The soldier Gwendolyn had an ambition.
Braided white hair framed a face of soft lines and clear blue eyes—features that belied the woman beneath them. She fought with a shashka and a circular shield, her curved blade an oddity in Valkraun, where such weapons were rarely seen outside the Elven Theocracy. The sword had been forged by her father, a blacksmith. Why she had chosen an alien blade over the kingdom's straight steel was known only to her.
She was a quite but obedient lady as every command given by sergeants and instructors was obeyed with flawless diligence. A young woman among the ranks invited no shortage of unwanted attention but Gwendolyn earned her place the only way the Valkrin army respected—by winning every challenge and completing every task set before her. Even the commander of the capital's regiment had been defeated by her hand.
Of course, word spread quickly. She gained influence then popularity until the men began calling her the Shieldmaiden.
For years, she carried out the king's orders. Many of them were vile yet through careful manoeuvring she bent her assignments where she could—positioning her patrols near genuine threats so that her squads were deployed against brigands and bandits rather than outspoken nobles marked for convenience. When criminals survived her raids, they were disarmed and left broken-handed, their punishment for theft made unmistakably clear.
She never pretended to be righteous.
Her methods were ruthless, relentless—officially a display of royal authority, but in truth driven by something far more personal. Gwendolyn wanted the world to see her strength and to know she was no meek girl to be bartered in diplomacy or paraded as a symbol.
Approval.
It was something she had never received from her parents when she chose the retinue over taking over her father's forge. Her brutality drove away suitors but it sharpened her reputation within the army. Respect was worth more than affection.
The coming tournament was opportunity.
She sought glory and adventure—she knew it, and she did not deny it. A gloryhound perhaps, but an honest one. The Royal Guard was famed for sending its agents across the kingdom and beyond, into foreign courts and hostile lands, for diplomacy, enforcement, conquest or espionage.
It was the perfect path.
Gwendolyn intended to become a name spoken in legend and she had no intention of stopping at the title of Royal Guard. She had been tracking the southern bandit cluster, narrowing her focus on what she believed to be their de facto leader when her command tent was breached.
"Sergeant, we're under atta—"
An arrow punched clean through the soldier's open mouth and blood sprayed across Gwendolyn's chainmail and tabard as the body collapsed at her feet.
She was moving before the corpse hit the ground.
Shashka in hand, shield up, Gwen burst from the tent into chaos. Fires licked at canvas and rope as steel rang against steel when her soldiers clashed with bandits pouring into the camp from all sides.
She struck first from behind—her shield smashed into a bandit's skull with a wet crack, dropping him instantly. She spun, driving her blade into another brigand's back just as he raised his weapon against one of her own.
Then a vagabond rushed her. His mace crashed into her side, denting chain and numbing her ribs. Gwen hurled her shield straight at his face, staggering him then reversed her grip and stepped in with mordschlag, driving the pommel and cross down against his armour.
The man wore rusted plate though it was plate all the same. There was no edge to exploit—only force. She struck again and again and again.
He shoved her back and lunged overhead, the mace up through the air. Gwen sidestepped and smashed the pommel into his hip, his bone shattered and the vagabond collapsed, howling.
For a moment, she looked up and her stomach sank.
Her forces were thinning as tents burned freely now. More bandits swarmed the perimeter—far more than expected. This was no raid, it was a massacre. They were losing terribly. Gwen planted her boot on the fallen man's face, meaning to finish him—
Pain exploded through her leg as an arrow punched into her knee.
"AAAARGHHH!" she screamed, collapsing as her hands clutched at the wound where blood poured freely. She had worn no poleyn—a type of knee armor—nor chainmail.
Moments later, it was over. The survivors were rounded up, bound and forced to kneel.
The bandit leader approached the bound survivors.
He wore black brigandine and carried a morningstar dark with old blood. A red finished pig-faced bascinet hid his features, save for the cruel tilt of his head. From the markings alone, she knew him.
He was known as the Marauder, an infamous criminal operating near Ironold. She had been tracking him.
"You thought you could get away with crucifying my men, Shieldmaiden?" he snarled. "You fucking imbecile—thank you." A laugh rasped from his throat. "You made it easy to unite every scrap of scum for miles just to wipe you out."
He lifted his visor enough without showing his full face to spit in her face, then lowered it again.
Gwen gave him a disgusted look but did not speak.
He circled them slowly, savouring the fear, then gestured a signal. The execution began.
One by one, her soldiers were dragged forward and killed. The Marauder himself knelt before a bound man, stared into his eyes, gauged it with his sharp gauntlets then crushed his skull with his morningstar.
He rose and pointed towards Gwen.
"You—we'll keep you." Then, one by one he jabbed his finger at his men. "We will make you suffer for what you took. His men. His men too." He swept his arm wide. "All of their men."
Gwen watched, and did nothing. She was powerless at present.
How could I be so foolish?
The Marauder stepped over the bodies of her fallen comrades, boots crunching against broken armour and bone as he snickered.
"This position did you no favours either," he said lightly. "Setting camp beneath a hill—made it easy for us to pour in and rain arrows."
He levelled his morningstar at Gwen.
"You're a good warrior," he continued, almost kindly. "But you lack critical thinking."
The words struck deeper than the arrow in her knee. That judgment—spoken by a bandit, proven true by the slaughter around her—cut straight through her pride.
Gwendolyn lowered her gaze.
He was right. Perhaps she is not suited to join the Royal Guard as her stupidity and brutality caused the deaths of all her men. Twenty lives lost, all of their blood on her hands.
What good is her swordsmanship when she can't even lead others?