The sharp clang of wood against wood echoed through the quiet forest, followed by the sound of heavy breathing. Elara wiped the sweat from her brow, gripping the worn wooden sword in her hands. Her arms ached, her legs burned, but she refused to stop. She steadied herself, raising the blade once more.
"Again."
With a deep breath, she lunged at the straw dummy she had tied to a tree. She had no master to teach her, no formal training—only the memories of watching soldiers drill in the courtyard and the rare moments when her father used to spar with her in secret.
A particularly strong swing sent splinters flying, and she stumbled back, panting. The sun had nearly set, casting the sky in warm golds and purples. She had stayed out too long.
Elara grabbed her cloak and threw it over her shoulders, hiding the dirt-streaked tunic she wore. If her mother saw her like this, another lecture would surely follow.
Home
The scent of stew filled their small cottage as Elara pushed the door open. Her mother, Lina, stood over the fire, stirring with a wooden spoon. Her father, Garrick, sat at the table, carefully sharpening a blade.
"You're late," her mother said without looking up.
"Got held up." Elara shrugged, hoping her voice sounded casual.
Lina turned, eyes narrowing as she took in the dirt on Elara's clothes and the fading bruises on her arms. "You were out there again, weren't you?"
Elara sighed. "Mother—"
"When will you stop this nonsense?" Lina snapped, slamming the spoon down. "You are nearly eighteen. It's time to think of your future! A proper future!"
"A proper future?" Elara's voice rose. "One where I marry a man I don't love and live a life that isn't mine?"
Her mother's jaw tightened, but before she could speak, Garrick sighed. "Lina, let her speak."
Lina folded her arms, waiting.
Elara took a breath, her heart hammering. "I want to be a knight."
The words hung in the air, met with silence. Her mother scoffed, shaking her head. "That is impossible."
"Why?" Elara challenged. "Because I'm a girl? That doesn't mean I'm weak!"
Lina's expression hardened. "No, it means the world won't let you."
Elara turned to her father, her last hope. "Papa, tell me I'm wrong. Tell me that if I train hard enough, I won't be ignored. That I can be just as strong as any man."
Garrick stared at her, silent. Then he placed the blade he had been sharpening on the table and leaned forward. "It's not about strength, Elara," he said quietly. "It's about power. And power does not come easily to those born without it."
"Then I'll take it," Elara said, voice steady. "If the world won't give me power, I'll carve my own path."
Garrick let out a heavy breath, rubbing a hand over his face. Her mother turned away, but not before Elara saw the glint of unshed tears in her eyes.
Finally, Garrick stood and walked to a wooden chest in the corner of the room. He opened it, pulling out an old tunic and a pair of trousers—worn but sturdy. "If you're serious about this," he said, setting them on the table, "you'll need a disguise."
Elara's breath caught. "You mean—"
Her mother exhaled sharply, wiping her hands on her apron before sitting down. "If this is truly what you want," she said, voice softer now, "then we won't stop you. But you must be careful, Elara. The world is cruel to those who don't follow its rules."
Elara swallowed hard, emotion welling up in her chest. She stepped forward, wrapping her arms around her mother first, then her father.
"Thank you," she whispered.
Garrick squeezed her shoulder. "You leave at dawn."
Elara clenched her fists, determination burning in her veins. She was ready.
Tomorrow, she would step into the kingdom's training grounds—not as Elara, daughter of a blacksmith, but as a boy determined to become a knight.