Interlude 1

I crossed my arms, watching my fellow students shift nervously as they stared at the ordered line of stone golems in front of us. Such basic constructs hardly warranted their concern. Back home, our servants maintained dozens of them, though ours were crafted from the finest marble and decorated with intricate brass inlays that caught the morning light. These Academy versions looked dull and lifeless in comparison.

"Are those things going to try to kill us?" A boy in ill-fitting leather armor whispered.

I resisted rolling my eyes. The enchantment matrices etched into their stone bodies were clearly visible; all were the standard practice patterns used throughout the civilized kingdoms. Even my daughter's nursemaid had one to help with the daily tasks.

The training arena itself reflected the same stark utilitarianism as the golems, which seemed to be a reflection of the War Academy's aesthetics. Gone were the soaring spires and delicate archways of my palace in Morne. Here, thick granite walls rose in plain, brutal lines. The elven architects who had crafted my home would have wept at such mundane construction.

I shifted my weight, the unfamiliar Academy robes chafing against my silk undershirt. A wave of homesickness hit me as I pictured my daughter's cherubic face, her silver hair so like mine. Had leaving been selfish of me? The crown weighed heavy, even here where I pretended to be just another student.

"First candidate, step forward," Professor Shawe barked.

My fingers gripped the rough-hewn staff I had taken from the prep room. It was nothing like my unicorn horn focus from back home, whose power harmonized perfectly with my own. But I hadn't come here for comfort.

The sound of stone grinding against stone drew my attention back to the golems. Such crude constructs compared to the ones that had helped raise me, that now helped care for my own child. My chest tightened. Was she crying for me now? Did she understand why her mother had left?

"Your Majesty?" someone whispered beside me. "Are you well?"

I straightened my spine, shoulders held back like my etiquette master had drilled into me since childhood. "Perfectly fine," I replied with a smile, though my voice wavered slightly.

My husband's face floated in my mind: sweet, kind, and utterly hopeless at governance. Thank the gods my father had agreed to help, despite his failing health. Another reminder of why I was here. Our cursed short lives, cutting us down just as we reached our prime. I refused to leave my daughter to the same fate.

The first student engaged their golem, metal ringing against stone. I barely registered the fight, lost in memories of holding my newborn, wondering if she too would grow old and die before reaching her third decade. The thought steeled my resolve. I would master magic here, and hopefully gain the tools required to unlock the mystical secrets that might save my people. The throne could wait.

But still, that nagging doubt remained. What kind of mother abandons her child? What kind of queen abandons her people?

The kind that would save them all, I told myself firmly. If I succeeded, my daughter could have several decades ahead of her like the other members of the human race, not a mere handful of years. Perhaps, if we were lucky, elves could become as long lived as the dwarves were.

I watched Barkatus approach the center of the arena, his borrowed plate armor catching the afternoon sun. Despite being standard issue equipment, he wore it like a second skin. The way he moved reminded me of my late mother's honor guard; each step was measured, ready to explode into violence.

The golem activated, its runes flickering to life with pale blue light. Barkatus didn't wait for it to fully awaken. His borrowed blade whistled through the air, scoring a deep groove in the construct's chest. Stone chips scattered across the packed dirt.

"Look at that form," one of the noble boys whispered. "Perfect extension."

Barkatus pivoted, avoiding the golem's counterswing with fluid grace. His next strike targeted the same spot he'd hit before, deepening the crack. The golem's movements grew jerky as its enchantments struggled to compensate for the damage.

His third and fourth strikes came in rapid succession: one high, one low. More stone fragments flew. The golem's left arm hung useless, barely attached.

My fingers tightened around the Academy's staff. This was no common sellsword. His technique spoke of formal military training, years of real combat experience. The fifth blow nearly took the golem's head off.

"Magnificent," Professor Harmony murmured, making notes on her slate.

Barkatus ended it with his sixth strike, a perfect diagonal cut that split the construct from shoulder to hip. The two halves toppled in opposite directions, enchantments sputtering out in a flash of blue sparks.

Professor Shawe's face twisted with barely concealed irritation as he conferred with Harmony and Casper. His fingers drummed against his staff while they spoke in hushed tones. Even from where I stood, the tension in his shoulders betrayed his displeasure at having to acknowledge Barkatus's obvious skill.

"Rank A," Shawe finally announced, each word dragged out like pulling teeth. "Barkatus of Vokkheim, you shall receive advanced combat instruction."

A smattering of applause broke out among the students. Most came from the common-born candidates who seemed to take vicarious pride in seeing one of their own excel. The noble students remained notably silent, still processing how thoroughly Barkatus had dispatched that golem.

Barkatus himself merely grunted, already walking back to the waiting area. His borrowed armor clinked softly with each step, and I noticed he'd managed to avoid getting even a speck of stone dust on the plain steel plate. The man moved with the precise economy of someone who'd spent years letting their blade do the talking.

"As if there was any doubt," he muttered as he passed me. "Six strikes was being generous."

I caught the faintest whiff of cheap ale on his breath. So the rumors about his drinking were true. Yet his hands remained steady, his eyes clear and focused. I'd seen enough alcoholic nobles at court to recognize the signs of someone who'd built up a frightening tolerance.

"Next candidate," Shawe barked, already moving another stone golem into position.

The applause died away, replaced by nervous shuffling as students tried to avoid being called next. After Barkatus's display, no one wanted to follow that act. Even I felt a flutter of anxiety, though I quickly suppressed it. Queens didn't show fear, not even student queens.

Arctur lumbered forward. He had removed his jacket and shirt, leaving his upper body bare. Hard green scales reflected in the sun, some of the upper ones shining iridescent in the light. He held the borrowed spear awkwardly, its size obviously too small for the large lizardman to wield effectively.

Professor Shawe's lips curled into a smirk. "Begin whenever you're ready," he drawled, tapping his staff with exaggerated casualness.

I internally frowned at the man's horrid display of his obvious bias. Earlier, Shawe had pulled me aside with such unctuous familiarity, speaking of our "shared human heritage" as if it meant anything. The way he'd fawned over my noble blood made my skin crawl. Back home, my tutors would have sneered at his provincial attitude, though their own prejudices against non-elves were hardly any better.

I watched Arctur face the golem, my diplomatic training helping me mask my concern at his obvious disadvantage. The practice spear looked like a child's toy in his massive scaled hands. Back home, my weapons master would have never dreamed of forcing a warrior to use such ill-suited equipment.

The golem lunged. Arctur's reflexes impressed me; he twisted aside with surprising grace for someone of his size. His counterstrike came faster, the spear driving toward the construct's stone flank. The weapon's shaft flexed, then snapped with a sharp crack.

Shawe's laughter rang out across the arena. "Equipment failure! How unfortunate."

My jaw clenched. The professor's mock sympathy couldn't have been more transparent. In my court, such blatant prejudice would have earned him a swift dismissal.

The golem's arm whipped around, catching Arctur across his jaw. The impact echoed through the arena. Blood trickled from his mouth, and I glimpsed a cracked tooth among the crimson droplets.

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Something changed in Arctur's eyes then. The calculated warrior vanished, replaced by raw fury. He launched himself at the golem with a roar that made several students step back. His clawed hands locked onto the construct's arm.

What happened next left me breathless. Arctur lifted the massive stone creation overhead as if it weighed nothing, then brought it crashing down. Again and again he slammed it into the packed earth, each impact sending tremors through the ground. Stone chips flew everywhere.

The golem's head finally shattered on the seventh or eighth impact, its enchantments flickering out like a snuffed candle.

The three instructors huddled together, speaking in low tones. Shawe's face had lost its earlier amusement, replaced by barely concealed disgust.

"Rank B," he announced finally, each word dripping with disdain. "And don't bother complaining. Raw strength without technique or skill barely deserves that much."

I felt my fingers tighten around my my staff. How different this was from the carefully maintained politeness of my court. There, at least, we had the decency to mask our prejudices behind flowery words and false smiles.

Two more students faced their golems before my turn came. Young Lord Tieren managed a passable showing with his sword, while Lady Vivian's attempt at fire magic left her golem barely singed. Neither performance inspired much confidence.

"Her Majesty Bethani of Morne," Professor Shawe called, his voice honeyed with artificial warmth. Several noble students wished me luck as I stepped forward, though their eyes held calculation rather than genuine support. They'd already marked me as someone worth courting favor with.

I gripped the practice staff, missing the familiar weight of my unicorn horn focus. The rough wood felt dead compared to the living magic that usually flowed through my preferred weapon. Still, any proper mage should be able to work with basic tools.

The golem's runes flickered to life, pale blue light washing across its crude stone features. As it lumbered toward me, I reached deep within myself, touching the well of power I'd spent years cultivating. A quarter of my reserves should suffice; no need to waste energy on such a simple construct.

My analytical mind quickly identified the golem's weak points. The enchantment matrices relied heavily on wind and fire elements to maintain cohesion between the stone segments. Elementary work, really. The kind of thing I'd mastered before my tenth summer.

Lightning gathered at my staff's tip, crackling with barely contained power. I directed the charge precisely, targeting the junction points where the elemental forces met. The bolt struck the golem's head like a hammer of pure light.

The effect was instantaneous. Stone segments separated cleanly as the binding enchantments failed, clattering to the packed earth in a shower of sparks. Though the individual pieces still hummed with residual magic, the golem itself had effectively ceased to exist as a unified construct.

Gasps rippled through the assembled students, followed by enthusiastic applause. I kept my expression neutral, though inwardly I smiled at their provincial amazement. Such a basic application of magical theory hardly warranted such excitement.

"Rank A," Professor Shawe declared without even consulting his fellow instructors. His eyes gleamed with the same calculating look I'd seen countless times at court. It was that of someone seeing an advantage to be gained through association.

I returned to my place among the students, already planning modifications to improve the spell's efficiency. Perhaps a more focused discharge next time, or better targeting of the elemental interfaces. There was always room for improvement, even in simple exercises like this.

Next up was that curious creature with the metal body and white porcelain mask. I had no idea what type of being it was, but the system probably labeled it as a monster of some type.

She, I corrected. I would not lower myself to the same level as my baser classmates, who had tittered and sneered at her in the preparation room. It was unbecoming of royalty to refer to a fellow intelligent being as an "it."

I watched Widow, as the masked creature was named, take her position. My trained eye immediately noted the peculiarities of her stance. Having studied under the finest swordmasters in Morne, I recognized elements of Court Style in her form, but twisted into something entirely different. Her metal hand held the saber in a way that would have made my instructors apoplectic.

"Look at that grip," whispered Lord Tieren beside me. "Complete amateur. The blade should be raised, not pointing down like some common thug's weapon."

"Disgraceful," agreed Lady Vivian. "My father would dismiss any instructor who taught such poor form."

"That's not Court Style at all," I murmured, drawing curious looks from my noble peers.

The porcelain mask turned slightly, its empty eye sockets seeming to find me in the crowd. A chill ran down my spine. There was something unnatural about the way she held herself; she was too still, too precise. Like the clockwork dolls I bought for my daughter, but with an underlying deadliness that no mere machine could match.

"Such sloppy footwork," scoffed another student, though I noticed he kept his voice low. "The stance is completely wrong for proper thrusting attacks."

But I remembered the way she had moved during the entrance duels. There had been nothing sloppy about her movements then. Every action had served a purpose, every position had led to a strike. This stance, strange as it looked, had to serve some similar function.

Professor Shawe's lip curled in disgust. "Begin," he snapped, clearly expecting, perhaps even hoping, to see Widow fail.

I watched in fascination as Widow exploded into action. Her first thrust caught me off guard. The blade whipped upward with impossible speed, striking the golem's head with enough force to snap its neck backward. Against a living opponent, that strike would have punched straight through the brain stem.

The golem countered with a heavy fist, but Widow's blade was already there. She redirected the stone limb with an elegant economy of motion that made my earlier assumptions about her grip look foolish. The counter-thrust pierced the construct's throat; another lethal blow had it been flesh rather than stone.

"That's not possible," Lord Tieren muttered beside me. "No one moves that fast with improper form."

But there was nothing improper about her technique. Each movement flowed seamlessly into the next, her blade finding vital points with surgical precision. Throat. Temple. Heart. Eyes. The golem's stone body barely showed damage, but I counted a dozen killing blows in the span of seconds.

The construct swung again, a powerful horizontal strike that should have caught her metal arm. Instead, Widow seemed to flow around the attack like water, her saber never stopping its deadly dance. Another thrust to the base of the skull. A slash across major arteries. A piercing strike to the heart.

"She's not trying to destroy it," I realized aloud. "She's showing us exactly how she'd kill a living opponent."

The demonstration continued, each exchange highlighting Widow's lethal efficiency. Where Barkatus had shown practical battlefield experience and I had displayed magical mastery, Widow's performance spoke of something else entirely: the cold, calculated art of dealing death.

My court training helped me maintain a neutral expression, but inside I felt a chill. This was no ordinary swordsmanship. This was the work of someone who had studied the human body's weaknesses and learned to exploit them with terrifying precision. Each strike targeted a vital point that would have ended a fight instantly against a flesh-and-blood opponent.

The golem's attacks grew faster, more aggressive, but Widow's defense remained impenetrable. She deflected blows with minimal movement, always positioning her blade for an immediate counter-strike. Not a single motion was wasted. Not a single step taken without purpose.

I watched Shawe raise his staff, calling an end to the match. The golem's runes dimmed as Widow stepped back, her movements just as precise in retreat as they had been in combat.

"Rank C," Shawe announced. Like had done with my bout, the professor did not even bother to consult Harmony or Casper.

My eyebrows rose despite my best efforts to maintain royal composure. Even the noble students who had mocked Widow's stance earlier shifted uncomfortably at the obvious injustice.

Why have I failed? Widow's strange, whispery voice echoed in our minds, calm and measured. The mental projection carried no emotion, making it impossible to tell if she felt anger or disappointment.

Shawe's face twisted. "You dare question my judgment?"

We are here to learn, Widow replied, and despite the emotionless quality of her mental voice, I could detect the challenging tone within it. How can I learn if you don't explain what I did wrong?

I had to admire her composure. Many nobles I knew would have lost their temper by now, yet her voice remained steady. The porcelain mask revealed nothing, but her stance suggested someone used to dealing with difficult authority figures.

"Yes, Professor Shawe." Harmony's voice dripped with sarcasm. "Do explain your logic. If you have any."

The look Shawe shot at his fellow instructor could have curdled milk. His fingers tightened around his staff until the knuckles went white. "It's obvious to anyone with proper training that she was losing the match. She failed to damage the golem at all."

He swept his gaze across the assembled students, as if seeking support. Most avoided his eyes, though I noticed several of my fellow nobles nodding along reflexively.

"Furthermore," he continued, gaining momentum, "that amateur approximation of Court Style was embarrassing to watch. I ended the test early out of pity."

I barely contained a most unladylike snort. As someone who had actually studied Court Style under Morne's finest masters, I knew exactly how wrong Shawe's assessment was. What Widow had demonstrated was something far more refined and deadly than our traditional forms.

The way she had targeted vital points with such precision spoke of a deeper understanding of combat than mere style. Each move had been calculated to end a fight decisively against a living opponent. That Shawe either couldn't or wouldn't see this said more about him than about Widow's abilities.

"Are you satisfied with my explanation?" Shawe's tone dripped with condescension.

Widow's porcelain mask bobbed once in a neutral nod. The gesture seemed to please Shawe, who turned away with a satisfied smirk.

"Next student," he called out, consulting his list.

I barely paid attention to the subsequent matches. My thoughts kept returning to the blatant unfairness I'd just witnessed. The War Academy's reputation had drawn me here. The tales of legendary warriors forged through merit and determination. What a disappointment to find that the same prejudices and politics I'd left behind in Morne were so joyfully practiced here.

My fingers traced the edge of my practice staff as another student stepped forward to face their golem. The bitter taste of reality settled in my mouth. I'd seen this pattern countless times in my own court: the way power concentrated in certain hands, how merit meant little against established hierarchies.

Even in Morne, where I held absolute authority as Queen, I couldn't truly change this fundamental truth. My reforms to help the common folk were constantly undermined by noble interests. My attempts to treat all races equally met with polite resistance wrapped in diplomatic smiles.

The sound of stone crashing against stone barely registered as I continued my bitter reflections. I needed to accept reality. This was simply how the world worked. Some wielded power, others suffered beneath it. This was a truth as old as human civilization itself. The gods themselves seemed to have designed existence this way, though it pained me to admit it.

I glanced at Widow's still form, standing exactly where Shawe had dismissed her. Despite her obvious skill, she would face an uphill battle here, just as my people struggled against their shortened lifespans. The world rarely offered justice to those who needed it most.

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