The Rose and the Guardian (Ethereal Ties #1)

Prologue

This is a story of a girl who was never meant to leave.

They locked the gates and sealed the walls, bound her in tradition and called it peace.

Her name was Noel ársa, born beneath cold skies and colder laws, raised by a woman who taught her that silence was a cage and pain was a teacher.

They will tell you she followed these laws, that she bowed her head. But that is not the truth.

Noel was a rose, and the truth is: Roses grow thorns when ignored for too long.

“One, two, one, two.”

Noel’s mother’s sharp commands cut through the quiet of their secret garden.

Noel moved her body in time with the words she’d heard over and over, her bruised hands gripping the wooden sword as she struck the dummy before her.

This garden, hidden from the eyes of Tárnov’s rigid rules, was a place of defiance.

High walls circled the village like a fortress, ivy creeping along the old cracks in the stone as if nature itself sought to break free.

The streets were lined with cobblestones, perfectly even and slick from the melted snow.

Each stone sat in its place, just like the homes they led to, identical gray blocks of cold stone and pointed roofs, lined up in regimented rows.

Even the wind moved in straight lines here, whistling past shuttered windows and locked doors.

Every building and every street served one purpose: to maintain control. Women walked in silence, skirts brushing the polished stone. Children were sorted before their voices had deepened. Boys sent to drills, girls to domestic halls where they learned how to listen without being told.

No woman left Tárnov.

No girl was raised to believe she could. That wasn’t how the world worked.

A woman who is born in Tárnov dies in Tárnov. The phrase had been etched into Noel’s mind since birth. A truth known among the village women but never spoken above a whisper.

In Tárnov, the trees didn’t reach the walls.

But here, in this garden, the blue roses flourished, glowing in the early morning gloom.

No one knew they truly existed outside tales of old, and that was the way it had to remain.

This place, where Noel could be more than just a daughter bound by the laws of men, was her mother’s gift, her rebellion against an empire that saw women as nothing more than vessels for bearing children and slaves for men’s greed.

“Come on, Noel, you can’t rest now.”

Noel’s chest burned from the effort, her muscles trembling as she lifted the sword again. Sweat beaded on her brow, blended with the dirt and dust of the garden. But she wouldn’t stop. Not here. Not with her mother’s eyes on her.

The dummy swayed, spinning on its base as the wooden sword smacked into its body over and over again.

“Push harder!” her mother urged, and Noel listened. She always did.

From a young age, Noel trained under her mother’s guidance.

She woke early, always beginning with chores.

The floor had to be swept before breakfast, and the table set with clean plates for the staple porridge.

Buckwheat, millet, or oats, depending on the season.

Tárnov was a village favored by the tsar, and there was always enough if you had a coin.

Noel had a sweet tooth and often added berries or honey when she could, something her mother, Eyleen, loved too.

Every day was filled with training. The body and mind had to be honed in equal measure, and Eyleen made sure her daughter understood that.

Discipline, she would always say, was the key to keeping the soul at ease.

“One, two, one, two.”

Noel gritted her teeth, focusing on the movement of her arms, the flow of her strikes, and the sting in her muscles.

She swung with all her strength, her mind blocking out the pain as the dummy spun faster.

She could hear her mother’s footsteps circling behind her, the soft crunch of leaves under her boots, her gaze never leaving Noel’s back.

Noel’s final strike came with a crack. The wooden dummy broke apart, its pieces falling to the ground as she stumbled back, gasping for air. Her arms trembled from the effort, her chest rose and fell with every ragged breath. Wiping the sweat from her forehead, she dared to glance at her mother.

For a moment, she thought she might see pride in her mother’s eyes. But her mother simply looked down at the broken pieces of the puppet.

“Better,” she said. “But not enough. Tomorrow, we start earlier.”

Noel swallowed, panting heavily as she wiped her hands on the hem of her damp tunic. “Yes, Mother,”

Noel always wondered when the day would come, the day her mother would finally see her.

When her effort would be enough. But it never was.

Not the perfect strikes that could put seasoned soldiers to shame.

Not the disciplined routine she followed without fail.

Not even the lessons she memorized word for word.

Nothing was ever enough for Eyleen ársa.

As the morning sun rose above Tárnov’s stone walls, the blue roses surrounding them danced gently in the breeze. Her mother turned and disappeared through the archway of blue roses, her back straight and graceful as she walked. Noel stared at the empty space she left behind with a narrow gaze.

She wondered, as she often did, when the day would come.

It seemed though, once again, today was not the day.

Years Later

“One, two, one, two.”

The sharp command rang out across the training grounds, echoing off the stone walls of the base.

Noel stood at the front, her voice firm and demanding as she paced between the rows of her soldiers.

The men swung their swords in time with her commands, their movements precise, uniforms damp with sweat.

Tárnov’s base was an extension of the village, as cold as the stone from which both were built. It was said to be the strongest in the world, or so the Tárnovers all believed.

The walls were tall and bare, save for the banners of crossed swords and the symbols of blue roses.

Inside, the halls were narrow and exact. Barracks were lined up in strict rows, with beds of stone, thin sheets, and floors scrubbed daily. The training yard never emptied. The armory was organized down to the last blade.

“Faster!” Noel barked. “You think the enemy will wait for you to catch your breath?”

The metallic sound of swords clashing against shields filled the air alongside the harsh breathing of tired men. Noel’s leather boots dug into the dirt as she moved among them, her eyes scanning the lines of warriors before her for any sign of weakness.

Who would dare to rest under her command? Who would dare to speak up? To ask why she was so harsh with them?

No one would.

She spotted one soldier. His arms shook, the grip on his sword loose. Noel was on him in an instant to grab the front of his uniform and yank him toward her.

“Are you tired, rookie?” she asked. Her voice was cold, but the heat in her chest was too familiar. She’d been where he stood, trembling under the weight of expectations that felt impossible to meet. And yet, she couldn’t go easy on him.

Weakness had no place in this world. Just as her mother taught her. The very thought of it made her chest tighten, but she pushed the burning feeling aside.

She had no room for softness.

“N-no, Sergeant . . .”

“Then why are you slowing down?” she demanded, shoving him back into place.

The man stumbled before fixing his stance.

“The moment you hesitate is the moment you die. Is that what you want?”

“No, Sergeant ársa!” Fear flashed in his eyes as he snapped to attention and tightened his grip on his sword.

“Then fight like your life depends on it.” She leaned closer, narrowing her gaze as she slowly pronounced the last words, “Because it does.”

With a step back, she watched as he straightened and swung his sword with energy, intention, and the desire to please her shining in his eyes.

The soldiers at his sides stood tall, expressions wary.

They, too, were afraid to displease their sergeant.

The cold sergeant who had joined them years ago.

The one who beat them in every drill and rose through the ranks like a fire spreading in a dying forest.

Satisfied, she continued pacing the line as her soldiers pushed themselves harder and harder under her watchful gaze.

The clanging of steel against steel, the grunts of effort from tired men, and the shouts of her commands echoed through the training grounds of Tárnov’s base.

The heat of the early sun bore down on Noel, but she didn’t let it affect her focus.

This was where she thrived—leading, commanding, shaping these men into something stronger than they thought possible.

“One, two, one, two,” she repeated.

The men responded, their swords cutting through the air in perfect unison. Noel watched them, her eyes hard but proud. She would make sure they were strong. She would make sure her mother was proud.

After several rounds, she finally called out, “Enough!”

The soldiers’ chests heaved as they lowered their weapons, turning their gazes to their sergeant.

“Take a break,” she said. “Then we’ll begin again.”

As the men collapsed onto the dirt, wiping the sweat from their faces, Noel stepped away from the training grounds and made her way through the dark corridors of the stone base toward her office.

Her boots echoed against the floor as she passed the cafeteria, already empty after morning drills, the classrooms lined with chalkboards and stacked gear, the communal washrooms, the officers’ quarters.

At the end of the hall, she stopped in front of a familiar door and unlocked it with the key only she carried.

As she stepped into her office, her gaze drifted to the back of a framed picture on her desk. Her mother’s portrait, one she had painted as a child.

“I’m coming home soon, Mother. I have so much to tell you,” she whispered, a small smile tugging at her lips. It had been months since her last visit.

She sat down, and her eyes caught on the painting once more. The smile faded. As a girl, she had glued a few blue rose petals to it, plucked from their secret garden. The petals had never withered. Not in all these years.

Loud steps echoed outside her office. Every thud of heavy boots against the floor became louder as the seconds passed. When the door swung open, her lieutenant colonel stepped inside. His face was still, as always, his expression cold.

Even as he walked across the room to place a white gown on the worn sofa.

“Sergeant ársa, put this on.”

Noel looked at the white gown, clenching her fists. She knew what it meant. There were only two options: new beginnings or the end.

That day, the petals on the painting turned black.