Valebright: The arcane batalion

The night Aries Valebright was born, thunder cracked like Taranis’s war drums, shaking the ancient stones of Valebright Keep. Rain lashed the tall windows as wind howled down the chimneys. Candles flickered wildly, throwing long shadows across the blood-stained sheets. “Push, Your Grace! One more time!” the midwife cried. Duchess Elowen gripped her husband’s hand until her knuckles paled, breath coming in sharp gasps. “Aldren… it hurts…” “Nothing is wrong,” Duke Aldren said, voice steady as forged steel. His grip remained firm, anchoring her, while his gaze flicked once to the midwife. “Breathe. Push. She will be born strong.” A blinding streak of white-blue lightning split the sky. At that exact moment, a fierce wail cut through the storm. The midwife lifted the newborn. “A daughter, Your Grace. A healthy girl.” Aldren stared down at the babe, jaw tight. His large hand lingered a fraction longer on the blanket before he placed her in Elowen’s arms. Elowen pulled the tiny form close to her chest, shoulders trembling as she stroked one damp curl with a careful finger. Some still whisper that the lightning marked her soul that night. Aldren never smiled at the tale, but in private he ordered the midwives to check on the child twice as often as custom demanded. Fifteen years later, dawn spilled gold across the frost-covered training grounds. Aries stood before her father, boots crunching on ice, wooden sword gripped tight in both hands. Her breath clouded the air in short, sharp bursts. “You shouldn’t be here,” Aldren said, voice colder than the morning frost. He rubbed his temples. “This is not your place.” “It should be.” Aries locked eyes with him, chin high. “I’m your eldest daughter. I should learn what Caelan learns.” Aldren’s jaw tightened. “Caelan is my heir.” The words landed like a blow. Aries took one step closer, boots scraping over frozen ground. “Then what am I?” Aldren exhaled slowly. “You are my daughter. You will marry well. Secure alliances. Strengthen this house in ways a sword never could.” Aries bit down hard on her lower lip until she tasted blood. Her fingers clenched around the wooden hilt. “If war comes, alliances won’t save us. I want to protect this family—with steel. With my own hands.” For a long moment, only the wind across the frost answered. Then Aldren turned his back to her. “Go change into something appropriate before your mother sees you like this.” “I’m not a doll to be dressed for display,” she snapped. He stopped mid-step. His shoulders stiffened. “Aries,” he said, dangerously quiet, “do not test me today.” The silence stretched, heavy and sharp. Aries bowed stiffly, teeth clenched until her jaw ached. In one fluid motion she pivoted, drew back her arm, and hurled the wooden sword with everything she had. It slammed into a training dummy with a loud crack, the blade snapping clean in two. She walked away without looking back, boots crunching hard against the frost. The cold in her chest had nothing to do with the winter air. The morning mist had barely lifted when Aries returned to the training grounds alone. She vaulted the low stone wall, snatched a heavier practice blade from the rack, and advanced on the nearest dummy. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Each strike landed harder—throat, ribs, knee. A shadow fell across the yard. Sir Garrick Thorne stood at the edge, arms crossed tightly, brow furrowed in deep lines. “Lady Aries,” he said, voice tight with strain, “that stance is completely wrong. The high guard, as clearly detailed in the Third Treatise on Blade Work. You are dropping your shoulder again and exposing your entire flank. One competent opponent and you’d be run through before your next breath.” Aries adjusted her shoulder with an exaggerated roll, then struck again. The dummy’s head spun off and bounced into the mud. She planted her feet and turned to him with a sharp grin. “Seemed to work just fine.” Garrick pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply. “Results are not the same as correctness. If you insist on training like a wild boar charging through the underbrush, at least do it with proper form. The armory master already complained about the number of broken blades this month—your doing, I might add.” Lighter footsteps crunched across the frost. Caelan vaulted the wall with theatrical flair, wooden sword balanced casually on his shoulder. “Morning, storm cloud!” he called cheerfully. “Father shut you out again? And poor Sir Garrick looks like he’s about to burst a vein.” “I am perfectly composed,” Garrick muttered, though his jaw was clenched. “Merely attempting to prevent the young lady from getting herself killed because she refuses to follow established doctrine.” Aries snorted and reset her stance. “Doctrine didn’t help that dummy.” Caelan grinned and fell into a loose guard opposite her. Their blades clashed—his quick footwork and feints against her direct, relentless strikes. She ducked a sweeping cut, hooked his leg, and pressed the flat of her blade to his throat in two heartbeats. Caelan dropped into the mud with a dramatic groan. “One day I’ll actually land one!” “You say that every time,” Aries shot back, offering her hand and hauling him upright. She glanced at Garrick, who was rubbing his temples again. “See? Effective.” Garrick sighed deeply but tossed her a properly weighted steel practice blade. “Again. Properly this time. And for the love of the Keep, keep your wrist aligned.” From the covered walkway above, Duke Aldren watched in silence, arms folded. Duchess Elowen stepped up beside him, drawing her shawl tighter against the chill. “She fights like you did at her age,” Elowen said softly. Aldren’s jaw flexed. “She fights like a storm. Uncontrolled. Reckless.” Elowen slipped a small cloth-wrapped bundle of healing salve into his hand. “And yet she wins. Every time.” He closed his fingers around the bundle. “Winning today means nothing if she dies tomorrow. The Empire will not spar with wooden blades.” “I know,” Elowen murmured, resting a gentle hand on his forearm. “But locking her away will not make her safer. She carries your fire, Aldren. Let her learn to wield it.” Aldren exhaled slowly, then tucked the salve into his belt with a small nod. “She will need more than fire if the Empire comes.” That evening in the great hall, Aries slouched low in her carved oak chair, one boot propped insolently on the edge of the seat. The nobles’ voices rose and fell in heated arguments. Her sharp eyes scanned the room, noting every nervous twitch, every bead of sweat, every white-knuckled grip on a goblet. A familiar presence appeared behind her. “You look like you just fought a wyvern,” Caelan said, leaning against the pillar with his usual crooked grin. “And lost. Badly.” Aries didn’t turn at first. “Wish I had. At least a wyvern would’ve been honest about trying to kill me.” Caelan chuckled and dropped into the chair beside her. “Father gave you the usual speech this morning, didn’t he? I saw the broken sword on the dummy. Nice throw, by the way.” She finally glanced at him, jaw still tight. “He wants me to smile prettily and marry some lord to ‘secure alliances.’ As if a fancy dress and a weak handshake will stop an empire.” Caelan winced but kept his tone light. “To be fair, you do look terrifying in a dress. The poor suitors wouldn’t stand a chance.” He nudged her boot with his own. “Come on, storm cloud. You know he’s just being Father. All iron and strategy. Deep down he—” “Deep down he still sees me as a problem to be solved by marriage,” Aries cut in, crossing her arms tighter. “While you get to learn swords and strategy like a proper heir.” Caelan’s grin softened. He leaned closer, voice dropping. “Hey. You’re more than that. You’re the one who actually sees what’s coming. I’m just the one who smiles while you glare holes through people.” He paused, then added with a dramatic sigh, “Besides, if you married some dull lord, who would I have to spar with? I’d die of boredom within a week.” Aries huffed a reluctant laugh and shoved his shoulder. “You’d deserve it for being so annoyingly cheerful all the time.” “That’s my job,” he replied, eyes sparkling. “Someone has to balance out your whole ‘I will personally fight the Empire’ energy.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Though between us… I’d bet on you over half the lords in this room.” For a moment the tension in her shoulders eased. She bumped his arm with hers. “Flatterer.” “Only for my favorite storm,” he said with a wink. Their shared laughter echoed briefly—until the great doors burst open with a heavy bang that silenced the hall. A soldier stumbled inside, chest heaving. “Your Grace! Riders approaching from the east—bearing imperial banners.” Whispers exploded across the room. Aries sat up sharply, eyes narrowing on the soldier’s trembling hands and ashen face. “Silence!” Duke Aldren’s voice cracked like a whip. He rose, shoulders squared. His gaze flicked once toward his children. “What message do they bring?” “They say they come for negotiations.” The nobles erupted again. Aldren cut the air with one hand. “Enough.” He pinched the bridge of his nose briefly, then straightened. “Let them in. I will handle this personally. Double the eastern watch—quietly.” Sir Garrick stepped forward. “Prudent. I also recommend sealing the old sally port. Mortar’s weakened—I inspected it three days ago.” “See it done.” While the men spoke, Duchess Elowen moved among the nobles, resting a steady hand on shoulders and murmuring instructions. She approached Aries and adjusted her collar with gentle fingers, then leaned close. “If you must do something bold… the dagger is already sewn into your cloak.” Aries’s fingers brushed the hidden weight. The corner of her mouth lifted slightly. Aldren’s gaze settled on her once more. He gave no order for her to leave. Aries rose, boots planted wide. High on the wall, the Valebright crest gleamed—the majestic Eagle of Taranis spread-winged between silver mountain peaks—watching as the storm gathered.