and I lost. I sacrificed my best for people pleasing and the want to be normal.

Now... I know better. I’m not normal and will most likely never fit in. So be it. I have those who love and accept me as I am. I will just have to release the opinions of those who wish me to fit in a box of their making.

“This one has wolves on his blades. I volunteer to take this challenge.” I would know that condescending, scratchy voice anywhere.

I keep Wolfsbane before me with my swords raised. He assesses me with hatred in those dark eyes.

“Wolfsbane, I have already set his opponent. If you would like to fight the lad, you shall wait until the tournament.”

“Hah. I fought a whelp not too long ago who had a blade like those. I sent her back where she belonged. Let me do the same to the runt.”

“If you would like to fight, the tournament it is. Until then, I suggest you allow me to continue.” The threat in the Sergeant’s tone is unmistakable.

Wolfsbane backs off with a mocking bow. Sergeant Glasson glares at him for a moment before turning back to us. “You both know the rules. Bow to me... now bow to each other.”

Sir Robert gives me a deep bow despite my standing as someone who is deemed beneath himself. His deep brown eyes are so dark as to be almost black, but a twinkle within that gaze bellies his stern countenance. My respect for the man goes up a notch at the bow. I return a slightly deeper bow.

He grunts, but there is a light in his eye telling me he looks forward to seeing what I’m made of.

“Begin.”

Sir Robert darts in, seeking to tear one blade from my grasp. I meet his own with a twist, dancing away. I’m used to fighting multiple opponents in life or death situations, so this is almost a walk in the park. I didn’t realize how much I came to rely on my second sword—or dagger, as is typically the case.

I continue to let him chase me, getting into the rhythm my father taught when I was just a toddler.

Left, right, sweep of the leg, dance back. Parrying another thrust, I again land the combination.

I barely hear the jeers and cheers from the crowd, focusing instead on my opponent. He’s good.

I again do the combination. And he reacts just as I wished. Instead of stepping back when I go to sweep his leg, he steps inside my guard, trying to clobber my head with his hilt.

I duck while I knock his sword wrist with my hilt, then twist around behind him in a move so quick from years of practice, the bare eye cannot see it. Whenever I saw my father do that move, it looked like magic.

“Gotcha.” I smile, bringing my blade up to his throat.

He swallows as cold metal meets his perspiring skin. “Yield!” he calls out.

I step back with a deep breath. Instinct calls to me and I twist, parrying a blade intended for my kidney. The Timber Killer is out for my death... for reasons I can't define.

Something inside me snaps, and I growl low in my throat, a sound Ran would be proud of. I dart inside his guard, pulling my knee into his groin with all the strength I can muster. He hunches over in an automatic reaction to the pain. He yells, spittle flecking his lips as he flails his arms to catch me in a bear hug like last time.

I duck, spinning just out of reach of his hands and come back around with a back swing kick that rams into his bad knee with a sickening crack. The knee crumbles beneath him.

He collapses to one knee, and I smack my hilt into his temple. He wavers for a moment, swaying right in front of my face and sputtering incoherent nonsense as his eyes try to focus.

When he finally does fall, he goes down like a sack of potatoes. Dirt poofs up around him as his gigantic body strikes the sandy dirt. The bigger you are, the harder you fall.

I turn to keep the others in sight. Those staring at my back give me the heebie-jeebies. Who else may be Wolfsbane's accomplices?