Calia stood on the edge of the forest, her breath coming in sharp, angry bursts. The trees whispered softly in the evening breeze, a gentle sound that had once brought her peace. But not today. Today, her chest burned with shame.

She could still hear the mocking laughter of the men who saw her as a foolish girl. After the duel, her brother Jeanin offered his hand, but she refused, not out of pride, but from the deep ache in her heart. When her sword fell, it wasn’t just defeat she felt; it was a betrayal by her own body and the world that said women didn’t belong on the battlefield.

It had been her chance. Her only chance.

The duel had been fair, but Jeanin had always been stronger, faster, his sword an extension of himself. She had fought fiercely, pouring everything she had into each swing, each step, trying to prove she belonged among them. But in that final moment, when Jeanin disarmed her, everything unraveled.

And they laughed.

Calia leaned against a tree, pressing her forehead against its rough bark, her fists clenched tight. A part of her had always known this moment would come, the day when her dream would collide with the cruel reality of the world. She wasn’t like Jeanin or Challes, born to be knights in shining armor. She was born to be a lady, a wife, a silent force behind the scenes. But that had never been her desire. She wanted the steel in her hands, the wind in her hair, the thrill of battle, the honor of knighthood.

She had defied them all, her parents, her suitors, even the nobles who whispered about how improper she was. She had refused marriage, refused the life they had mapped out for her. But now, as she stood defeated, their laughter echoing in her mind, she wondered if she had been wrong.

The familiar rustling of leaves caught her attention. She knew who it was before she even turned around.

"You’re early," Calia said quietly, not bothering to look back.