6 Years Ago

  Mona felt a twist in her stomach—something pulling at her. That’s why she had gone to her father’s office to talk about the bandits.

  That man who called himself “Daven”… his face still haunted her from earlier that day, when he came to threaten the people of Chestnut Town—her people.

  She walked through the paths of Chestnut at dusk, the threat from that afternoon still looming. Predators were nothing new to her; beasts often roamed the forests surrounding the town. But never had men exuded such ferocity—such bloodlust.

  Quinlou leaned against the wall beside the office entrance, arms crossed, wearing only the inner layers of his hunting uniform—likely waiting for his father to finish the meeting. He was the only other practitioner of the two-sword style in town.

  The major players of Chestnut were all inside, deep in discussion. Perhaps Jordan—just seventeen—had been let in. That would piss Quinlou off. Then again, he always looked pissed off.

  As Mona approached, the man looked up and grimaced at the sight of her.

  “They aren’t going to let you in, and you know it,” Quinlou spat.

  Mona shrugged. “I don’t care.”

  “Yig picked a fight with me not long ago, as usual,” Quinlou went on mockingly. “Told me to hang up my swords and quit—said once you're old enough, you’ll surpass me.”

  Mona paused, hand on the door handle. She looked up at her senior. “I will surpass you. No offence, but I will. There’s no use hiding it.”

  Quinlou’s mouth curled into a cold smile. “You seem so sure of yourself…”

  “That’s because while you’re fighting over a silly position like leading the hunters, Yig and I are aiming much higher.”

  The older boy snarled and turned away.

  Mona, indifferent to what he thought of her, opened the door and stepped inside.

  “I apologize for Yig,” she said as she entered. “He had no right to say what he did.”

  Higher goals? she thought. I can’t even say it out loud—the quest he’s after. Does that make me a bad friend?

  She’d be lying if she said Yig’s ambitions didn’t scare her. But what else could earn her a reputation worthy of standing beside her father—the great hero? Still, she couldn’t bring herself to believe in it.

  The walls echoed with voices from the meeting above. She passed the portraits and weapons lining the hallway and sat on the stairs just beneath the meeting room, listening in.

  “What do you mean, give them the money!?” she heard Guranvallur shout. “Are you insane?”

  “What would you rather, Beastly?” the mayor shot back, firm. “Risk the town over a few coins?”

  “A few coins now—buckets of gold later,” said Banein Hammer. “The peace they offer is a lie. They’re a threat whether we cooperate or not. Either way, people will die.”

  “We don’t know that for sure,” the mayor replied.

  “Our men are ready!” Guranvallur barked. “Why won’t you let them fight?”

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  The mayor sighed. “I won’t lose anyone. I just can’t. Tomorrow morning, we’ll give them the money as requested. There will be no conflict.”

  The room murmured in protest, but the mayor had spoken—and in Chestnut Town, his word was law.

  Mona stepped back outside. Quinlou was gone. Maybe he’d overheard the meeting. His erratic behavior could lead to chaos—he always tried too hard to prove his strength. Then again, so did most of the hunters. The difference was, Quinlou didn’t know when to stop.

  But Mona had no right to judge—her plan was just as reckless.

  Back home, she crept upstairs, hoping her mother wouldn’t notice. At the end of the hallway, her father’s door waited. She gripped the knob. To her surprise, it turned. Slowly, carefully, she pushed it open, trying to stifle the creak.

  The room was dark, lit only by the faint glow of the night sky. Mona crept forward, hands outstretched to guide her way, until she stumbled upon a crate that, when she squinted, looked promising.

  She tugged at it. Locked. Of course. Her luck with locks had already gotten her through the door, so that was something.

  The space was filled with scattered tools and materials. For all the mystery that had built up over the years about this forbidden room, it was mostly just storage for the mayor’s junk.

  Among the mess of her stepfather’s possessions was some rusted farming equipment. Mona grabbed a rake and slammed it headfirst into the crate—again and again—until she heard her mother stir downstairs in alarm. On the next strike, the rake lodged into the front panel. Still, the crate wouldn’t budge. Taking a breath, Mona stomped down on the rake’s handle. A chunk of the wood splintered free. With a few determined tugs, the lock twisted enough for her to force it open.

  She huffed and reached inside, pulling out two sturdy swords—real metal. Not like the brittle wooden ones she was used to training with.

  Just as her mother stormed into the room, Mona slipped through the open window. From the sound of things, she hadn’t been seen. On the damp midnight grass, she took off toward the hills.

  This was it—her moment. If her stepfather wouldn’t stand up to the bandits, then she would. But heavens, the swords were heavy. The Hunters had made them look like sticks during training. Turns out, that was just an illusion born of skill. Her chest tightened. She was ready… wasn’t she?

  The hills were empty when she arrived. The faintest light illuminated the outline of the surrounding mountains. A high-pitched squeal echoed from somewhere distant. Mona clenched the hilt of her stolen swords and sighed. What now? Wait? She couldn’t return home—not without punishment. So she had to wait. Though the wet grass made for an awful seat.

  She wandered to the edge of the woods and climbed a nearby tree. Ten feet up, she settled on a thick branch and leaned back against the trunk. From there, she had a clear view of the field. Her soft pillow at home sounded a lot more appealing than bark scraping through her shirt. But this discomfort was worth it, if it meant protecting her town. The mayor was brave in many ways, but this moment called for a spine—not surrender.

  She closed her eyes, listening to the birds.

  Sleep?

  She jolted upright. The sky had changed—now a pale blue. Had she actually nodded off? What was she, eight? No. She was twelve. She had to act like it.

  The field was still wet, dew glistening in the morning light. In that same golden light, a man walked across the hills, following the path Mona had taken. Two long scabbards hung at his sides. Quinlou. He was scanning the area—looking for the bandits, no doubt. But this was Mona’s fight. She wouldn’t let him take it from her.

  She rose to leap down—then froze.

  “They sent just one man to deliver?” a voice called from behind the hill. “Maybe you Chestnut folk are braver than I thought.”

  It was Daven—if that was even his real name.

  “I’m concerned, though,” the bandit continued. “I don’t see a package.”

  He stepped into view, flanked by his gang. As they approached, Quinlou—predictably—drew his blades.

  “You will not rob us, you thieving maggot,” Quinlou said, pointing a sword.

  “Oh? That’s a shame,” Daven replied. “Here I was thinking you lot might actually have brains. Turns out you’re dumber than a cracked stone.”

  “You are the fool, Daven! A fool to think we’d stand by and—”

  “Yeah, yeah. Cut the hero speech, kid,” Daven snapped, pulling a sword from beneath his pink cloak. “You want me gone? Then fight me. Don’t waste my time with cringy threats.”

  With a furious yell, Quinlou rushed forward, blades positioned in a stance Mona recognized from their training manual.

  Daven dodged effortlessly. As Quinlou overextended, the bandit stepped in and punched him hard in the throat. Quinlou staggered, gasping, unable to regain his footing before Daven’s blade slashed upward, ripping through fabric and flesh.

  Back on the wet grass, Quinlou gasped, clutching his chest. A rough, bleeding cut marred his torso.

  “Don’t be ashamed, farm boy,” Daven said with a grin, towering over him. “You’re not the first to make that mistake. Take it as a lesson: the swordsmanship of nobles and lords has no place in the fight for survival.”