1.1 – If Wishes Were Horses

On her twentieth birthday, Rika Blackstone resolved to do the unthinkable, and chose to defy her father. With each swing of her training sword, the certainty of her choice etched itself onto her spirit. The familiar and always welcome ache of exertion sank deeper into her limbs. For ten years now, she’d trained daily. For ten years, she’d built the resolve necessary to choose, whether she realized what she’d done or not. Today was the day of that choice. Once she made it, she would receive her class and sever all opportunity to turn back. If there was one thing in which she was certain, it was this.

As Rika trained in the same fashion she did every morning, the sun crept ever higher above the walls of Blackstone Manor. She worked through her sword drills in the manor’s central courtyard. Yet another morning spent on flagstones worn smooth by the tread of countless booted feet. Her father’s soldiers left her alone in that polite way of theirs; tolerating the duke’s bastard daughter, but never truly accepting her. But today, she didn’t care. Instead, she remained fixed on the promise of tomorrow. Nothing could be further from her thoughts than the burdens of her dubious parentage, or a family name and legacy she’d never asked for.

Rika kept her hair, thick and sable, tied back with a leather thong as she worked through her practice. Her father insisted she keep it long. And after the hard-won concession of allowing her to train with the house guard, she hadn’t dared ask he let her keep it any shorter. At least he hadn’t objected to her clothes.

She wore a pair of worn-in and well-fitting breeches. Her loose linen shirt was of the style often worn by performers. An outfit she found far more comfortable, even when damp with sweat, compared to the sort of clothes her father would have preferred. She’d even taken to dressing this way when sequestered in the library for her studies. Or, more accurately, for the bulk of her day.

As Rika worked through her drills, the sound of hobnailed boots against the courtyard flagstone drew near. She turned and lowered her sword as Captain Marin approached. His rugged face split into the sort of grin that told Rika he’d something in store. A few steps behind him, a gangly young man about Rika’s age followed. The young man looked as though he were being led to his death.

“Big day, isn’t it, Miss Rika?” he asked in a voice more used to shouting commands than idle conversation.

As captain of her father’s household guard, he was a competent Soldier and commander both. It was his training regimen that ensured the men of the guard stood always ready to defend their lord. Rika had insisted on joining each morning since she’d been old enough to hold a sword. It had been a hard-won battle to get her father’s permission, and over the years he’d used this one concession as both a carrot and a stick to ensure her continued obedience in matters he deemed more important.

“So I’ve been told,” she said, rolling her shoulders.

She shot a glance in Marin’s direction. He still wore that grin from earlier, clearing any doubt he’d something prepared. “So tell me what you’ve got planned, then,” she said. “I take it we’re doing something different today.”

“A bit of a challenge, and a taste of things to come, if you will. Young Caspian here just went through his own trial. Been training with us for a few years now, so of course he got a Soldier class. Thought you’d like to spar with him this morning.”

Rika arched an eyebrow at Marin, but couldn’t help the ghost of a smile that tugged at the corners of her own lips. A taste of things to come, indeed. A true show of the sort of ability she would gain for herself after her own trial. “Trying to see me killed before I’m a proper adult?”

Marin laughed. At least he was one of the few in the manor who appreciated her bone-dry humor. Caspian somehow paled even further. As much as she meant it as a joke, the benefit of a class was no small advantage. The Watchers themselves granted each person a fraction of their power upon reaching their twentieth year and passing through the Trials of Destiny. Blessed by the gods with a proper class, given access to stats and skills, the gap between even an awkward young man like Caspian and an unclassed like Rika was practically insurmountable.

“He hasn’t even gained his first level yet. Barely classed, if you ask me. He’ll go easy on you, though,” Marin said.

“He’d better not.”

“I’ll be as careful as I can, Lady Rika,” Caspian half stammered.

Rika shook her head as she turned to face Caspian and fell into a ready stance. It had taken years to get Marin to refer to her as “Miss” rather than “Lady,” and that was as far as she’d ever been able to push him. He insisted that rank mattered, despite her protests that she didn’t actually have anything resembling a rank. Marin remained just as insistent that dropping the honorific would set a poor example for his men. As a result, she’d never gotten the other guards to refer to her as anything other than “lady.”

Either way, rank mattered little when one’s life was on the line. If she couldn’t train against someone willing to push her, how could she expect to survive when it truly mattered? If they held back or deferred out of fear of her father—fear she couldn’t wholly blame them for—it only did her a disservice. One that may one day cost her the only life she had.

“Treat me as you would any other sparring partner, Caspian. There’s little point in it, otherwise.” Given Caspian’s expression, her words had probably come out a little more clipped than she’d intended. Well, they’d been said, and the best she could do was shove them aside and focus on her opponent.

“Begin!” Marin’s shout cracked across the courtyard like a teamster’s crop on oxhide.

Rika did as she’d been taught and advanced. Momentum was key. Force was key. Even if she hadn’t been at a severe disadvantage by not having a class, Caspian was still taller and heavier than she was. And, despite years of strict daily exercise giving her a fit and well-muscled figure, he’d still have been the stronger, even without his class. But often the one who struck first won. So that’s how she fought.

Caspian brought up his blade. The blunted training swords met under the cold spring sun, and the next thing Rika knew, her own blade clattered to the flagstones several yards away. Her left arm was half numb from the impact, and it was all she could do to raise her shield. Metal cracked against wood, and a brief moment of panic flared as Rika found herself driven to the ground by that single strike.

She went down hard on her hip and tumbled once across the training area. Marin stepped between her and Caspian, announcing the end of the bout. As Rika picked herself up, she winced at what would certainly be a nasty bruise on her hip come morning. Caspian looked as though he were about to apologize.

“Well fought,” she said before he had the chance, offering her hand. After Caspian reluctantly shook, she turned to Marin. “So that’s what a class does, then?” It was the first time she’d ever sparred against anyone who’d received one. Marin had never allowed it before. The difference was too great, he said, and they’d make bad training partners. Now she could see why.

If anything, it only increased her excitement for her own trial that evening. Her resolve, too. Why would anyone want to hang back and throw spells—flashy as they were—when they could wade into the fray and dominate through strength of arm? When they could hear the rush of blood in their ears as they pushed their body to its limits?

“And he’s not even leveled up yet. Base stats, barely knows how to use his skills.” Turning to Caspian, Marin said, “Run along, lad. You did well.”

Once more, Rika couldn’t help but allow herself a small smile as Caspian practically ran back to the other house Soldiers. The relief on his features was unmistakable. “What did you tell him about me?”

“Nothing,” Marin said with a shrug. “He’s just afraid of your father, is all. Speaking of, are you sure it’s wise to be out here this morning? I’d expect he’d want you at study.”

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“Father always wants me in the library, but even he allows that I focus better after I’ve taken my exercise. He’s permitted me this much for so long, I doubt he’ll take exception today, of all days.” It had taken countless arguments over the years, and ever greater concessions on her part, before her father finally agreed to let her have a couple hours of her own each morning. Eventually, Scholar Thaddeus had been the one who tipped the scales, confirming that after exercising in the mornings, Rika did, in fact, pay closer attention to her studies.

Marin shot a glance toward the main keep. “I wouldn’t make so light of him as that. He’s made his expectations clear, and we both know it’s best to do as his grace commands.”