****21 Years ago****

  The small farming village lay at a simple crossroads, little more than a cluster of fields and stone buildings set where two dirt roads met. In centuries to come it would grow and change, swelling into a respectable market town known as Gagara, but that was far in the future. For now, it was only one of many humble villages that had sprung up in the wake of the peace brought by the Empire.

  Barely twenty buildings stood there, gathered loosely around the village church. Which itself was modest and constructed of local limestone. Its narrow bell tower rising high from the center of the church's roof.

  Inside, the usually gay space was filled with grief as a funeral was underway. Icotho, son of James, lay at rest before the altar, his body claimed by a farming accident so sudden and senseless it had left the village stunned. A cart axle had failed while he worked the fields, crushing him beneath its weight before help could reach him.

  At the front of the church stood his daughter, Isadora, who was fourteen and only a week shy of her birthday. Her grief came in ragged sobs she could not fully suppress. As her small hands were clenched in the fabric of her dress, knuckles white, as though holding on to it were the only thing keeping her upright. She was an orphan now. Her mother, whom she had been named for, had succumbed to sickness when Isadora was only three. Already a fading memory of warmth and scent rather than a face she could clearly recall. And now her father was gone as well.

  She stood alone in the world, or so it felt.

  Beside her was a man she barely knew, Clotho, her uncle, stood stiffly with his broad shoulders hunched as though unsure where to place his hands or his words. A man-at-arms in the Duke of Willowvale’s armed retinue, he was more accustomed to soldiery duties than offering comfort to a newly orphaned girl. Still, he tried. Awkwardly, gently, he rested a hand on Isadora’s shoulder and murmured reassurances he was not certain she was listening to.

  He had not known her well before this with distance, duty, and the years keeping him apart from his brother's family. In truth, this was the first time Isadora had ever truly met him. Yet here he was, the only family she had left.

  When the service ended and the villagers filed out in quiet clusters, Clotho guided her away from the church and back to the small family house at the edge of the fields. It was a place already emptied of warmth, the hearth cold, her father’s tools still resting where he had last left them. Isadora took it in with hollow eyes, knowing that this was the last time she would ever see this place.

  It was there that Clotho told her what her future was to be. He had secured her a place in the Duke of Willowvale’s armed retinue, pulling what strings he could and staking his reputation on her potential. Isadora listened in silence, numb and frightened, yet beneath it all was a thin thread of something else, an uncertainty giving way to inevitability. She did not know this uncle of hers nor did not know anything about the Duke she was to serve. But she knew she could not stay in the village.

  ****Some Weeks Later****

  Isadora had turned fifteen on the long road to Willowvale Manor and by the time she passed through its gates, dust-coated and footsore from the journey, childhood already felt like something she had long left behind.

  Her first morning there found her standing in the training yard, wrapped in a light gambeson that still smelled faintly of old sweat. She stood in a rough line with five others; four boys and one other girl; all of them stiff with nerves and trying not to show it. Gravel crunched beneath their boots. While the yard which was enclosed on all sides by stone walls seemed to make the space feel cramped and ominous.

  The man pacing before them was impossible to miss. He was broad-shouldered and thick-necked, wearing the Duke’s colors with the ease of long habit. He had a neatly trimmed pencil mustache that cut a severe line across his upper lip and his voice cracked like a whip as he barked orders. His eyes were sharp and appraising as they swept over the recruits. He introduced himself simply as Master Robert, though the way he said it made clear he expected the name to be remembered and respected. He was, he informed them loudly, responsible for turning them into proper men-at-arms worthy of the Duke’s guard or breaking them in the attempt if unsuccessful. When master Robert had finished his speech, he sent the recruits running around the training yard.

  The pace was brutal for most of them as their lungs burned and their legs ached as they were driven around the yard. For Isadora, though, it was mostly bearable. She had spent her life hauling sacks of grain, lifting stones, and working sunup to sundown on the farm. Two weeks of walking to reach Willowvale had already hardened her feet and legs. She ran with her jaw set and her breathing steady, still not fast enough to stand out, but not slow enough to draw Master Robert’s wrath.

  The weeks that followed were punishing. Drills at dawn, endless repetitions with wooden weapons, hours spent cleaning gear and learning the discipline of standing still no matter how much her muscles were screaming at her to take a seat. Yet the biggest surprise was that Isadora had found that she enjoyed it, far more than she had ever enjoyed farm work. There was a clarity to the training, a sense of purpose in knowing exactly what was expected of her and striving, each day, to meet it.

  The Duanna family themselves were nothing like the distant, untouchable nobles she had imagined in her sleepy village. The Duke, in particular, was a frequent presence in the yard. He would stride out in his own training gambeson with his sleeves rolled up, and take over a training session himself, demonstrating techniques with a practiced ease that left no doubt he had earned every scrap of his reputation. The older guardsmen called him by his Army nickname the Stomping Willow and Isadora and rest of the recruits quickly learned why. Where Robert was relentless, the Duke could be outright merciless, demanding precision and effort until their arms trembled and their legs threatened to give way.

  But there was fairness in it, too. Praise, when it came, was rare and thus treasured. A nod from the Duke carried more weight than a dozen shouted compliments from anyone else.

  And so the seasons passed almost without her noticing. Her shoulders broadened, her stance grew surer, and the wooden practice sword began to feel like an extension of her arm. Somewhere along the way, fifteen became sixteen, and then sixteen slipped quietly into seventeen.

  By the time Master Robert had informed her she was to be sworn in as a full member of the guard, Isadora barely recognized the girl who had arrived at Willowvale from that farming village. She now stood straighter and spoke less. While carrying herself with a quiet confidence of someone who knew where she belonged.

  ****Several Years Later****

  Isadora’s hands were clasped tightly behind her back as she stood before the door to the duke’s study, spine straight, chin lifted, every inch the disciplined soldier she had been trained to be. She had served in the Duke of Willowvale’s guard for three years now and yet the summons had still set her nerves on edge. She could not imagine anything she had done wrong. In fact, only a fortnight earlier she had been formally commended for uncovering and helping apprehend an assassin.

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  When the door opened and she stepped inside, the duke looked up from his desk and smiled, an expression warm enough to take some of the sting from her anxiety. “Isadora,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “You can relax. You don’t always have to stand like my personal golem.” he said laughing heartily at his own joke. “Yes, my lord,” Isadora replied at once. She loosened her posture by a fraction while wincing internally as the nickname; the Golem of Willowvale; was confirmed to have reached even the duke’s exalted ears.

  “All right,” the duke continued, waving a hand. “Let’s get straight to business.”

  He studied her for a long moment, his expression thoughtful rather than stern. “ I need a maid-protector for my newest child.” Isadora’s breath caught as she listened to the duke.

  “I would like to offer that honor to you.”

  For the first time since she had entered the room, her rigid stance broke. The weight of the words struck her harder than any blow she had ever taken in the training yard. The duke’s daughter had been born barely two weeks earlier. Everyone knew what such a position meant, a lifetime appointment, sworn not merely by contract but by blood and oath. She would be guardian, shield, and shadow to the young girl. She would also be expected to learn the duties of a maid and to be ever-present without ever being intrusive.

  Before she quite realized she was moving, Isadora dropped to one knee. “My lord,” she said, voice steady despite the rush of emotion in her chest, “you do me a great honor. I could never think to refuse.” The duke smiled, satisfied. “Good. Report to the nursery, where you'll be introduced to my daughter and begin your training at once.”

  ****A Few Moments Later****

  When Isadora entered the nursery, the world seemed to narrow to a single pair of tiny fists and a soft, drowsy face. The wet nurse carefully placed the infant into her arms, and something inside Isadora shifted irrevocably. Eleonora was small and impossibly fragile. Isadora felt her heart melt as looked at the baby girl.

  This child, she knew without question, was hers to protect and from that moment on, as the years passed and Eleonora grew from infant to girl, Isadora’s purpose became clear and unshakable once more. She would stand between her lady and the world itself if need be. Until her final breath, Eleonora would never stand alone.

  ****The Present****

  Fitting for an inn that catered to the wealthy, the downstairs dining area was tastefully appointed in a way meant to suggest refinement rather than truly embody it. Every detail had been carefully chosen to flatter the sensibilities of nobles and prosperous merchants who wished to see themselves as cultured. Polished dark-wood floors were buffed to a dull sheen beneath a coffered ceiling, each framed square etched with delicate floral motifs. The walls were painted a soft, reassuring blue and adorned with paintings of famous legends and historical moments, the finest among them depicting Saint George at the instant of triumph, his spear poised as the dragon writhed beneath him. The furniture featured intricately carved tables rested upon woven rugs imported from the south, their legs padded with felt to prevent any unseemly scrapes against the floor. Chairs were cushioned and upholstered in deep greens and burgundies, their arms worn smooth by years of idle noble hands. While soft mage-light globes hovered in discreet alcoves, bathing the space in a warm, flattering glow. It was a room designed above all else to reassure the wealthy that they were among their own. It was however only for the wealthy patrons and not for their servants.

  The other half of the hall, set apart by nothing more than an unspoken understanding and a subtle change in lighting, was plainer and more utilitarian. This was the servants’ section, meant for retainers, guards, ladies’ maids, and personal attendants. Those who were necessary but also meant to be the invisible people who always orbited the wealthy without ever quite touching their world. Here, the furniture was sturdy rather than elegant with long benches scarred by years of hard use, their edges rounded smooth by countless bodies shifting and rising, and bare wooden tables bearing the pale rings of spilled drink and the deep nicks of careless knives. Each piece had been built to endure weight and rough handling.

  The walls on this side of the inn were left undecorated, rough brick exposed and cold to the touch, the mortar darkened by age and lingering smoke. There were no tapestries to soften the space, no painted scenes to distract the eye, only the honest, unvarnished bones of the building itself. Instead of mage lights there were simple lanterns hung from iron hooks and resting on the tabletops, their flames casting a harsher, more uneven glow that threw long shadows across faces.

  It was towards the back of the servants’ section that Isadora had chosen her seat in a quiet alcove away from everyone else.

  Low voices murmured over one another in a constant, restless hum, punctuated by the clink of tankards as coworkers toasted each other, followed by the occasional bark of laughter. With most of the noble guests already retired for the night, the servants were finally able to relax. Shoulders slumped, and jokes were shared a little more freely than they ever would have dared around their masters. There was a relief in the air, thin but palpable, as though everyone present had collectively exhaled at once.

  She sat alone at her chosen table, her chair angled so her back rested firmly against the wall, granting her a clear view of the room by habit older than comfort or courtesy. It was instinct, ingrained by years of violence and survival. The plate before her with a good helping of roasted potatoes slick with butter and a portion of lamb that had gone lukewarm and had barely been touched. Her drink, a strong amber liquor that burned going down, rested half empty at her elbow, untouched for long minutes at a time as she brooded.

  Isadora was not the sort to brood since she usually knew what she had to do and how to do it.

  Her posture was rigid, shoulders squared and locked in place, hands folded with deliberate precision atop the scarred tabletop as though she feared they might act of their own accord if allowed to move. Her face might as well have been carved from granite every line fixed, every muscle held in iron check by discipline alone.

  Anyone foolish enough to look too closely would also have felt the tension she was feeling. It was palpable and coiled tight beneath her stillness like a drawn bowstring trembling under strain. With every instinct she possessed was screaming at her to take action.

  She wanted to, no, she practically ached to march back to the adventurers’ guild hall, to kick the doors open hard enough to rattle the rafters and announce herself as judgment made flesh. She wanted to seize that filthy dwarf by the beard, drag him bodily across the hall, and beat him within an inch of his life until he apologized. She imagined how she became an angel of divine justice to the point she could hear the break of bone and the cries for mercy. However she wanted to most importantly make it clear that cruelty had consequences. Especially when that mocking was directed at a young girl.

  She wanted them to understand, viscerally, what it cost to humiliate a sixteen-year-old girl and above all, she wanted to remind them all, painfully and publicly, that Eleonora Duanna was a duke’s daughter, sworn knight or no. Born to better stock than the entire lot of them. And that Isadora, her blade, her shield, her shadow, was more than willing to become a monster on her behalf should the world insist on giving her reason.

  But she did not move because sweet little Eleonora was upstairs. Curled in bed with her teddy bear. No longer suffering from a panic attack.

  Isadora closed her eyes and drew in a slow, measured breath through her nose, counting the seconds as she had learned long ago. In. Hold. Out. Again as she grounded herself. Her rage did not vanish but it settled, compressing inward, sinking into something colder and sharper.

  “I’ll handle it,” she murmured under her breath, the words meant only for herself. “Tomorrow. One way or another.”

  She lifted the tankard and drained the last of the liquor in a single swallow, welcoming the burn as it slid down her throat. When she rose, her movements were quiet and controlled, unnoticed amid the servants’ low chatter as she headed off to bed.