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Askar’s Tenemos
Halfmoon Castle
Halfmoon
Subtheria
Ten Months After the Coup Attempt
Cyrus paced prowled the length of the tenemos. He was welcome here; Askar often allowed him in here to train and to help with training, which he was supposed to be doing. A group of younger students were here to learn the sacred art of kirith. He wasn’t a practitioner of kirith but he knew all the basics and proper breathing is what Askar wanted his students trained in today. What he lacked in knowledge of kirith, he made up for in skills with other martial arts. Everyone knew Cyrus, the Queen’s Consort, had single-handedly fought off a Horde battalion—including several champions—alone to rescue the princess and, when he offered you training, you accepted.
He bounced on the balls of his feet and stared down at his charges. Few came to the tenemos; only those truly dedicated to learning the art of the Sword Saint, and himself. Arrayed before him were a dozen members of the guard and military and even a pair of scouts. Most would not last a week. Askar was with a more advanced group of three: the only ones to endure the training as long as they had.
He was the King Consort, he was a master of the blade, and he couldn’t contain his nervous energy. It had started about fifteen minutes ago: he felt the need to claw at something, to climb up somewhere, just get the energy out of him, and breathing exercises weren't going to manage it. He had no idea where it had come from, but anxiety had been riddling him for the last few months.
Lyra, his beautiful wife, had been struggling, trying to maintain her queenly duties and still raise a child, all while going through what even Lenio admitted was a difficult pregnancy. He had tried to be around as much as possible but, as a general and the King Consort, he had duties, and if he took some of Lyra’s less important duties as well. What she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her or the baby. Stars Above, he was going to have another child in a week or so, according to Lenio. Whoever they were would enter the world, he already loved them more than all of Halfmoon.
They had talked about names and eventually they had settled on two: Ishara if it was a girl, and Aster if it was a boy. Aster, who had been missing since the coup, was always overconfident—perhaps he had tried to take on a group of the coup's sorcerers that day. He was amongst the many fatalities in the palace. Naming a son after him would be an honour.
“Should we be pacing alongside you, Your Majesty?” asked a young woman, her ears twitching in irritation. The youngest in the class by far, she couldn’t be any older than nineteen. “Or should we just keep standing here and breathing?” She had entered last—not late, but last—as if creeping into the room where she didn’t feel like she belonged. He ignored her as he caught sight over her shoulder of a shock of blonde hair, and pale skin. So, the little lion thought to come here instead of morning prayer at the Temple and, if she was here, then…
Little C’yara was sitting behind the strange not-Etherian child, clearly avoiding his gaze after he left her with Percival this morning. Not that Adora seemed to notice, chatting animatedly with her about weapon forms and something called walking stance. The girl had a shocking skill with and knowledge of weapons. He would never admit to anyone—not even Lyra though she suspected—but he knew in his heart that those two were inseparable and Lyra’s scheme to get them into the Church would backfire. He loved that girl; she made his daughter happy in a way he had never seen even at her biggest birthdays. If they weren’t already imprinted then, by the Fires Below, it would happen before they turned eighteen. He would put a year's salary as a soldier on it.
“Just breathe, apprentice,” he said, trying to keep his irritation from showing, “and tell me your name.” He would have to keep a watch on someone who would snark in the tenemos. They were either an idiot, far too confident, or exactly where they were meant to be. He hoped it was the last one and, if it was either of the former, well, Askar would beat it out of her in time.
“Kittrina, of the Old Clans,” the woman answered with a glare. She held a staff in her hands, not the weapon of a kirith practitioner. Ah, so that’s what it’s about: sexism. How the Old Clans functioned was a complete mystery to Cyrus, not letting half your population do basically anything. Completely crazy—even the Horde were more sane.
Well, that wasn’t true. They let children fight, but at least it was merit based rather than gendered, according to Adora and what intel they had (getting more accurate information from a five year old than from the head of intelligence was a fun afternoon).
The name Kittrina rang a bell in the back of his head: Askar’s granddaughter? He knew the old soldier wouldn’t give in to nepotism, and was likely harder on her than anyone else here. He had also heard how shit it was on Eternia for women born into the clans. So, was this a merit thing or a family thing? He knew there was nothing he wouldn’t do for his family but Askar was made of sterner stuff than him. Still, it wasn’t his problem.
“Well, Kittrina of the Old Clans, breathing is the most fundamental part of fighting: if you ain’t breathing, you ain’t fighting or doing much of anything, really,” he said. His wisdom was always needed in the sacred halls of the tenemos. Askar—who was standing on the other side of the room—rolled his eyes at the fundamental misunderstanding of his warrior philosophy.
He turned back to his class—he could teach all this with his eyes closed—and he paced prowled around them and, every time they turned to follow him, he demanded they keep their eyes forward. Where was this nervous energy coming from? he thought.
It hit him all at once: something was wrong. Percival would have come to check here if C’yara snuck out, following wherever Adora had gone, which means Percival had suddenly become busy, and the only way that would happen is if there was a disaster or…
His own breath caught in his throat—he needed to be there. If it was anything like C’yara’s birth then she would need all the help she could get. He turned to Askar. “I’m leaving; something’s come up. Take over.”
Askar turned to face him, kiari in hand. “You know the rules, Cyrus: you cannot leave until the training is complete.” Another of Askar’s stupid rules; only a military emergency could drag the old soldier and his apprentices from this hallowed hall and even then the city would need to be in dire straits for that to happen.
Cyrus looked at him. He had great respect for his fellow general; the man was dedicated in a way he never was, always serious. He was a legendary fighter, a skilled commander, and a close friend. Right now, though, Cyrus wanted to claw his face off. He took a deep breath. “I don’t follow kirith. I need to go. You won’t stop me.”
Cyrus snarled, tail twitching in agitation. Askar would fight him over this. It would be messy. An idea came to him. “A bet?” The older Magicat stilled. He always could make himself still in a way that Cyrus never could. “I challenge you. To the floor. I win, I get to leave when I see fit. You win, I will teach the daily training for everyone for three months.”
Askar laughed, shocking all the students around him; the man was humourless in the tenemos. “Alright, It seems the Consort needs reminding of whose tenemos this is, but I am a fair man. I’ll make this an open challenge: any student who wants to get out of a lesson early needs to beat me in a duel to the floor. If you fail, it’s three months of double training sessions with no excuses before you can try to challenge me again.” He gestured and all the students exited the circle at the center of the tenemos. “Cyrus here thinks his survival of the Horde gets him out of training. He is overconfident in his skills I think. An important reminder to you all that overconfidence is a slow and insidious killer.”
Cyrus stepped into the circle, drawing his two practice swords. They were short lengths of wood—not lauha, but a solid pair made from the oaks of the Whispering Woods, gifted to him years ago—designed for his preferred martial style: a Mystacoran martial art used by their sorcerer-knights. He lacked any magical talent, but the style itself appealed to him. He had blended it over the years with a handful of skills taught in the fighting academies, training documents stolen from the Horde, a year he had spent with a Troll battlescribe, and even a very eventful month he had spent as prisoner of an Orc blademaster that almost led to all out war. He had always appreciated learning from every source he could, but the twin blade style of both Mystacor and the Orcs had spoken to him. He had no name for this style; there were no other practitioners of it, but he was thinking of calling it Fighting Tiger Style.
He looked around the chamber. Most of the students were smirking; they had heard that he was good, but he wasn’t Ahran for a reason. They thought the reason was lack of skill instead of lack of patience. He would prove them wrong today. The crowd was hungry to see a true master of kirith duel, but at least he had two fans in the audience. C’yara’s ears were pinned back, worry clearly etched on her face. She had grown to hate watching her dadda fight. Adora, on the other hand, looked like all was right in the world; honour duels (or something akin to that) were apparently very much a thing in the Horde between disagreeing adults. She stared at the swords in rapt fascination.
He bounced on the balls of his feet while Askar stood still as a statue in the center of the makeshift arena. That was always the difference between their two fighting styles at its core: kirith was about inaction—waiting and then reacting; Askar was ready for any of his attacks. Cyrus was always about action—provoking the reaction that you want and could control the flow of battle. Askar knew he knew this. They had spared enough, but sparring for training was very, very different to Askar being the obstacle between him and his pregnant wife. “There’s no shame in losing to a superior opponent,” he found himself taunting, testing the weight of the blades in his hands.
He struck first—a swift blow to the left, keeping his right hand on guard, Askar countered with a viper’s grace then launched his own strike. Cyrus’ guard caught his blade and knocked it aside. He was ready for that, and the two of them settled into the usual rhythm of strikes and parries. Askar was good, a true master of kirith trained by someone called Dekker, but Cyrus was better. He heard Adora cheering as he moved into a feint that knocked aside Askar’s blow and forced him to leap back. Sweat was sticking to the old soldier's fur.
He smiled and went to lunge forward. Askar had been expecting him to catch his breath as they were both winded after that clash. Even so, his guard came up and, as the distance closed in the time it took to blink, he swung but, instead of continuing the approach, he dropped into a roll, Askar’s kiari whistling over the tips of his ears. Cyrus brought his wooden blades around in one smooth, snapping motion into the back of Askar’s right knee. The larger Magicat didn’t topple, but it was already too late; Cyrus was past his guard. He struck several more times against the turning figure, including one strong blow with the flat of a blade into the kidney. Askar fell to one knee—not quite the floor which is where Cyrus needed him to be. He moved his blade to defend himself, not out yet even from here. Cyrus kicked sand from the floor of the tenemos up into his face. Then, while Askar instinctively turned head away from the sand, Cyrus brought his blade round with a crack into the side of Askar’s skull. The older Magicat struck the floor with a satisfying thump.
He turned to the students who were staring in wide-eyed wonder; he thought he might have some lesson to teach them: never underestimate an opponent, or always be on the watch out for deception, or use your environment to your advantage. Instead, what he settled on was, “Right, do that and you, too, can bunk off class.” The young woman from before broke from the circle and the whole illusion shattered as she rushed forward to check her grandfather over. Cyrus was sure he’d be fine; he’d been hit harder than that in basic training.
He rushed over to C’yara who had her face buried in Adora’s shoulder. Adora, meanwhile, was staring and smiling. “I want to learn to fight like that! Can you teach me, King Tiger?!” she announced way too loudly. Cyrus just smiled down at her, sheathed his blades, and scooped up both girls. C’yara wrapped her tail around his arm, squeezing as if to make sure he was there.
“Maybe one day, Little Lion,” he muttered quietly. “For now, though, let’s go see Mama.” C’yara’s ears perked up at that. She lifted her head to meet her mismatched eyes to his .
“You’re not mad?” she asked, her voice small. He cocked his head, stepping out of the tenemos into the brightly lit section of the palace where the guard trained. “I ran ‘way from my lesson? Perci will be mad.”
“No, Catra,” he said in Etherian, using her nickname when she was around Adora. “I’m not mad at all. In fact, I am glad you were there to cheer me on.” He smiled down at her. “Same as you, Little Lion; I heard your cheering.” The blonde looked sheepishly around. These two kids, what was he going to do with them? “But, let’s not tell Mama or Kelara about this, okay?”
Both girls nodded in agreement. Well, at least they could learn to lie to protect each other. Let’s hope they never used that skill against him.
Royal Infirmary
Halfmoon Castle
Halfmoon
Subtheria
Ten Months After the Coup Attempt
Cyrus paced—he couldn’t help it. He could even admit he was pacing; he was a room away, and the minutes ticked by into hours. Percival had come by to try and take C’yara and Adora to somewhere out of the way. A lesson, probably. With Cloudfoot busy with the council, Percival had taken to trying to teach C’yara. He had refused; they needed to be here and if he was paying attention to them then he wouldn’t be pestering Lenio. At the moment, the distraction was barely working.
Instead, he was burning a hole in the carpet by striding back and forth, back and forth, all across the waiting room. Every time he came close to the doorway, his ears pricked up—he could hear her, in pain. Every sense he had screamed at him to go and be at her side but Lenio had removed him with magic, and demanded he remained outside. He would have Words with the doctor about that. So, instead of rushing to his wife’s side, he would wait. He could be patient, despite evidence to the contrary.
The children were sitting on a small bench on either side of Percival, who was reading a storybook of some kind to the two youngsters. She-Ra and the Great Mantasour. An old classic of the legendary warrior; he knew the story by heart from his own kittenhood. He could pick up from Percival with ease, he was sure.
He strode over, trying to regain confidence he didn’t feel. Lyra had never had an easy pregnancy. With C’yara, it was the sickness from that stupid expedition (why she had agreed to go, he still didn’t know. Well he did know, but his frayed nerves were making him question every decision he had ever made). With this one, it had been a painful pregnancy; Lenio had recommended to her that this one be her last for medical reasons.
“The beast descended upon the village and, though she was mighty indeed, the Plumerian Princess was unable to summon thorns sharp enough to pierce the hide of the terrible mantasour. She struck at it again and again but, with every attack, the beast swatted away another building of the once large village. Fearing for her people, the Plumerian Princess called the retreat. In a moment of panic, she sent out a call using magic that any who could slay the mantasour would earn a ki—” Percival was reading with all the inflection he gave a report on the fishing quotas of the Dark Lake, but the kids were at least invested in the pictures of the aged and weathered storybook.
“Excuse me, Perci.” He slipped down on the seat next to C’yara and plucked the book out of his hands. “You’re reading it wrong.” The older Magicat gave him a rather sour look and then stood up.
“Of course, Your Majesty. I shall get on with organising the itinerary for the next few weeks while the Queen is unavailable. Your Highness. Temple Daughter. I take my leave.” He walked maybe ten steps to another chair, and pulled out his pad and began making notes.
“Adora, you can snuggle up next to Catra. My right arm is playing up.” It was slightly—he had taken a glancing hit from Askar, and it was definitely going to bruise. The two needed no hesitation to do that, C’yara curling up against Adora. “Right, now, where was Perci… Ah yes.”
He dove into the story. It was a good distraction. He made appropriate noises for the animals, the galloping of horses, the sounds of different farmland animals that he was vaguely aware of being swallowed whole by the Mantasour. He lowered his voice several octaves when the beast spoke, and its picture was of a great, six-legged beast with a dozen eyes and a mawed mouth filled with far too many teeth. C’yara closed her eyes at that, but Adora took on a strange look, the kind that Kittrina wore earlier when questioning him, somewhere between determination and exasperation.
“Far across the land in the Kingdom of Bright Moon, the great heroine She-Ra heard of the plight of the Plumerian Queen. Many had tried to slay the Mantasour, and all had failed be they great heroes or sorcerers. So, taking up her sword, she strode out, mounting her,” he turned the page to show a great dragon and the figure of the shining warrior approaching it, “loyal steed.”
Before he could continue, Adora’s hand shot forward. At first, he thought it was in fear to cover the page—dragons were terrifying beasts, after all—but, instead, she almost stroked the depiction of the beast as she had done with C’yara’s hair. If it weren’t for his hearing, he would have missed her small “Wow” as she stared. The depiction was simple but beautiful: a woodblock carving depiction of the towering beast, painted to look like it had scales. The book was from his family's collection, not the royal archive. It had scared him as a child to see it and the Mantasour so terrifyingly depicted, but Adora was looking at it and muttering something under her breath. Even with his hearing, he couldn’t catch what it was, and Catra’s ears flicked in confusion like they did when she heard a new word.
“Adora, do you have something to say?” he asked. Catra had buried her face in Adora’s neck, but Adora was staring in rapt fascination. As she stared, he could swear that, for just a moment, her eyes glowed. It was tiny, a trick of the chemical white lights of the infirmary. But he could never be sure.
“Dragons are cool!” she declared with all the intensity a five year old discovering their new favourite thing could muster. He laughed at that; of course it was just the new, big, scary thing. The Horde would love scary monsters.
“They sure are,” he said, and Catra gave a little whimper. “But some advice I got at a young age, Little Lion.” She looked up at him with a big grin on her face. “Do not meddle in the affairs of dragons for you are small and crunchy and they are large and hungry.” Catra nearly cried out then, but Adora just grinned at that further. “Now, where was I?”
He resumed his telling of the story, coaxing Catra to look at the nicer pictures, and even one of the great fights between the Mantasour and She-Ra. “The great beast looked up at the shining warrior, and shouted ‘Wait! Please spare me! For I—’” The door to the delivery room cracked open and, with a slightly tear-stained face, stood Lenio, but the old doctor was smiling. Cyrus looked at the time: five hours. He closed the book, gently folding the top of the page to remember his place when they continued the story. “We’ll finish this later, girls. Come on. Let's go meet the newest member of the family.”
Carefully placing the treasured book in his satchel, he held each girls’ hand as they walked into the delivery room. Lyra looked exhausted—radiant but exhausted. She had a bundle cradled in her arms.
“Is that the Princeps?” Adora asked as she got up on her tiptoes to look into the bundle. Lyra had gently angled it towards the three of them to show a Magicat with short, red hair and orange stripes; a stubby tail; and ears very much too large for her head. Cyrus frowned slightly at the archaic term. Probably something she picked up at the temple, he thought.
“Princess,” Lyra said gently, her fatigue evident in her voice. “Princess Ishara.” She looked up at Cyrus who let go of Adora’s hand to pick up the bundle. Adora looked very confused—she was wearing one of her pouty expressions—but Cyrus only had eyes for his newest bundle of joy. Hoisting up Catra onto his hip, he cradled the bundle in his other arm.
“Hello, Little Princess. Meet your older sister.” Catra reached out with one hand towards the tiny princess; as her finger met her cheek, the little princess nuzzled into it. Catra gasped.
“I’m a big sister,” she said with a glee unmatched by any other five year old he had ever seen as she nuzzled her own cheek into Cyrus. “I get to be a big sister!”
“Shh,” he shushed her; Lyra had drifted off into a sleep. Adora had climbed up onto the bed, and was cuddling into her. The queen, too tired to care for proprietary, had fallen asleep with the strange blonde girl in her arms. He walked over, and laid down on the bed next to her, with C’yara and little Ishara and slept the night away.
General Cyrus’ Office
Halfmoon Castle
Halfmoon
Subtheria
Seven Years After the Coup Attempt
Cyrus paced stalked across the length of his office. The reports weren’t good: the Stonebreaker Tribe still hadn’t let go of that whole incident with the shaman, the apple cart, his knife, the exploding fuel tank, and the cave crawler (that bit wasn’t his fault, but it helped him get away with only first degree burns). So, they were picking up their attacks on the scout patrols around that entrance which was unfortunately the closest entrance to Horde territory. He needed a solution that wouldn’t lead to all out war in the region. So, he stalked across the room, picked up his notes, stalked back, and put them down. His tail flicked back and forth the entire time. Repeating the process a dozen times. He was about to give up and go and find something to hit when the door to the room opened.
“Perc, unless you are bringing me something to eat, I don’t have time to—” he stopped when Kelara entered the room, trailed by both Adora and Ishara. He looked over at the old priestess who did one of her more annoying traits and shrugged. He hated when she did that. He held out his arms for a hug from his daughter and the priestess’ ward—Little Lion was all for physical affection as she spent her free time with the cave culture lot.
Instead, they both shuffled their feet, and Adora squeezed Ishara’s hand tightly. Something coiled in his stomach. What was happening? He looked up at the priestess, standing up when it was clear they wouldn’t come over to him. “What do you want, Kelara?” he tried, and failed, to keep his tone civil but if something had hurt his youngest daughter, he would rain down all the Fires Below on whomever was responsible.
“That is not for me to say,” she said with the eerie calm that made him stop attending service over a decade ago. He had only started again for Adora’s sake—she was becoming a true believer. “Go on, child.”
Adora squeezed Ishara’s hand, and his youngest stepped forward. There were tears in her eyes as she took in a shaky breath. “I don’t want to be Ishara,” she said all at once, her words tumbling out as they left her mouth. She turned and buried her head in the twelve-year-old’s neck. Adora pulled her into a hug, and glared up at him as if in challenge.
He felt something in his heart break that she sounded so scared, but he didn’t understand what she meant. He got down low on the ground, and Adora hugged her tighter. “Darling, what do you mean?” She peaked one eye at him.
“I don’t want to be Ishara,” she said as if it made sense a second time. It probably did to a six year old. “I don’t want to wear dresses, or be a princess.” Her voice was so small. He was more terrified than he had been in years. What did she mean—the realization hit him like a Horde cannon.
“Do you mean,” he tried to sound kind, that's what his child needed right now, “like grandpapa?” His child looked at him then nodded quickly before turning back to Adora. Kelara looked ready to step in, and help with the explanation as she had done hundreds of times before. One of the roles of the clergy was to help those who were aeonic and provide guidance.
He took a breath. Okay, no one was hurt, no one was in danger, no one was hurting his…son? He opened his arms again. “Alright, then,” he said with the calm that was settling over him. “And what do I call my handsome son?” His child looked up at him wide-eyed; clearly, he hadn’t expected it to go this well.
His son rushed over into his arms, he hugged him. “Caspin, like the hero from The Tiger Who Stormed Snake Mountain.” He laughed at that—it was one of the few Quadian storybooks to make it’s way into the royal library. Adora was smiling up at them. He held out his other hand to the girl. He gestured with his head to Kelara, the universal gesture of ‘leave us for a family moment.’ She understood it well enough and bowed out with a “Your Majesty.”
“What say we go out and get some snacks to celebrate? I’ll go and get your mother and sister and we’ll go out to get something nice to eat.” He smiled down at his son, who nodded up at him. The young prince—wait, a memory tickled him. On the day of Caspin’s birth, Adora had called him Princeps, not Princess or Prince. Well, a mystery for a later time. The young Princeps looked like a weight had been lifted; their smile was as radiant as the Spirit Ember. He would have to talk with Lyra about this, if Caspin was comfortable. Maybe he shouldn’t have sent Kelara away. He let go of Adora’s hand, who fell back into a kirith stance without thinking. He picked up his tablet and messaged Lyra and Percival. He would spend the day with his family and damn the consequences, his son had just been born properly into the world.
In his heart, he was worried as to why he was afraid to tell him. He was glad at least for Adora being there; the little lion could smell that fear and anxiety despite her own—she hid it better than most but it was there. But, for his children, he had always told them to ignore everyone—even him and Lyra and all the council—to be who they choose to be.