SLANDERS

"Thank you," she said, closing the door softly behind her. Just another day, another dull awakening dressed as intimacy. She supposed he was pleased—with her, with the experience. But it didn't matter. There was no thrill, no shame, no clarity. Just silence. Emery was one of the many daughters of Basilien the Unlucky. Seventh-born, motherless, and untouched by any real education—especially when it came to the so-called morals of pleasure. She had grown up in a clan that worshipped many gods and adored war above all things. In their eyes, men were gods, and warriors were divine. And yet her father, Basilien, had the mind of a strategist and the luck of a drowned rat. He’d sired one idiotic son, lost every campaign he led, and somehow still commanded deep respect. Emery had never understood why. Every two years, Basilien would choose a daughter for “the duty”—a sacred command, he claimed, whispered from the gods themselves. Emery had wondered what it meant when she was younger, but she had no one to ask and no one who cared. Those chosen were taken away and returned after three years—married, concubines, or simply changed. No one ever explained. And no one dared to question. Emery loved roaming. She took great joy in wandering the kingdom—every street, every hut, every corner—visited by her whether she was welcome or not. Yet there was one place she never explored: her own home. She knew only the path to her room, which she shared with two younger sisters, the kitchen she stole from, and the dining hut where she ate in silence. Beyond that, the house might as well have belonged to strangers. She never cared to know it. She wasn’t loved or needed, but she was fed. There was an old saying: “A word in hiding is the heaviest.” It echoed in her mind as she walked back from the dining hut. From the corner of her eye, she saw her father in the distance, riding out with one of her sisters on horseback. The girl wore a fine gown. Guards and servants followed closely. Emery paused briefly, curious about where they were headed, but quickly brushed it aside. She just needed to rest. Later that evening, word came of a gathering. Her father had called a meeting for all his children. Emery heard it through her stepsisters—she was never formally invited to such things. Still, she decided to go. She washed her face and hair, and rummaged through her mother’s old box until she found a gown. It was too large, but she cinched it with a belt and left without another thought. The meeting hut stunned her. Animal and human skulls hung from the walls. Long tables with benches lined the room, and at its far end sat a large, carved chair—her father's throne. Emery slipped into a seat and quietly began picking at the grapes in front of her, eyes scanning the room. She was struck by the number of faces. So many stepsisters she’d never met. How fertile—or how careless—was this man? Her smirk was brief and private. A sudden clash of sword against shield silenced the room. Basilien entered, draped in animal furs and wrapped in leather armor. A massive sword hung at his side. His dark hair fell to his shoulders, and Emery was startled to realize he hadn’t aged a day since the moment he stood at her mother’s deathbed. He was still fit, still handsome—far too youthful for a man in his sixties. Now she understood why women still chased him. He sat on the throne and swept his gaze across the room. “Sit,” he said, his voice cold and rasping. They obeyed. “Greetings, Father,” said Elga, one of Emery’s stepsisters, rising to her feet. “I have longed to see you. I see the gods have been good to you.” “The gods be praised, daughter,” Basilien replied. Emery bit back a smile. Not from humor, but from the bitter truth—he didn’t even remember Elga’s name. Basilien cleared his throat. “I have gathered you here because the gods need you—at least, one of you,” he began. “The reason you sleep under this roof, the reason your bellies are full, is because of the gods—and because of me.” He stood slowly, commanding silence. “Many of you have noticed your sisters being taken away. Be assured—they are safe, married into strong houses. For years, I have offered my daughters to forge alliances, to secure power. Now, the time has come for the greatest bond yet.” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. “I need five of you to marry into each of the royal families of the five clans. I know you are ignorant of men and their ways—but we must do this.” A murmur passed through the hall. “In two fortnights, I shall choose the five. Prepare yourselves.” He turned to leave, but a voice echoed behind him. “Father, I have a request.” He turned. A girl stood atop the table—slight, smiling, a ghost of someone he once knew. Emery. “My name is Emery,” she said clearly. “I know who you are,” Basilien replied, eyeing her. “And what is your request?” “I want to wield a sword,” she said. “I have no interest in being a trophy for any man.” He laughed, a deep, amused sound. Then he leaned toward one of the guards and whispered. “Fine,” he said at last, straightening. “You shall learn. But if you fail to best my strongest guard in two fortnights, you will be among the chosen.” It was a hard bargain—but Emery nodded without hesitation. Her father assigned a guard to train her. His name was Alasdair, a man of low rank, born to a poor family. He had joined Basilien’s army for the chance at honor, at name. Training a girl—an unwed daughter, no less—was not what he'd bled for in the mud of Basilien's wars. But orders were orders. And Emery would train. The Morning of the First Lesson, the training yard smelled of sweat, sun, and old iron. Emery stood beneath its high stone walls, the sleeves of her mother’s dress ripped and tied around her arms for mobility. Her belt now held a wooden blade. She tightened her grip, knuckles white. She remembered her mother’s hands—warm, always slightly calloused, often smelling of crushed herbs. A healer. A gentle soul in a violent house. Emery had watched her die without understanding what grief was. That understanding came later, in quiet refusals, in nights she didn’t cry because no one would come if she did. Now she stood alone again. But this time, it was by choice. “You’re late,” said a voice behind her. Alasdair. Tall, lean, scarred along the jaw. He looked down at her with mild irritation, sword slung casually over his shoulder. “No one told me I needed to impress you,” Emery replied. “You won’t,” he said flatly. “Impressing me won’t keep you off the altar.” “I’m not here to impress. I’m here to win.” He nodded once, surprised she didn’t flinch. “Then let’s begin,” he said, and tossed her a heavier blade. She caught it, just barely. “First rule,” he said. “The sword is an extension of you. If you treat it like a burden, it will be one.” Emery looked at the blade. It was clumsy in her hands—awkward, like an unfamiliar truth. But she raised it anyway.