Whispers of the Keeper

Chapter 2: Cold beginnings

Soberg, 1705, second month of Winter.

The soft light of pre-dawn crept through the narrow window, casting long shadows across the stone walls of the shared quarters. The room was filled with the sound of Bodil’s steady snores, a rhythmic cadence that matched the calm of the early morning. Sigra blinked awake, the unfamiliarity of her surroundings momentarily disorienting her before the events of the previous day came rushing back.

She pushed herself upright, careful not to disturb Bodil. The cool air bit her skin as she swung her legs over the side of the bed, her breath visible in the chill. Her eyes fell on a neatly folded set of clothing resting on the chest at the foot of her bed, a silent welcome to her new life as a member of the Border Vanguard.

As she approached the chest, her fingers brushed over the fabric with a sense of detachment. The clothing was practical, built for the rigors of a life she wasn’t sure she wanted anymore. She felt a pang of resentment—resentment at being sent here, at having to abandon everything she had learned at Arenreid, the place where she had trained so hard to become something, someone, else. Now she was expected to relearn everything, to mold herself into a different kind of soldier, one who fought with swords and bows instead of the techniques she had mastered.

She dressed in silence, her movements methodical, each piece of clothing another layer of acceptance she wasn’t ready to fully embrace. She slipped into the deep green, fitted tunic, the material sturdy yet flexible against her skin. Next, she pulled on the leather trousers, feeling the reinforced knees with fleeting approval—they would serve her well in the rough terrain and combat situations she would surely face. The light leather armor slipped over her tunic, the lily petal insignia on her shoulder a constant reminder that she was a newcomer, a novice all over again. Everything about this place, about this role, was foreign, yet she was expected to adapt, to thrive. To survive.

Sigra sat on the edge of her bed to lace up the knee-high boots, the fur lining promising warmth against the winter chill. She secured the belt around her waist, adjusting the pouches that would carry her tools and weapons. Two greyish cloaks lay before her: a lightweight, weather-resistant one and a heavier winter cloak lined with fur. Given the biting cold outside, she chose the latter, wrapping it around her shoulders and fastening it securely. The long, functional scarf caught her eye, but she decided against it for now, relying on the warmth of the cloak.

Once dressed, Sigra took one last look around the room, sparing a glance at Bodil’s sleeping form, grateful for the older woman’s kind gesture, before quietly slipping out, the door closing behind her with a soft thud.

She advanced towards the training grounds, the crunch of her boots on the frost-laden path echoing in the silent courtyard. Approaching, she observed several Keepers already assembled, their breath forming clouds in the chilly morning air. Among them was Commander Steinn, his formidable stature, white hair, and beard distinct even in the dim light.

Steinn’s piercing gaze landed on Sigra as she entered the grounds, his eyes briefly appraising her before he gave a curt nod of approval. “Good to see you up early, girl,” he remarked, his voice carrying the weight of authority. “Step inside the circle.”

Without delay, Sigra complied, discarding her heavy cloak and stepping confidently into the training circle. The earth underfoot was compacted, marked by the legacy of numerous duels and drills. Steinn watched her with an insightful look as he motioned to one of the Keepers, a young woman named Helga, renowned for her agility and quickness.

“You favor the spear,” Steinn remarked, issuing a challenge. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Acknowledging the command, Sigra moved to the weapon stand, selecting a well-used spear. She swung it a few times, gauging its balance and weight. Helga entered the circle, her face set with resolve. They squared off, the air charged with anticipation as the sparring match commenced.

Sigra moved first, her spear cutting through the air in swift, precise arcs. Helga met her with equal skill, but Sigra’s movements were like a dance—fluid and relentless. Within moments, Sigra had Helga on the defensive, and with a final, well-placed strike, she disarmed her opponent, the spear flying from Helga’s grasp.

Steinn nodded in approval as the Keepers murmured among themselves. “Impressive,” he said, but his tone quickly shifted as he handed Sigra a sword. “Now, let’s see how you handle this.”

Sigra’s confidence wavered as she took the sword. It felt unfamiliar in her hand, the balance and weight so different from a trusted spear. Helga, retrieving her own sword, re-entered the circle, a faint smirk on her lips.

The second bout began, and it quickly became clear that Sigra was out of her depth. Her movements, so sure and graceful with the spear, were hesitant and clumsy with the sword. Helga pressed the advantage, her strikes calculated and precise. Within minutes, Sigra found herself on the ground, the cold earth jarring her senses as she landed hard on her backside.

Steinn stepped forward, his expression unreadable as he offered a hand to help her up. “You’ve got a long way to go with the sword,” he said, his voice not unkind but firm. “But you’ll get there. This is just the beginning.”