A young woman sat with her back against a stone-brick wall, in a room decorated by blades, grimoires, and a large banner embroidered with the Vezenian coat of arms—a soaring phoenix, holding a sword in its talons. She held a book, a tale of knights-errant saving princesses from foul sorcerers and dragons. Some would consider such tales childish, but they had a surprising amount of depth—or so the woman would tell them.
Her long, red hair was tied into a three-strand braid, and her pointed ears were adorned with earrings shaped like the sun. Her complexion was pale, contrasting strongly against the pitch-black Imperial uniform she wore.
Though her eyes skipped from word to word, she could not concentrate on her readings. She shut the book and began reflecting on her past, and on what was soon to come. For the last eight years, she had trained to become a knight, and she had gotten farther than most ever would. Her group started with four hundred people, and now, after the brutal training, the first two Trials, and the physical evaluations, only seven remained. Now, only one thing remained between her and knighthood: the third Trial—a mission that would send her outside of her homeland.
The clock struck eight-fifty, and the woman got up. She began walking to the chapter house, navigating the corridors of the ancient fortress with ease. She walked past several people, all of them high-elves, just as she was. The few women present had the same braided hairstyle as her, as, despite its impracticality, centuries of tradition cemented it as standard for the Vezenian army.
She reached the chapter house and stood at attention with several of her peers. The room was decorated with maps, manuscripts, documents and medals, and her grandmaster stood with his back to a window, through which the sun shined strongly, cloaking him in shadow. He paced coldly before them, and though their training had taught them to not show emotion, there was fear in the eyes of her fellow squires, and a hint of determination across her freckled face.
The grandmaster stopped his pacing. He stood before her and commanded:
"Squire. Identify yourself."
"Beatrice Woodhearth, Grandmaster," she responded.
"Woodhearth?" The grandmaster questioned, with a hint of surprise in his voice. "Of House Woodhearth?"
Beatrice was supposed to carry nothing but respect in her tone, but what she said next was said with audible pride:
"Yes, Grandmaster. I am the youngest child of Victor Woodhearth, Count of Vazviera."
"Hm."
That simple sound from the grandmaster was enough to strike fear in Beatrice. Where would she be sent? Directly into Demilian territory to eliminate one of their generals? To retrieve information from an agent deep within Stratsgard?
The grandmaster handed her a file, stating:
"One of our agents has requested assistance. You shall receive details from him. All that you may know now is that a caravan from a group known as 'The Shademen' is attempting to carry dangerous arcane materials into our nation. You are to destroy it."
Beatrice internally sighed in relief. This mission seemed to have its dangers, of course, but it was far from the worst possibility.
"The agent, as well as the caravan," grandmaster continued, "Are within the Free City of Rooksbury. Return to your quarters, revise the file, then report to the armory to prepare for the mission. Dismissed."
Though Beatrice did not show it, she panicked. She knew it well: Rooksbury was a deathtrap, an anarchic hellscape with no formal government, surrounded by an extensive no-man's-land. It was a fortress for the wicked, a city of bandits, the place where good men went to die.
"It shall be done, Grandmaster."