Sapphire lingered at the edge of the green, keeping to the shadows of a low wall, her arms folded tightly across her chest. The breeze tugged at loose strands of her hair, and though she was dressed plainly, breeches, a worn tunic, and a dark cloak, she stood with quiet dignity. The nobles took notice. A few narrowed their eyes in distaste, but none dared approach. After all, she bore the silver pin of House Typhon.
Children moved in neat lines across the field, wooden swords in hand, helmets slightly too big on their heads. The older pages helped the younger ones buckle straps, fix posture, and repeat their oaths.
Fletcher was among them, chin up, shoulders back, listening intently to the drillmaster. And yet, even in that moment of discipline, his eyes flicked up toward the spectators, scanning,
Then he saw her.
Their eyes met.
A flash of recognition, then the faintest smile. Barely there, but for Sapphire, it was enough to settle the coil in her chest.
She nodded once, the corners of her lips tugging into a quiet smile of her own.
He was doing well.
She had no right to feel proud, but she did.
She moved from the shadows as the instructor briefly dismissed the children to fetch water and stretch. Sapphire kept her steps measured, soft against the trimmed grass, until she was close enough for her and Fletcher to exchange pleasantries.
"I thought you wouldn't come," he said, tucking his helmet under his arm.
"I told you I would," she replied, crouching slightly to his level. "And Lord Typhon gave me the day. I'm here… for you."
He glanced down, then around, as if afraid someone might overhear. When he looked back at her, his smile faltered.
"You alright?" Sapphire asked gently.
He gave a small nod. "I'm fine."
But she knew that look. That too-quick nod. That mask of composure children wear when they're trying to be brave.
She waited. Didn't push.
Then, quietly, he said, "My father is a Lord… but he doesn't have time for his son."
Sapphire's heart pinched. She knew that feeling of being left out, being abandoned.
She reached forward and adjusted the strap on his tunic gently. "He's missing out on something good, then."
Fletcher's jaw tensed, trying not to show how deeply it cut. "Everyone else's parents are here."
"I noticed." She smiled softly, then leaned in. "But they don't have someone cheering loud enough for two."
He gave a tiny laugh at that.
She smiled softly, then reached into her cloak pocket. "I made you something."
He blinked as she pulled out a neatly folded handkerchief, plain, but carefully knitted, with his initials stitched in one corner. She had spent all night knitting that.
"For good luck," she said, gently tucking it into the small breast pocket of his training tunic.
Fletcher stared at it for a second, then looked back up at her, eyes wide with something unspoken.
she whispered. "Show them what you're made of, Sir Fletcher."
He straightened a little at the name.
She stepped back, letting him return to formation, but not before he turned and whispered, "Thank you… for coming."
The courtyard had been cleared for the page tournament, bright pennants fluttered along the sidelines, and wooden targets stood proud at the far end of the training green. A crowd of finely dressed nobles, retainers, and household staff lined the edges, murmuring with polite interest.
Sapphire stood among them, keeping to the side, her cloak pulled around her. She ignored the glances. The disapproving looks. She was used to them.
All her attention was on Fletcher.
The pages were lined up, each holding a bow nearly as tall as they were. The instructor, a broad-shouldered knight with a sun-weathered face, barked instructions. One by one, the children stepped forward to shoot.
Some arrows landed. Some missed entirely. Polite claps followed each attempt.
Then it was Fletcher's turn.
He stepped forward with calm precision, shoulders squared, eyes narrowed slightly at the target. Sapphire could see him pause, just briefly, his fingers brushing over the handkerchief in his pocket as though it were armor.
He raised the bow. Drew.
The crowd quieted.
Thwack.
The arrow struck just outside the center ring. A solid shot.
Murmurs followed.
He drew a second arrow.
Thwack.
Closer this time. The wind tugged at his tunic. Sapphire could see his chest rise and fall.
The final arrow.
He closed one eye. Took a breath.
Released.
Thwack.
The arrow split the second one cleanly, landing directly in the center ring.
Silence.
Then, applause.
The loudest came from Sapphire, clapping with both hands, pride swelling in her chest. Fletcher turned, face flushed, but not with embarrassment, with victory.
He beamed, briefly, in her direction. Just enough for her to see.
The instructor nodded, clearly impressed.
"Well done, Waydell."
Sapphire couldn't help but smile. Lord Waydell might not have come, but Fletcher, Sir Fletcher, had just proven himself more than worthy of his name.
The archery targets were cleared away, and in their place came the wooden dummies, some mounted on wheels, others fixed to poles. A squire rang a small bell, and the instructor raised his voice again.
"Next event, footwork and defense!"
The children lined up once more, this time with wooden swords and round training shields strapped to their arms. Some of them shifted nervously, their boots scuffing against the packed dirt. This part wasn't about brute strength, it was about speed, reaction, and control.
Fletcher adjusted his shield strap and tested the weight of the sword in his hand. It was lighter than he liked, but manageable. He glanced to the crowd again, and when his eyes found Sapphire's, he lifted his chin just a little higher.
The first round involved moving through an obstacle course of swinging wooden arms meant to test their balance and shield timing. One by one, the pages went—some getting smacked off balance, others ducking too soon and getting tangled in the course.
When Fletcher's turn came, he exhaled through his nose and launched forward.
Whack,he lifted his shield just in time to block the first arm.
Spin, he ducked and rolled beneath the second.
Jump, he leapt clean over a low beam, landing with only a slight wobble.
The final arm swung at him fast, from a blind angle, but Fletcher twisted his body and raised the shield, deflecting it with a satisfying clack of wood on wood.
The crowd reacted with approving murmurs, a few surprised chuckles. Even some of the noble parents leaned forward now, eyes narrowing at the boy's skill.
Sapphire couldn't help herself, she grinned, heart racing.
"Solid control," the instructor muttered, jotting notes.
Fletcher returned to the line, sweat beading at his brow, but not a trace of fear in his face. He looked to Sapphire once more, his expression a quiet challenge, as if to say, Are you watching? I'm still standing.
She gave him the smallest nod.
She was.