Alanna bent herself low in her saddle, her heels gently spurred Fleet forward at a canter. The dirt tracks of Fremr gave way to the paving stones that led to Father’s land and home. She’d heard from most of the other townspeople that it had been good farmland before he’d arrived and sent Matreus and his family packing for his designs.

It’d been in their family for generations, and now it was theirs.

Brick and mortar walls fortified the inner borders of the home. Even atop long-legged Fleet, she’d only be able to just reach the top of the walls. Father had bragged that he’d spent thousands of green chips on rebuilding their home to be the first citizen fortress in any of the Chalices.

‘If a man holds a fortune and doesn’t secure it then it will be stolen from him, and if he appears to be a pauper no one will trust he has it either.’ Father’s words rang in her ears as they did frequently as of late.

“Mistress Alanna! Thank Aleyr you’re back!” Yereva, the head servant, exclaimed from her hiding spot beside the tremendous, stout oak gate while Alanna rode through. “His Lordship Tyren commanded that you see him at once when you return.”

Alanna nodded but headed towards the stables. She’d attend to Fleet first. The thought of anyone but her touching him had her eager for her real sword, and not the blunt iron she had on hand to discipline or duel at a moment’s notice.

Lev, the stable master, frowned at her, his glower unchanging as he watched her lead Fleet to his stall beside Isidora’s horse—Silverwind— at the end of the stables. All the rest of the stalls were occupied by Father’s prized broodmares and stallions. She suspected he earned enough with the offspring to possibly rake in a black chip or even two.

It wasn’t like he did any work these days. All he did was negotiate breeding rights between his racehorses and anyone else of note in Aethel’s Chalice. If he knew Theo’s family had Nightfire though, in his town, there’d be damnation to pay for sure.

Alanna busied herself with removing the saddle, rubbing then brushing Fleet’s coat down, and making sure he was well fed with a stern glare at Lev who had unerringly watched her the entire time.

“There you are.” Isidora’s melodious voice lilted as she pressed into the stable with a disdainful sniff. “Father and Sevra have been looking for you. Did you forget? We’ll be leaving for Aethel tomorrow.”

“I’m nearly done.” Alanna snapped, she nodded when Fleet bent his neck to eat his feed. A sudden rage pulsed at her temples, but she ignored it as well as she could. Her sister had that effect on people.

“Well, Father wants you now. Ideally, you’d have been here an hour ago.” Isidora scoffed, but her lips curled ever so slightly in a smug smile. Alanna’s fury doubled and she had to keep herself in check lest she stab her.

“Stop it.” She brushed past Fleet towards the door outside. “Make sure he eats and drinks well, Lev!”

Isidora kept in time with Alanna’s furious march despite the tiered layers of silk she called a dress. Alanna called it a fabric cake, but she supposed they had different interests. Her sister’s touch of rage had faded, but Alanna still saw enough red with it to throttle someone with her bare hands.

“They aren’t in there, silly Lanna.” She tittered when Alanna stalked past the gardens to enter the sunroom of their house.

“Where. Are. They?” Alanna didn’t know if the anger was her own or as a result of her sister’s talent, but she was near to the breaking point either way.

“I think the question is…” Isidora said in a slow, pondering way while she tapped two fingers to her unnaturally red lips as if in idle thought. “Where were you?”

“On a ride. It clears my head sometimes.”

“Oh? Does it now?” Isidora stalked forward so her skirts swayed as if they were the wind themselves. “Why would your head need clearing? You were so certain of your upcoming success in the Pageship Duels to come.”

“I’ll break their swords over anyone foolish enough to contest me.” Alanna bent her knees so her nose almost brushed that of her shorter sister’s. “Perhaps you’ll care to spar against me?”

“Wow.” She chuckled again with a sad shake of her head. Anger banked so hotly inside of her gut she was surprised she wasn’t glowing as it charred her bones black with it. “You’ve become unhinged, Lanna. What will Father say? He had such grandiose hopes in what was once your inevitable victory… however, I fear you’ll fail and will have to content yourself with the shade of being under my shadow.”

Alanna smiled, her lips pressed so tight she knew they were blanched white. “You’ll have a hard time getting into Silverwind’s with that big head of yours.”

She bumped her shoulder against Isidora’s, hard, and smiled with satisfaction that she’d nearly knocked her over in a mess of skirts.

Besides, she had a fair guess where Father and Sevra would be if they weren’t in the house awaiting her summons. It wasn’t as if her parents ever wanted her anywhere else. At least she didn’t have to deal with Isidora’s mother, Nora. Last she heard the insufferable woman was somewhere in the Inner Ring of Aethel trying to sell her newest paintings.

Her leather-soled boots ground against the gravel walkways that sprawled everywhere across the estates that were supposed to one day be the foundation of their legacy. But only if she and her sister would apply themselves. For once.

Fortunately, the walk was a fair distance to the smooth-shod one-story hall Father had designed in homage to the dueling halls of Aethel. Gravel crunched in her stomping march before the rage her sister had set on her had fully dissipated.

Isidora’s talent grew more troubling to deal with, day after day, especially since she took it upon herself to use it at every whim on anyone she pleased. Alanna did not appreciate having her emotions turned against her in another’s machinations.

Steel clashed on steel in the charming song of a duel through the open door of the dueling hall. She tilted her head back as a luxurious smile took root. She hurried her pace and brushed in through the door.

The rattle of the duelsong heightened to an echoing crescendo.

Alanna burst past the armory with its shelves full of rapiers, sabers, unstrung longbows, and nearly every weapon in existence in their Chalice.

Father and Sevra exchanged a flurry of blows in the bowels of the sandpits. Father swung his lithe longsword in a torrent of swings that met the tang of Sevra’s dagger, or the strong of her saber more often than not.

Alanna stepped closer to watch. It wasn’t too often that Father stood in the sandpits wearing his teal dyed cotton rahvleir with padded leather segmented across the soft, fleshy parts of his body.

But when he did she could see how he’d once been a duelBaron of the Aetheline Courts. He’d been half a step away from rising to duelDuke, but he’d been brutally humbled by duelBaron Ebring. Of course, he’d slowed considerably with that garish limp of his that even talented [Healers] couldn’t fix. On top of that, if the patchwork of gray hairs was anything to go by, aging hadn’t been kind either.

Father was still magnificent though, especially if Sevra had to use her mimicking talent to overcome his natural defenses.

Sevra threw herself into a dive to glide under and past Father’s downswing, with a stab and wrench of her dagger, in the sand, she turned on a pin and stabbed at Father’s leg.

Sparks of amber showered off the hazy red barrier he had wreathed around himself.

Father spun but was too slow to fend off Sevra’s following scarlet cut at his ankle.

He yelped as he leaped back on his bad left leg and fell amidst another rain of sparks.

“Well done.” Father said with heaving breaths, he wiped at his sweat-beaded brow with the teal cloth of his rahvleir. “Still can’t believe you haven’t tried your luck in any of Aethel’s duels. Your star would rise far, dear.”

“My talents lie elsewhere, my Lordship.” Sevra rose with a stretch. Mom and her insufferable stretches. Every morning, afternoon, and night, they stretched. As if they had to limber up for acrobatics. “But I can’t claim all of the credit. Thank our daughter’s talent for the final stroke.”

Father chuckled as he finally noticed Alanna. Cold pale green eyes met her own in a stare that had many of the locals bowing in supplication at every turn. “So, you’ve come at last and took my chance of victory.”

“I doubt she used my talent, Father, I didn’t feel her pull.” Alanna sat on the stairs to the sandpits to remove her riding boots so she could slide on her wooden flats before she strode through the sands to meet them.

“Correct.” Sevra beamed at her with the rough pride of an eagle watching her young take her first kill in the hunt. “Take my sword and run through the forms.”

“Yes, mistress.” Alanna rushed over to do as she was bid. Father was always father, but Sevra was mom, Sevra, and mistress as her instructor. A chuckle almost escaped her at the thought of Theo struggling to navigate the true complexities of her family.

Sevra had a near perfect replica of her own blade that she used when sparring, but when Father wasn’t around Alanna always pressed her to use sharps. It wasn’t like there was any danger of a mistaken cut with her own talent.

The saber was a solid span of steel that glinted dully from the sunlight streaming in from the windows. Nicks, scores, and gouges had worked their way into the edge and flat of the steel from their duel, but that wouldn’t matter for her bout with the air and her parents' lofty expectations.

Alanna slid into her stance at a moment’s notice. Left foot forward, right back, and turned to the right as if she straddled an invisible triangle. Knees bent. She held the saber up near her head, the blade held in a perfect downwards slant.

Giddiness bubbled in her veins.

She lunged forward with a flick of her wrist that cut the air in a stroke that would’ve opened an unguarded throat.

One.

But she didn’t stop there.

She spun to sweep at the empty air behind her, cutting so fast the blade whistled a mourning note for anyone foolish enough to try and sneak up on her.

Two.

Again and again she cut, parried, lunged with the fine tapered point at the rear of the blade. Sand churned around her ankles like waves of blood.

Faster.

Four.

Alanna danced back and forth, up and down all across the sandpits. Not once did her onslaught slow against the horde of imaginary foes she dropped to slumber in the cairns of her mind.

Faster.

Eight.

Aches licked from her wrist to her shoulders like tongues of fire, down her spine to her thighs, calves and ankles. Soreness from her ride with Theo reignited in the fury of her training. Sweat trickled down her face in a steady beat. Stray spools of her brunette hair escaped her bun.

Faster.

Ten.

She was a whirlwind of steel. A weaver crafting a masterful tapestry of strokes that flowed from one to the next. She was a conductor and an orchestra all in one, bleeding shrieking notes of song with every cut.

“Alanna!” Father’s voice snapped like a whip. She stopped with a wobble and faced the both of them in a lurching daze.

“... Yes… Father?” She panted. Exhaustion had its hooks in her and had her reeling for all she was worth.

“You move like the wind, daughter.” He sat on the edge of the rim with his feet hanging idly above the sand. His sword was bared and balanced flat on his knees. His smile was marred at the edges with a bitter scowl. “But do not forget yourself in the dance of steel lest arrogance takes you in the knee.”

“I hardly lose anymore.” And I won’t leave my calf open like you. She scoffed with a smile to hide the hidden thought from her face. “I beat Sevra half the time. Even when she blocks me from my talent or uses it against me.”

“Success is not solely measured by wins in the pits.” Father leaned back and waved sharply at Sevra who stood at the sides, her hands clasped behind her back. “Pride is a youthful game. A man,” he chuckled wryly,” or a woman could win dozens of times and still fall to a single loss. To hubris if nothing else.”

Alanna nodded to him before turning to accept the bulging waterskin in Sevra’s outstretched hands. She cradled it to her lips gratefully and was nearly surprised when she found she’d drank it all.

“Sword.” Sevra sighed with her hand still held out to her.

Alanna shifted her feet with dread settling in the pit of her stomach. She hadn’t kept her focus. “I didn’t falter a single step or a cut.”

“Sword.” She repeated without a trace of expression. Those brown eyes were as unyielding as the keen edge of a flint chip.

“Fine.” She handed the saber over and watched with baleful eyes and a held breath while Sevra studied the length of steel that now shone, as if freshly polished, with a blinding radiance in the pools of sunlight.

Faint rays of red splintered from the edge while they studied it instead of the even bands of yellow that should’ve glimmered from sword skills.

Sevra retrieved a leaf from the pocket of her jacket. Her eyes now bored into Alanna’s with a stare piercing enough she could pluck out every single last one of her secrets. Without a glance, she tossed the leaf up in the air and cut it in two before it could sway to the ground.

“You lost control of your talent again.” Sevra tsked at her. Then she shook her head and tossed the saber over her shoulder and only said a single word, “Hold.”

Alanna shoved at the veil of crimson in her mind until every sword, knife, arrow, and spear in the hall flared to life in motes of red. She yanked at the saber that fell, spinning hilt-over-tip, and caught it with her will so it hovered inches above the ground.

“If you insist on using your talents instead of polishing your skills, then I guess it’s time to play Catching Dagger’s Rain, daughter.” Sevra’s blank demeanor cracked with a smile that’d have even the toughest, hardest Orderman cowering. Without any other warning, she tore the dagger from its sheath at her waist and threw it at Alanna.