Forged in Frost

Resolve

Evelyn stands before a squat building—larger than any of the houses in Lockmire—where recruits are to come when they want to join. Clusters of men mingle outside. Several glance her way as she approaches.

"Lost, pumpkin?" one asks.

"No." Evelyn clears her throat and brushes by without another response.

The inside of the centre is packed to overflowing with men, chattering with one another, studying the racks of weapons that hang on the walls. Axes, shields, and bows clutter a wide, low table pushed into the corner. Across from the racks are hay bales and straw men for practice. Soft morning light splashes in through a window behind the straw men. Hooks with armour line another wall, chests pushed beneath them. There are a few doors to the right—rough wooden ones with big iron handles. Similar to the castle's style. A partition conceals much of the far half of the room.

Glances follow her across the room to the partition, glances she struggles to ignore. She can only focus on her immediate goal. All those joining must meet the general, if only briefly. It's inevitable. She must see him again.

When she rounds the partition wall, she finds more than a dozen men seated around a table about as large as the one in the castle's dining hall. Each is distinguished, dressed in fine armour, experienced. Parchment, quills, and inkwells litter the table, alongside goblets of wine.

As she enters, every face turns to her. At the head of the table sits the general. He rises.

"Is there a message from the castle?" General Asher asks her.

Evelyn raises her chin slightly. "No. I-I'm here to join."

There's a moment of silence before the small room erupts in mocking laughter. Evelyn clenches her hands, very still before them. Jumbled sentences echo off the walls, doubling the mockery.

Before Evelyn has a chance to say anything more, Asher runs over and pulls her from the room, from the training centre, into the empty training yard outside. From here, she can still hear the men's ridicule. Humiliation burns her cheeks. She doesn't even realize how firmly Asher is holding her arms until his voice brings her back to reality.

"What are you doing here?" he asks softly.

"I told you," Evelyn says. "I'm here to join. I wasn't joking." She jerks from his grasp.

He smiles, too, as if dumbfounded. "Join...what? Lockmire's army?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

She looks up at him. "Because it is my duty to fight for my home and for my countess."

"Though I admire your courage, it isn't your duty, Evelyn. It's ours." He gestures to himself and the training centre. "Let us take care of things. It's what we do."

"I want to play a role," Evelyn says. "My countess has done so much for me. I want to repay her kindness. I want to fight for her."

"Do you... know how to fight?"

This is where her footing wavers. "No," she squeaks. Then, stronger again: "But you can train me. That's what you do, right? Train people to fight?"

"Train men to fight," Asher amends. "Men twice your size, with some meat on their bones." His eyes scan from the top of her head upward.

It's true. She is a solid head shorter than him. But she can't help her stunted growth. Years of abuse and lack of proper nutrition forced her body to remain small. It would have helped so much if she'd grown tall and strong. Perhaps she could have pushed some of the abuse back on her abusers. But that was not what happened.