Years Later
“One, two, one, two.”
The sharp command rang out across the training grounds, echoing off the stone walls of the base. Noël stood at the front, her voice firm and demanding as she paced between the rows of her soldiers. The men swung their swords in time with her commands, their movements precise, uniforms damp with sweat.
Tárnov’s base was an extension of the village, as cold as the stone from which both were built. It was said to be the strongest in the world, or so the Tárnovers all believed.
The walls were tall and bare, save for the banners of crossed swords and the symbols of blue roses.
Inside, the halls were narrow and exact. Barracks were lined up in strict rows, with beds of stone, thin sheets, and floors scrubbed daily. The training yard never emptied. The armory was organized down to the last blade.
“Faster!” Noël barked. “You think the enemy will wait for you to catch your breath?”
The metallic sound of swords clashing against shields filled the air alongside the harsh breathing of tired men. Noël’s leather boots dug into the dirt as she moved among them, her eyes scanning the lines of warriors before her for any sign of weakness.
Who would dare to rest under her command? Who would dare to speak up? To ask why she was so harsh with them?
No one would.
She spotted one soldier. His arms shook, the grip on his sword loose. Noël was on him in an instant to grab the front of his uniform and yank him toward her.
“Are you tired,rookie?” she asked. Her voice was cold, but the heat in her chest was too familiar. She’d been where he stood, trembling under the weight of expectations that felt impossible to meet. And yet, she couldn’t go easy on him.
Weakness had no place in this world. Just as her mother taught her. The very thought of it made her chest tighten, but she pushed the burning feeling aside.
She had no room for softness.
“N-no, Sergeant. . .”
“Then why are you slowing down?” she demanded, shoving him back into place.
The man stumbled before fixing his stance.
“The moment you hesitate is the moment you die. Is that what you want?”
“No, Sergeant Ársa!” Fear flashed in his eyes as he snapped to attention and tightened his grip on his sword.
“Then fight like your life depends on it.” She leaned closer, narrowing her gaze as she slowly pronounced the last words, “Because it does.”
With a step back, she watched as he straightened and swung his sword with energy, intention, and the desire to please her shining in his eyes. The soldiers at his sides stood tall, expressions wary. They, too, were afraid to displease their sergeant. The cold sergeant who had joined them years ago. The one who beat them in every drill and rose through the ranks like a fire spreading in a dying forest.
Satisfied, she continued pacing the line as her soldiers pushed themselves harder and harder under her watchful gaze.
The clanging of steel against steel, the grunts of effort from tired men, and the shouts of her commands echoed through the training grounds of Tárnov’s base. The heat of the early sun bore down on Noël, but she didn’t let it affect her focus. This was where she thrived—leading, commanding, shaping these men into something stronger than they thought possible.
“One, two, one, two,” she repeated.
The men responded, their swords cutting through the air in perfect unison. Noël watched them, her eyes hard but proud. She would make sure they were strong. She would make sure her mother was proud.
After several rounds, she finally called out, “Enough!”
The soldiers’ chests heaved as they lowered their weapons, turning their gazes to their sergeant.
“Take a break,” she said. “Then we’ll begin again.”
As the men collapsed onto the dirt, wiping the sweat from their faces, Noël stepped away from the training grounds and made her way through the dark corridors of the stone base toward her office. Her boots echoed against the floor as she passed the cafeteria, already empty after morning drills, the classrooms lined with chalkboards and stacked gear, thecommunal washrooms, the officers’ quarters. At the end of the hall, she stopped in front of a familiar door and unlocked it with the key only she carried.
As she stepped into her office, her gaze drifted to the back of a framed picture on her desk. Her mother’s portrait, one she had painted as a child.
