Thrúd's bedroom in the Great Lodge is a simple hay-lined loft lit by a single lantern swaying from a ceiling beam. The golden straw shifts under her bare feet as she moves, the air smelling of wood, leather, and smoke. Along one wall sits a pile of round shields; in the center stands her crude wooden arm-dummy — her nightly sparring partner. Her machete and mace rest on a rough bench beside her fur-lined corset armor.

She stands tall in the warm lantern glow, broad-shouldered and steady. Her ginger hair — wild, thick, and sweeping back, with that bright red tuft on the right — falls around her scarred, freckled face. A few loose strands tickle her cheek as she grips a heavy wooden training sword.

“Too heavy… pfft,” she mutters, rolling her eyes.

She plants her feet in the hay and swings. The wooden blade cracks against the dummy’s arm with a satisfying thud. Again. And again. Overhead strikes, sweeps, thrusts — each blow shaking straw loose around her boots. Her blue tattoos shift with each movement, glowing faintly in the lantern’s flicker.

She pauses only long enough to switch to a shield, practicing blocks and shoves: step, raise, deflect, push. The hay slides slightly under her weight. Her breath grows heavier, but her focus only sharpens.

Then she grabs her wooden practice mace, letting its weight pull through her swings. Slow at first, then faster — until the whoosh of air stirs the hay around her.

After another set, she leans on the dummy, breathing deep, sweat shining along her temple. The red tuft of her hair glows like embers in the warm light.

For Mom. For dad. To prove herself she thinks, jaw tight.

She finishes with a full combo: shield lift, slash, sweep, kick, ready stance — hay bursting under her boots. Perfect.

At last she sets her practice weapons aside and picks up her real machete. The golden fire-gilded knotwork glints as she turns it in her hand.

“One day… this won’t just be practice,” she whispers, blue eyes steady. “One day I’ll protect who needs protecting.”

The loft goes quiet again — just Thrúd, the lantern, the smell of hay — and the future warrior she’s becoming.