Steel and Hearts
The clang of steel against steel rang through the training grounds, sharp and relentless in the clear morning air. Sunlight flashed on polished blades, dust rose in plumes beneath pounding boots. Commands barked, recruits grunted—the whole yard throbbed with the heartbeat of discipline.
General Grey stood at the center, his hawk-like gaze cutting over every motion. His voice cracked like a whip whenever a guard's stance faltered or a strike lacked follow-through. Beside him, as always, trailed his shadow—little Lyra, no more than seven, her hair damp with sweat as she mimicked the soldiers with the stub of a wooden stick.
"Your grip is too tight, girl," Grey muttered without looking down. His tone was clipped, yet a strange softness edged it. "Strangle the wood and you'll tire before your first strike is done."
Lyra glanced up, stubborn and wide-eyed, then adjusted her grip. The stick wobbled as she tried the motion again, her small arms straining to imitate the recruits.
Grey finally looked, his stern mask cracking with disbelief. The pivot, the stance—those weren't childish flailings. Those were deliberate motions.
"Where," he asked slowly, "did you learn that turn?"
Lyra grinned, all gap-toothed pride. "Vivian showed me. She said it wastes less energy and keeps balance."
The General blinked. Vivian. The Duke's daughter with a scholar's face and a warrior's stubbornness. He had thought her foray onto the training ground a brief dalliance, one her frail body would betray. And it had. She had collapsed, pale and trembling, carried away in disgrace. That should have been the end of it.
Yet Vivian returned. Every day. Books tucked beneath her arm, skirts dusted from the benches at the yard's edge. If her body had failed her, her mind had not. She studied. She observed. And Lyra—bright, eager Lyra—was her shadow.
Vivian pointed at diagrams in scrolls, traced curved lines of attack and parry, explained that battle was not brute force but rhythm. Strategy was a puzzle, and even the smallest fighter could win by solving it. Lyra soaked up every word. Where her stick failed her strength, Vivian's lessons filled the gaps.
Sometimes, when drills grew long, Lyra leaned against Vivian's shoulder, listening as she whispered stories of ancient generals.
Grey muttered, almost to himself, "If she's going to watch training every day, she might as well understand it."
Lyra nodded solemnly, as though sealing a pact. She would watch. She would learn. And through her, Vivian's quiet wisdom found a place on the training ground.
Grey said nothing more. Then he grunted—half surprise, half reluctant approval—and turned back to his daughter. "Again," he commanded.
Lyra's heart soared.
At the far edge of the field, beneath an ancient oak, Vivian sat, posture impeccable though her hands were tightly clasped in her lap. Only months ago she had stood among the recruits, eyes blazing, wooden sword in hand. But her body had failed her. No matter her will, her arms trembled, her lungs burned, her legs gave out. The collapse had been final.
The healers' words still rang in her ears: continue, and she might do irreparable harm.
She had not wept before the others. Not when the blade slipped from her hand, nor when she left the field. But when Gessa found her that night, sitting alone in the dark with the practice sword across her knees, Vivian had whispered, voice breaking: "It isn't that I want to quit. It's that I can't."
She no longer trained, but she still came. Every day. Book in her lap, notes of battles long past spilling into the margins. She studied. She learned. And she taught.
Lyra would scamper over, sweat-soaked and breathless, plopping down beside her.
"You're staring again," Lyra teased one morning.
Vivian arched a brow over her book. "Observing. There's a difference."
"Observing, huh? What do you see?"
Vivian tapped the diagram. "Your left foot. You pivot too wide when blocking. Shift inward—you'll waste less energy."
Lyra's eyes widened. "Like in the book?"
"Not just the book." Vivian's voice softened. "Strategy is another strength. Remember that."
Lyra nodded earnestly, tucking the words into her heart.
Gessa was never far. She lingered at the edges, watchful, teasing, protective. If Vivian's fingers so much as brushed a practice blade, Gessa's strong hand was there to cover hers.
"Not today, love," she murmured, stern but gentle. "You'll hurt yourself again."
Vivian sighed but relented, letting her hand be guided down. Their eyes met, and though Vivian tried to hide it, Gessa always saw the frustration—the ache of a spirit burning brighter than her body could contain.
One evening, as twilight bruised the sky, Gessa found Vivian still at the oak, ink smudged on her fingers, notes scattered across her lap.
"You should rest," Gessa said, kneeling before her.
"And you should stop underestimating me," Vivian retorted, chin lifted. "My body may be weak, but my mind—"
"—is stronger than half the recruits," Gessa interrupted with a grin. She brushed a lock of hair from Vivian's cheek. "I know. But you don't need to prove it. Not to me."
For a moment Vivian's composure slipped. Her lips trembled, her shoulders sagged. Before the ache could turn to despair, Gessa pressed her forehead to hers.
"Let me be the sword," Gessa whispered. "You be the mind that guides it."
Vivian's hand rose to cup her cheek. "And if you fall?"
"Then I'll rise again—because you'll remind me how."
Their kiss was soft, tender as a vow no oath could match.
Later, Lyra bounded over, eyes sparkling. "I have the best teachers ever! And one day, I'll be the best general!"
Vivian laughed, ruffling Lyra's hair. "Of course you will."
Gessa shot her a mock glare. "Even from me?"
Vivian's smile was radiant. "Especially from you."
Gessa narrowed her eyes playfully, stepping closer. "You were supposed to be on my side!"
Before Vivian could respond, Gessa leaned in and pressed a playful, teasing kiss to her lips. Vivian's eyes widened in surprise, then softened with a smile.
Lyra scrunched her nose and shouted, "Gross! Yuck!"
Vivian and Gessa both laughed, the sound bright in the quiet yard, and Lyra rolled her eyes dramatically, pretending to be scandalized while secretly thrilled by the warmth between them.
In time, the soldiers began to notice. They saw how Gessa burned on the field, a fire no strike could quench, while Vivian, quiet beneath her oak, sharpened strategies with a scholar's precision. Together they were halves of a whole—the blade and the book, the heart and the mind.
And through it all, Lyra absorbed everything. She sparred clumsily, failed often, yet carried the lessons of both women.
Again and again, Grey noticed her mimic maneuvers too advanced for her years.
"Where did you learn that?" he asked.
And Lyra would grin. "Vivian taught me."
Grey's gaze would flick to the oak, to the frail figure scribbling notes while his soldiers sweated under the sun. Slowly, he inclined his head.
Perhaps the Duke had been right after all. Training Vivian had been good for her soul. And for Lyra's too.
For though Vivian no longer bore a sword, she had become something greater: the unseen hand that guided both steel and hearts.
After that, Grey began training his daughter seriously, determined she would grow strong not only in arm, but in mind.
That was how Lyra gained three mentors: her father, the soldier's steel; Vivian, the scholar's wisdom; and beside her always, Gessa—the sword sharpened not with muscle, but with love.