A Moment from Chapter 19
Gwendra, daughter of Atalonia, faces the tutor who doubts her and discovers the steel she carries within.
The sun hadn’t risen, but the war room already glowed.
Gwendra sat at the edge of the map table, her fingers trailing over carved terrain markers — mountains, river stones, tiny banners pinned to redwood bases. The old wood smelled of dust, charcoal, and dried ink. She’d come early. Always did. The tutor hated that.
She didn’t care.
She was studying a campaign from the Third Stormward March — Dragon companies deployed across eastern ridgelines near Ferlim. The enemy had advanced along the valley trail. Predictable. But the record showed them victorious.
She frowned. “No,” she whispered. “They didn’t win there.”
She slid one of the small red tokens west — repositioning the opposing force to a high bluff that overlooked the pass.
If the wind had been with them, and the sun behind their backs...
They would’ve broken the flanks.
“Correct,” came a voice like bark behind her. “But only if the commander knew to mask the lower movement with a decoy force. Which, I’m told, he did not.”
She turned as Maestor Arvest entered — robes rustling, beard tied in two angry knots, the permanent scowl of a man born disappointed in the future. He set down a heavy book with a thud and stared down his nose at her.
“You arrived early. Again.”
“I enjoy learning,” Gwendra said.
“No. You enjoy winning.”
She smiled. “Is there a difference?”
He did not return it.
“I once taught princes,” he said. “Heirs to thrones. Boys raised for war. Men who would one day command thousands.”
He moved to the far side of the table and spread the battle log open. Miniature flags and carved soldiers glinted in the lamplight.
“But your father gave me no such man,” he added. “So now I teach... you.”
She didn’t flinch. “You taught them well?”
“They played at war on this very board quite well.” He spread the map. “But in the end... not one became the man the realm needed.”
Gwendra arched a brow. “Then perhaps they needed better instruction.”
Arvest’s eyes narrowed. “Do you know what separates a noble from a general?”
She folded her hands behind her back. “Enlighten me.”
“Weight,” he said. “A noble commands from a balcony. A general commands from the saddle. When the sun blinds you, and the wind screams, and the blood of your own is slicking your boots... that’s when you learn how real war feels.”
Gwendra tilted her head. “Have you fought in a battle, Maestor?”
Silence. A flicker in his jaw.
“I’ve studied them. All of them.”
She smiled sweetly. “So you command from the balcony too.”
His nostrils flared.
They began the lesson.
Arvest set the pieces. Red stones for Atalonian troops, blue for the Fellsworn clans. A crooked ridge. A snaking ravine. Three days of rain, and dusk approaching.
“You command a scouting unit,” he said. “Your left flank is missing. Horns have sounded from the north. The pass is narrowing.”
Gwendra stepped closer, brow furrowed.
“Where’s the high ground?”
He pointed. “Here. But the soil’s slick. Risky footing.”
She hesitated, eyeing the board. “Then... I split the force. Leave a few men here at the ravine mouth to hold. I take the rest up the ridge.”
Arvest raised an eyebrow. “To what end?”
“To flank them.”
He made a small scoffing sound. “And if they’re baiting you?”
She frowned. “Then we hold the high ground. Signal the others with torchlight if we see movement.”
“The torches won’t last in rain. Try again.”
Gwendra bit her lip. Looked again. “Then I use the ravine. Pull them into it. Collapse the ridge when they’re inside.”
Arvest didn’t move. “With what? You’ve no engineers. Only scouts.”
She faltered. “Then... roll stones? Set small fires? Something to force confusion. Buy time.”
He leaned forward. “Better. Not perfect. But better.”
She looked up at him. “So what would you do?”
“Dig in,” he said. “Shallow trenches. Send a single rider south to mislead. When the Fellsworn pursue, you turn the ground beneath them to mud and blood. You use the land, not just the fire.”
Gwendra nodded slowly. She wasn’t smiling now — just absorbing.
After a pause, Arvest added, “And next time, don’t plan to win by burning your own men.”
She winced. “It was a last resort.”
He grunted. “It always is. And yet, it always comes too soon for the young.”
For the next hour, he tried to break her.
He shifted variables mid-scenario. Repositioned enemy forces. Turned a narrow pass into a flooded marsh, then made the Fellsworn retreat and strike from the rear.
She adapted.
Not easily — but steadily.
Every trap he laid, she worked through.
Sometimes it took her a beat too long. Once, she made a call that would’ve cost a quarter company. But she caught it. Recovered. Reformed her lines with cold logic and lean precision.
She referenced skirmishes from the Old Wars. Quoted casualty counts. Argued that terrain outlasts numbers, and confusion breaks faster than steel. She didn’t just follow the patterns — she challenged them.
Arvest listened. Frowned. Adjusted again.
And each time, she answered. Not with flair. Not with boasts. Just steady hands and a mind sharpened by study, sweat, and something deeper — the will to prove she belonged.
Finally, Arvest stepped back from the table. He rubbed the side of his jaw, eyes narrowing slightly.
“If you were born a boy…”
Gwendra didn’t look up from the board.
“Then I’d be king,” she said quietly. “But I wasn’t. So I’ll be something else.”
She turned and walked out of the war room without looking back — falcon pendant glinting at her neck like the blade of a drawn dagger.