To Cast a Dark Shadow

Chapter One: A Taste of Blood

The metallic tang of blood mingled with the earthy grit in my mouth. A gasp escaped me, the cold dampness of the training ground seeping through my clothes. Heaving myself up, I spat a mixture of dirt and crimson onto the packed earth, my vision momentarily blurry. My hand instinctively went up to my inner lip, wincing at the throbbing gash. I jerked my hand back to my side, swallowing the pain.

"That's twice now, young miss," Moran's gruff voice rumbled, yet his eyes held a familiar warmth. Concern flickered across his weather-beaten face, etched with lines that spoke of battles fought and experience hard-won. "Leave your left open, and next time it'll be worse than a nick."

He paused, his gaze softening further. Unlike many others, Moran never treated me differently because of my noble blood. He saw a student, and a friend, beneath the title of Lady Penelope. "You're getting there," he reassured me, the corner of his mouth twitching in what could almost be a smile. "We all started somewhere."

I straightened, wiping the grime from my forehead with the back of my hand, and assumed the defensive stance he'd drilled into me. This time, when he launched into a feint, his attack aimed at my exposed left side, I was ready. The clang of steel echoed as I parried his blow, the adrenaline a familiar rush in my veins.

"There you go," Moran chuckled, wiping sweat from his brow with a worn sleeve. The midday sun beat down mercilessly, and even the seasoned trainer felt its effects. "Trinna will have my hide if I keep you out here all day, baking in the summer sun. Besides, you wouldn't want to turn into a roast, would you?"

A playful glint in his eyes betrayed his gruff demeanor. I rolled my eyes, a reluctant smile tugging at my lips. "Sun be damned, Moran," I grumbled, the frustration evident in my voice. "I need to be ready. Tensions are rising, you know it."

"Language, Pip," my father's voice cut in, a wry amusement dancing in his eyes. He'd emerged from the shadows of the nearby armory, his presence as sudden and sure as the rising sun. "Tensions or no, they don't concern you with a blade in your hand."

Moran straightened immediately, hand flying to his chest in a deep bow. "My Lord Wishaw," he boomed, his voice filled with an unshakeable reverence.

The respect these men held for my father was undeniable. It wasn't just his title; it was the way he carried himself. Lord Wishaw wasn't just a noble; he was a soldier who'd fought alongside his men, bled for them, and carried them back to safety on his own back if need be. He possessed a rare quality – a genuine care for his people, noble or not – that resonated through his actions and garnered unwavering loyalty. This, I knew, was the true mark of a leader.

"You're the one who wanted me to take lessons," I grumbled, ruffling my hair in frustration. "Why bother if I can't fight for real?"

My father sighed, a fond look in his eyes that belied the underlying sadness. "And you're the one who camped out by the armory for three nights when we tried to stop after that last injury. Pip, I don't want you to fight. Not the bloody, brutal kind of fight where life-or-death decisions are made in a heartbeat. But I want you to be prepared, just in case. I pray you never need to use it."

A heavy sigh escaped my lips. "I guess."

"Besides," he added, a glimmer of humor returning, "last I checked, they weren't accepting fourteen-year-old girls into the king's army."

I glared at him. "They don't take women at all," I retorted, the injustice burning in my chest. It was a world designed for men, a world of swords and shields, where women were relegated to the hearth or the fields. I'd watched Mother's face as each rider arrived, a flicker of hope and dread in her eyes. Wondering if this was the letter that would change everything, while I sat by her side with dread pooling in my stomach, aching to do something to help.