Chapter 2
Chapter two
Orion and Gisela woke before sunrise on practice days, the sky still heavy with night.
Her father, a skilled swordsman and former master-at-arms for the village, never taught her to wield a blade but passed down his knowledge of combat in a way that felt like a quiet rebellion against village customs. Women were expected to focus on proper duties like gardening, cooking, cleaning, and bearing children.
But Orion wanted more for her. He wanted the security that his daughter could protect herself, and she had embraced his teachings without hesitation.
As dawn's first light crept over the horizon, Gisela and Orion were at the practice field, a secluded spot away from the village and prying eyes.
“Remember, being smaller doesn’t make you weaker.
It makes you quicker and more agile,” he said.
He demonstrated a swift block and counterattack.
Orion’s body moved with grace, like a hawk circling its prey.
His navy-blue tunic hugged his form, accentuating the muscles that flexed with each movement.
The breeze lifted his long brown hair across his face, while his eyes narrowed in focus.
They shared the same scatter of freckles across their noses and the same light brown eyes—proof she was her father’s daughter in many ways.
But not all.
“Keep your stance strong, focus on your opponent. Find their tell,” he instructed, circling around her. “Some shift their weight slightly forward; others flick their eyes to the spot they plan to strike. Watch their facial expressions. A slight smirk, a narrowed gaze.”
Gisela nodded, absorbing every word.
Orion demonstrated a lightning-fast jab and a low sweep.
She observed him and her body mirrored his movements instinctively. Quicker now than it had weeks ago.
“Again?” he asked.
She nodded once and settled into a defensive stance, her eyes locked with his.
Wasting no time, he charged.
She feinted left, her dress swirling around her legs in a fluid, precise blur.
But triumph was a dangerous distraction; a moment’s loss of focus was all he needed to strike her shoulder.
The force swept her feet out from under her.
As she hit the ground, pride bruised faster than her skin.
Cold air pierced into her lungs in a ragged gasp.
“Damn it,” Gisela muttered, lying on her back.
Orion stepped over her and shook his head. “See? A second. That’s all it takes.” He extended his hand.
“I’m tired. We’ve been out here for an hour already.” She grabbed it with a smirk. With a foot to his chest, she pivoted her body and pulled him down to the ground beside her.
He stared, stunned, and they both burst into laughter.
“Cheap shot on an old man.”
“Oh, is that right? You’re an old man now?”
“I am when you best me.” He laughed.
“Then I guess you should quit being a Lord and join the Village Elders,” she teased. “Sitting around all day, giving wise advice, sounds like an easy life.”
He scoffed. “It would be less work, that’s for sure.”
“Thank you for doing this still. I know your days have gotten busier.” She rose to her feet and extended her hand to him.
He took it and brushed the dirt off the back of his pants as he stood. “It’s important you know how to defend yourself. Noah has told me that you have been taking some heat from the Alderose boy,” he remarked as they walked back to the village.
“Thorne? That’s nothing new. He’s always tried to bother me since we were kids, but I don’t let him anymore.”
“Maybe he feels threatened?”
She scoffed. “Well, he should.”
Orion’s soft smile gave way to a serious expression. “This village is run by the Valors now. I won’t stand for it.”
“I can handle it,” she reassured him. “I’m not a little girl anymore.”
He nodded, draping his arm around her shoulders and kissed the side of her head. “I know.”
Walking down the main street of the village with a full basket from the bakery, Gisela breathed in the sweet scent of fresh bread.
The lively hum of Frosthaven in the mornings was a comforting melody to her ears.
Children’s laughter rang out as they darted through the streets, creating toys from sticks, rocks, and burlap sacks.
Villagers greeted her from both sides of the road.
Frosthaven wasn’t the most luxurious village in the realm, but it was home.
Home didn’t mean perfect. It breathed in silent contradictions. The same people who smiled at her now would bow to the King’s men another day. She’d learned long ago to read more into what people didn’t say.
Further up the street, Selene Alderose tended to plants on her porch.
Her light blue dress fluttered in the breeze, and her shiny black hair cascaded down her back.
Her wave was quick and tense, gone before Gisela could wave back.
It was no secret that Cillian wasn’t a gentle husband; the whispers followed Selene wherever she went.
Despite this, Selene was sweet in the small ways she had interacted with the Valors.
Still, she kept to herself when it came to village politics.
A burst of movement broke her thoughts. Children ran past, singing a rhyme, voices laced with excitement and fear.
“Grimthorn Bramble, fearsome sight,
Its thorns will catch you in the night.
Stay away, don’t dare to tread,
or find yourself in a deadly bed.”
Gisela smiled faintly.
Everyone in Frosthaven grew up on the tale of the Grimthorn Bramble—the same worn story her mother placed in her hands on long winter nights to keep her and her siblings entertained.
She and her mother had studied every herb in the forest, yet the Grimthorn Bramble remained nothing more than a name, its fearsome reputation far larger than any proof of its existence.
No one she knew had ever actually seen one.
A myth, meant to scare children from venturing into the forest alone.
“Good morning, Gisela!” a little voice called.
She turned, and there was the baker’s son, sprinting her way.
His foot caught on a stone, and he tumbled forward, skinning his knee. “Ouch,” he winced.
Gisela knelt, rummaging in her bag for a bandage. She cleaned the scrape, dabbing some healing salve on it. “There, all fixed,” she said.
“I don’t have any coin.”
“Don’t be silly, Roy.”
“Are you working today? Maybe I can come help with something?” The dimples in his cheeks deepened.
She smiled at him. “I’m off today. Maybe tomorrow, but you’d have to ask your mother first,” she said, ruffling his curly blonde hair.
He giggled, wrinkling his tiny, upturned nose.
Distant shouting cut through the hum of the village.
Gisela shaded her eyes, searching for the source of the commotion. “Go on, now. The men are training.”
Roy nodded and ran off to join his friends.
A nervous chill ran down her spine when she spotted a man in a blaring red tunic, the color worn only by the King and his guard. Cillian, now the master-at-arms, was instructing the men in combat. Her father’s previous job.
Gisela scanned the men and spotted Thorne circling Tristan, sweat gleaming on their bare backs.
Jabs snapped through the air, fists and elbows trading in a blur.
Thorne’s gaze never wavered. Tristan stumbled, his hair falling into his eyes as he missed his mark.
Thorne saw the opening and shoved him to the ground.
Gisela smirked. She would never root for Thorne but watching him rough up Tristan was . . . satisfying.
Maybe it was wrong to enjoy, but she refused to feel guilty about it.
They paused and Fynn handed Thorne a towel. As he wiped his face, his eyes flicked to her. She shivered at the glance, the faintest sense that he’d noticed her before she’d stepped fully into view. Without looking away, he whispered something into Fynn’s ear.
She lingered at the edge of the ring, half-hidden behind the press of bodies, before pivoting away from the crowd. Gisela straightened her spine and kept moving. She hated that Thorne could still make her feel small—not with words, but with that look. Like he knew something she didn’t.
She sensed someone creeping up behind her. The fine hairs at the nape of her neck lifted. Reflexively, she shot her hand out, seizing his arm and twisting sharply.
Fynn yelped, but she didn’t relent. With a strong step forward and a pivot of her hips, she used his momentum to flip him over her shoulder.
He hit the ground hard, her bread scattering across the mud as laughter erupted behind her.
Thorne leaned against a wooden post, a faint, mocking curve to his mouth.
Gisela narrowed her eyes.
A voice called from the crowd, “Maybe you should join the ranks, Gisela!”
“I’m s-s-sorry, Gisela, I was just messin’ around,” Fynn stammered. “Thorne told me to . . .”
“You ruined all the bread I bought! Aren’t you tired of being told what to do for Thorne’s entertainment? Grow up already, Fynn.”
The sound of approaching footsteps made her turn as her gaze locked onto Cillian, the last person she needed to see this altercation.
“That’s quite the skill set you have there, Miss Valor,” he said, walking over and helping Fynn to his feet.
Fynn hurried back to the group of men.
“Call it instinct,” she replied, picking up her basket. She lifted her chin and willed her breath to steady.
“Hm,” Cillian mused, his scarred face studying hers with curiosity. “Perhaps it runs in the family. Although now that I think about it, I don’t believe Noah has that trait at all,” he added with a sneer.
“I know a trait that runs in your family too, Mr. Alderose,” she shot back icily.
Cillian’s glare hardened. “Oh? And what would that be?”
Before she could respond, Thorne approached with his usual confident stride, placing a hand on his father’s shoulder. He glanced between them, his expression neutral. “Come, Father. Let’s leave Freckles to . . . whatever this is.”