Chapter Text
Lyn had never been one for staying idle—even in the distant days of her childhood, living in the bustling town of Shamel in Highprince Hatham’s princedom. Her two sisters, both older than she, had been all her mother needed to assist with the duties of keeping the house, and her younger brother was slowly being groomed to be a guardsman, like their father.
That left Lyn with time to explore.
She loved running, loved the feeling of the hard ground under the soles of her shoes, of the wind and the sun caressing her skin. She would explore the woods around Shamel—sometimes joined by a few of the local boys. Lyn had always felt more comfortable with male friends as she found she had little in common with most of the other girls her age. They’d explore for hours, spar with sticks. She’d run home for the evening meal, bruised, sweaty, and grinning.
That was before her family had relocated to the Shattered Plains for the war to avenge King Gavilar’s death.
That was before her father had been killed on a plateau assault.
Those events had occurred close to six years ago now—her father had died so early in the war, and life had continued on; the war had continued on. Lyn’s mother remarried. Her sisters were married, and her younger brother was a nameless darkeyed solider among thousands. Lyn had wanted to help, and, when she turned seventeen, she was allowed to join the Kholin scouts. For four years since then, she had done her best to serve the King’s army.
And that was why, among Bridge Four, Lyn felt as if she had come home, but instead of exploring the woods, she was exploring the skies.
“Storms,” Lyn hissed, shaking out her hand.
Kara had the grace to look apologetic, albeit not entirely. Lyn shook out the cut on her free hand and looked towards her spear, fallen to the ground, with dismay.
“Tell me honestly, Kara, am I getting any better?”
Kara hesitated before replying. Lyn trusted her opinion and had rarely known the woman to sugarcoat the truth. Kara’s skill with a spear rivaled a good portion of the men they served with due to her training as an adolescent.
“You are, but slowly. You’re making the same mistakes over and over again.”
“What mistakes are those?”
“Well,” Kara handed Lyn her spear and came over to her, “for a start, you always shift your grip on the shaft after guarding.”
“You’re supposed to do that.”
“You’re supposed to shift it for the block, yes, but your hands never return to their original position which makes the grip unstable. Most of the times I knock your spear away are after you’ve performed a block.”
Lyn frowned and thought about their last few exchanges. Kara was right. Lyn would block one of her blows and find her spear on the ground shortly thereafter.
“That’s just your grip. Your transition from an overhead block to an attack is too slow. There is plenty of time for someone to stab you in the gut while you’re trying to get your spear down.”
Lyn nodded resolutely, “All right. Again?”
Kara smiled at her, “One more time but then I’m going to go eat. Those are both skills that you can practice on your own anyway. It just takes repetition.”
They sparred another bout. Lyn thought she lasted longer that time, but, once again, her spear ended up rolling away from her on the floor. Lyn suppressed the frustration and formulated a plan.
That night, after the fourth evening bell, she crept into the training room. It was empty, thankfully. She was tired, but she wanted to practice without distractions, without worrying what others in the room may think about her skill, or lack thereof, with a spear. Not that anyone had been anything but helpful, but the added isolation was a comfort to her.
She carefully grabbed a spear from the dozens resting against the wall and moved into a corner of the practice room.
Tonight, she’d spend an hour focusing on her grip. The next night, overhead block-to-attack transitions. Then she’d repeat the sequence until the skills felt natural.
And when, undoubtedly, she’d struggle with other spear skills, she’d come back. She’d practice here every night if that is what it took to make her muscles move the way they should—to make up for the years of combat training that she was lacking when compared to others.
Lyn gritted her teeth in determination and began a warmup kata.