Overhead slash, side slash, stab. With each movement of her blade, Aevinne stepped forward, maintaining her stance perfectly, despite her closed eyes. After three repetitions of the set, she began moving backwards, replacing the attacks with the appropriate passive blocks.

  Her breathing never wavered as she moved through the forms, each movement fluid. It was one of the first exercises she had been taught, one she had done tens of thousands of times at this point. To her, it was a relaxing way to clear her head, rather than real practice.

  The young elf had a lot to think about. Her life in the Blue Mountains had been maddening. The elders talked of the past and of the danger posed by humankind, as if on repeat. Yet that was all they did. All almost everyone there did. They were just waiting for a death, and not even a good one at that.

  Only a handful of her kin, mostly from the younger generations, did their best to prepare, her included. Her talent lay with the sword, so that was what she had practised. Not that she wasn’t proficient with the bow, but her passion lay with the blade. She hoped that she would be ready when the day came to defend her kind.

  Yet when the Iron Wolf came, she could not resist the opportunity to do something instead of waiting.

  Isengrim… she didn’t really know how to feel about their commander. He was everything she had envisioned from the stories, but at the same time, she had failed to properly understand what that would mean. In the end, he had been right. The daerienn had exceeded Aevinne’s expectations by a large margin. Human or not, Tanya von Degurechaff excelled in the art of war. It had been a folly to think humans a monolith, but Aevinne could learn.

  The sword swished through the air as she moved back and forth.

  Isengrim was not the only thing she had failed to properly understand before departing the mountains.

  War… It was utterly different to the clean fights she was used to in the duelling ring, yet familiar. An orchestra instead of a single songstress.

  The world itself was the audience, while screams and blood served in place of song.

  Adding her own voice to the choir had been pleasing, yet Aevinne was well aware she was not the conductor.

  Her mind wandered to the golden-haired sorceress, and her piercing eyes. Aevinne still did not understand why Isengrim was gambling so much on the daerienn.

  Degurechaff was capable, that was certain. But so what? Aen Seidhe blood had been spilled in her name and in the name of Cintra, for no apparent gain.

  Isengrim, despite his grumbling, trusted the Aen Saevherne who had sent them here. Aevinne had never even met the woman.

  She would have to find out for herself.

  “Vatt'ghern,” Aevinne spoke, playing with her black braid, eyes locked on the returning witcher. He was walking beside his horse, leading it towards one of the so-far gateless gates. Similar to Isengrim’s company, Coen spent most of his time outside the soon-to-be fortress, though their roles were different.

  While Aevinne and her people were tasked with scouting and familiarising themselves with the surrounding lands, the witcher was working on keeping the road to Attre and the road to Cintra at large free of monsters, the former of which was apparently proving to be a bigger issue than anticipated. Not that Aevinne was involved. She had picked up some woodcraft after leaving her home, but she hadn’t been with Isengrim’s band for long enough to be very useful in that regard, and some of them had to stay in the camp to keep an eye on things. This left her with lots of free time.

  Coen merely grunted in greeting, guiding his horse to the half-built stables, though his eyes flicked to her sword sheath.

  “What’s that?” Aevinne asked, pointing at the head of some ugly creature tied to his horse and ignoring the skull of one of the daerienn’s deer creatures next to it.

  “Cockatrice.”

  “It’s big. Must have taken a real man to bring it down,” she fluttered her eyelashes at him.

  Coen frowned, stopping his horse, “I can hear your heartbeat.”

  “So?” Aevinne blinked innocently at him, her heart as steady as a river’s flow.

  “I do not like talking about it, but the trials one must undergo to turn into a witcher can have unexpected side effects,” he stared at her.

  “Like what?” She asked.

  “Unfortunately, my cock fell right off,” Coen replied with a deadpan face.

  The elf opened her mouth, then closed it, before speaking, “Really?”

  “The price witchers pay is great,” he nodded sagely.

  Aevinne was still staring at the witcher dumbly when she tilted her head, something swishing by, missing her. Turning around, she saw a too innocent-looking Ithilven some distance away, along with a pinecone by Aevinne’s feet. Ithilven was whistling while walking away, periodically looking towards Aevinne.

  “Excuse me,” she told the witcher, before striding next to the herbalist. Ithilven was short for an elf, with aged features and sharp eyes. She was easily the oldest member of Isengrim’s company, and also the most mischievous one.

  She spared one annoyed look towards Coen, who was now entering the fort, while she and Ithilven were walking outside along the ditch and earthen walls.

  “What was that?” Aevinne asked, “I almost had him.”

  “Have you forgotten Isengrim’s orders, princess?” Ithilven spoke casually, though her eyes were anything but.

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

  “I am not royalty?” She responded.

  The elderly elf sighed, ignoring her, “Do nothing to jeopardise our standing with Degurechaff,” Ithilven spoke in a comically gruff voice, something Aevinne would have found amusing under normal circumstances.

  “So?” She asked.

  “Youth these days,” Ithilven tsked, “If the vatt'ghern realises, despite your masterful acting, that you are trying to pump him for information on Degurechaff, and tells her, what do you think will happen?”

  Aevinne sputtered, “I was not-”

  Ithilven rolled her eyes, “Save it. I was there yesterday when you were pestering Isengrim about the daerienn. I can put two and two together. Degurechaff should be arriving soon, this isn’t a good time to be poking your head out.”

  The younger elf clicked her tongue. She was never good with people, but being seen through so easily annoyed her, “Better to know more than less.”

  “There is a price for knowledge,” Ithilven retorted.

  The two walked in silence for a few minutes after that. The outside of the walls was relatively calm, as most of the construction was going on inside, with men streaming through the makeshift gates almost nonstop.

  With most of the soldiers used as labourers, the construction continued at a fast pace, even without Degurechaff’s assistance. Soon, the outer gates would be complete, alongside some of the inner infrastructure - barracks, latrines, stables, granaries and a water reservoir, amongst other things. North of the fortress, towards Cintra proper, newly constructed quarries worked overtime, while Erlenwald shrank as timber yards were filled.

  “Aren’t you curious?” Aevinne spoke up.

  “About?” The older elf said.

  Aevinne rolled her eyes before gesturing towards the earthen wall, “This. The daerienn, which has the attention of even the lofty Aen Saevherne, alongside the loyalty of the Iron Wolf. However temporary.”

  “What is there to be curious about?”

  Aevinne narrowed her eyes, staring at Ithilven in silence.

  “You are overcautious,” she broke it after a few seconds.

  Ithilven chuckled, “You don’t get to be my age by being reckless.”

  “Is that worth it?” Aevinne’s large eyes stared at the elderly elf as they walked, voice tinged with genuine curiosity.

  “What is?” Ithilven asked.

  “Getting to your age,” Aevinne explained.

  Ithilven frowned, “Do you dislike living?”

  “Of course not,” the younger elf responded.

  “Then what are you asking?”

  Aevinne hummed, “We all return to the earth, eventually. As I see it, there are only two choices each of us can make that truly matter.”

  “And what would those be?” Ithilven said, voice neutral.

  “How we live, and how we die. You have prioritised life over death, your body, now feeble, deprives you of options for your death,” Aevinne explained, “It will be chosen for you, now.”

  Ithilven blinked, “That’s the first time someone called me feeble,” she muttered, “Don’t go around chasing death, girl,” Ithilven continued, more sternly, “You speak of death as if it is something hard to find. I guarantee you, it is the other way around.”

  Aevinne shook her head, “You do not understand.”

  “Hm. I wonder,” Ithilven spoke, “I’ll help you then, princess. You go question Commander Cyril, he is personable enough, and about as skilled in intrigue as a wild boar. I’ll approach Sorin.”

  Aevinne frowned, “Doesn’t he hate our kind?”

  Ithilven smiled, “Yes, and the daerienn dislikes that. It is in his best interest to show Degurechaff that he is not set in his ways. Dh’oine aren’t difficult to manipulate when you know what you are doing.”

  “Commander Cyril,” Aevinne spoke up behind the man, making him jump.

  The man quickly turned around, his eyes widening and travelling upwards once he spotted her. Cyril was not short, but Aevinne was tall even for an Aen Seidhe, who were already usually taller than humans.

  “Uh, hello, miss?”

  “Aevinne,” she introduced herself, her eyes moving past Cyril, to the drilling soldiers and shouting sergeants.

  They were next to a training field, filled with drilling spearmen, inside the earthen walls conjured up by the sorceress.

  The exercise was basic, with the men practising their thrusts, staying in formation and bracing for cavalry.

  Simple, yet the movement of hundreds of men was fascinating in its own right. Her eyes examined their attire, lingering on the various monster parts augmenting the armour for many of the present soldiers.

  “Is there something you need, Aevinne?” Cyril spoke up, much more sternly than his first slightly flustered response, bringing her attention back to the commander.

  The elf turned towards him, “What do you think of our leader, Commander?”

  “Eh?” Cyril blinked, “I suppose you haven’t been with us for long,” he murmured thoughtfully, before continuing with a stronger voice, “She is slightly eccentric, but her methods work. A force twice our size, defeated with barely a few hundred casualties? People will sing songs about us centuries after we are dead.”

  “I do not disagree,” Aevinne said, “Yet why do you think she is here in the first place, instead of the comfort of a palace?”

  Cyril snorted, “I suppose you can take a devil out of hell, but not the hell out of a devil. At some point, they are bound to miss the heat.”

  His smile disappeared as he looked around, spotting no one near, “Erh, keep that one to yourself, will you?”

  Aevinne nodded, smiling. They watched the grunting soldiers in silence for a few moments before she spoke up again, “You play dice with the witcher.”

  Cyril nodded wordlessly, without turning his head her way.

  “Can I join?” She asked.

  The commander froze for a second, before shrugging his shoulders, still not looking her way, “Why not? Lady Degurechaff often emphasises cohesion, and I can’t say I’ve spent much time around your lot.”

  “Will the witcher be fine with that?” Aevinne questioned.

  Cyril shrugged again, “I haven’t known him for long, but he strikes me as a fair man. I doubt he draws the line at elves. Or women."

  Aevinne nodded, and the two resumed their silence.

  They watched for a few minutes. The training field held a bit fewer than four hundred men, the entirety of the first battalion. It was their turn to train, while the other soldiers worked.

  “We’ve come a long way,” Cyril muttered.

  “The Capital is quite far away,” Aevinne nodded, getting a funny look from him.

  “I think Coen will like you, you have a similar sense of humour,” Cyril said drily.

  Aevinne frowned, “He is not really my type, especially considering his disability.”

  “Disability?” Cyril asked, voice tinged with curiosity.

  Aevinne nodded, “Indeed, the witcher trials deprived him of his genitals.”

  “Huh?”