The first summer light broke over Ballandon's walls, spilling molten gold across its stones and battlements. The air shimmered faintly with the promise of another sweltering day.

  In the courtyard, Myrril stood alone. The morning heat clung to him, his gray tunic darkened with sweat beneath a battered breastplate. A single round shield leaned forgotten against the fountain's base. Two daggers hung loose at his hips. He turned his face towards the east, where the rising sun painted the hills in bloody hues.

  The king's health was fading. Faster than ever now.

  Myrril's hand tightened absently around the leather strap of his belt.

  Dyso, his old friend, had not an ounce of thaumaturgy in his body. A mundane king ruling a world stitched together by unseen forces he could neither command not resist. Perhaps it was inevitable. Perhaps this steep decline was merely what happened when the tides of thaumaturgy shunned a man who could not hold them.

  A dangerous thought stirred in Myyril's mind.

  Perhaps those without thaumaturgy were never meant to rule.

  He exhaled slowly, pushing it down.

  The heavy doors of the armory opened. Jeralia stepped into the courtyard, her mail flashing silver in the sunlight, giving off a thousand tiny reflections. Her great helm shadowed her skull, only a narrow slit allowing her to perceive her surroundings with her eyes.

  Without a word, the regent of the Kingdom of Osharis drew two daggers from his belt and tossed them towards her. Only one dagger remained at his hip.

  She frowned behind the steel, but said nothing.

  One blade for him, two for me. Why? Does he want this spar to be that unfair for him?

  There was no time to ask. They moved. Jeralia lunged first.

  The courtyard rang with the quick, vicious clash of steel on steel. Dagger fighting was a brutal craft. It was fast, ugly, and personal. Every motion sought bone or artery. Each step risked blood. The princess had to remind herself this was only a spar, just like any other.

  The heir apparent pressed her advantage, using her twin blades to weave attacks high and low. Feint, thrust, cut. The rhythm of battle was drilled into her bones.

  Myrril gave ground carefully, his single dagger flashing to meet her strikes, deflecting rather than contesting her force.

  Dust rose around them, the heat weighing heavy on their shoulders.

  Minute by minute, she drove him back toward the cracked stones of the courtyard's dry fountain.

  "Uncle Myrril," she called through the helm's hollow. "Why have you never taught me thaumaturgy? You've been training me for 17 years!"

  He parried a thrust, silent.

  "You taught me to fight," she pressed, stepping in tighter. "To lead. Why not to bend the world as you do? I can make all the palace guards yield without even having to try. I need more. I need thaumaturgy!"

  Still no answer. Nothing strange, nothing unusual. Just the spar as always, as it was six days of the week at the break of dawn.

  She tightened her strikes, sensing him slowing. The tiniest opening was widening. Victory was near.

  Jeralia darted in, blades glinting.

  And the world shifted.

  The stones beneath her feet slipped, tilting wrong. Her balance fled in an instant. She stumbled.

  In that same breath, Myrril closed the distance, seized her wrist, and press the flat of his dagger against the seam in her armor.

  "Yield." he said, steady as the sun.

  For a moment, the princess froze, stunned. Then she wrenched herself free, her daggers clattering against the stone at her feet.

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  "You... cheated." she hissed.

  "I adapted." Myrril said evenly, sheathing his blade.

  "You used thaumaturgy."

  He bent, retrieved one of her fallen daggers, and offered it hilt first. The green-blue glow of mana covered the skin of hand like a glove, protecting it from the blade's sharp edges.

  "You asked why I never taught you," he said. Jeralia snatched the weapon without saying anything.

  "Thaumaturgy lies, Young Jeralia," Myrril said, his voice low but firm. "It promises strength without cost, power without burden. But when it matters most..."

  He tapped the dagger lightly against his breastplate.

  "...steel never lies."

  Jeralia glared at him through the narrow slit of her helm.

  Anger boiled in her chest, not at the loss, but at the hard yet crucial lesson.

  Enemies would not fight fair, the world would not fight fair. She could not afford to expect it to.

  She gave a single, tight nod--more out of habit than agreement--then turned on her heel and walked away.

  Myrril sighed, displeased with his student's attitude. But he was glad that the message got through to her clearly.

  He did not want her to use thaumaturgy.

  --

  After a quick wash, Jeralia allowed herself a short nap, curling under a thin linen sheet in her sun-warmed chamber. She rose at noon, as she always did on the days she sparred against her mentor. She dressed plainly, donning her favourite blue and gold dress and accompanying veil, and made her way through the winding halls to a forgotten room she had claimed years ago.

  The old bedroom had been stripped mostly bare, its cracked walls and faded tapestries left untouched.

  When she had become of the age where her own non-combat education was no longer necessary to be taught to her, she took up the role of teacher herself.

  The children of guards and servants sat cross-legged on the worn floor, their faces bright with expectation.

  Jeralia stood next to the large blackboard at the front of the room, tracing chalk-drawn the kingdom's river systems with a stick.

  "Why must we know rivers?" a boy named Tomas grumbled, tugging at his bootlace.

  Jeralia rapped his knuckles lightly with the stick.

  "Because rivers feed fields. Fields feed armies. Armies defend kingdoms. Just like ours."

  A little girl with tangled braids raised her hand slightly.

  "But what if the rivers dry up?"

  Jeralia smiled faintly below her veil. She was happy that her students caught on quickly. The education she provided was free, but was immensely valuable. The children would be the people who would serve her and the kingdom one day. They had to be ready for it.

  "Then kings fall. And queens with them."

  Laughter rippled among the children, through a few exchanged uneasy glances.

  "I'd rather just fight with a sword." Tomas crossed his arms stubbornly.

  "You will," Jeralia said. "But a sword can't feed your men when the snow comes. Or find water in a siege."

  "Now," she turned back toward the board. "Show me the Great Trade Road from memory. If you can't, you'll run five laps before dinner in the courtyard outside."

  Groans and laughter filled the room as the children scrambled to trace the dusty map.

  She was patient, but relentless.

  The world would not be kind to them, and neither would she.

  --

  As the sun slanted lower, Jeralia wore more formal cloth and a singlet over her veil, and made her way through the cool marble halls of the upper keep.

  Three figures awaited her in a vaulted chamber: Lord Therin, Lady Velraine, and Seneschal Morreth. They bowed deeply as she entered.

  "Your Highness," Therin said smoothly. "The harvest in the west have exceeded all expectation."

  "Double the guards at the granaries," Jeralia said immediately. "And have the shipments weighed twice."

  Morreth shifted uneasily.

  "There are troubling reports from the southern roads," he said. "Caravans delayed. Villages late with their tithes."

  Jeralia's fingers tapped lightly against the hilt of her dagger.

  "Send scouts," she said. "Quiet ones. Confirm before we act."

  Velraine hesitated.

  "Some counsel strength, Your Highness. A display of arms."

  Jeralia let the silence stretch. Then she spoke.

  "Steel drawn too early is wasted. We will not strike at shadows."

  Instead of lingering, Jeralia turned down a quieter corridor, making her way up to the king's chambers. The guards outside the heavy oak doors, bowed low but did not block her way.

  Inside, the air was heavy with scents of herbs and old parchment.

  King Dyso lay propped against a mountain of cushions. This was the state Jeralia had almost always seen her father in for the last nine years.

  Jeralia crossed the room quietly and sat beside him.

  He smiled faintly, reaching for her hand.

  "My sun," he rasped, squeezing her fingers weakly.

  She squeezed back, the knot of worry tightening in her chest.

  "I bring news, Father." she said, setting a small ledger on the bedside table.

  "Speak." Dyso waved a hand.

  She gave him a measured report--harvests strong, unrest possible along the southern border, scouts dispatched, nobles restless.

  He listened with closed eyes, only speaking once she had finished.

  "You should listen to Myrril," he said hoarsely. "He sees farther than you do,"

  Jeralia stiffened tightly but was silent.

  "He understands patience," Dyso continued. "Caution. You are brave, my sun, but bravery is only a virtue when it serves wisdom."

  "I act with care." Jeralia said quietly. The same care Myrril acted with, the same she learned from. To her, it seemed that Dyso's issue was that Myrril was the regent, and nobles and officials rushed daily to him for counsel and updates. Those of whom he did not have time for, he had Jeralia deal with.

  Just because I get the ones that are left over doesn't mean my decisions are less important.

  "Care tempered with fire," Dyso said, smiling tiredly. "Just like your old man. Or, the man he used to be,"

  She bowed her head briefly, hiding the sudden ache in her chest.

  "But even fire must be shaped by the hands of smith," Dyso continued. "And Myrill... well, he is a fine smith."

  Jeralia forced herself to nod.

  "I value his expertise." she said evenly.

  "And so you must," Dyso said, a light cough escaping his lungs. "One day, Osharis will be yours to carry. And you will carry it with weight, not with pride."

  She rose slowly, bowing low.

  "He smiled again, weary and warm.

  "I know you won't, my sun,"

  Outside, the final light of the sun bled across the stone, casting long shadows against the aging walls of Ballandon.

  Jeralia paused at the balcony, letting the warm air wash over her, the noise of the evening distant

  What will the coming days bring? she wondered. And will I be ready?