"Affiliation?"

"None."

"Guild?"

"None."

"Family trade?"

She hesitated. Her jaw tightened.

"Barber," she said. "My grandfather is a barber."

The official wrote it down. He did not look up. He stamped her registration. He handed her a wooden token with a number.

"Platform three," he said. "Wait for the announcement."

She took the token. She walked to platform three.

The platform was raised. Three feet off the ground. A circle of packed earth, twenty feet across, surrounded by a low wooden rail. She stepped up. She felt the eyes of the crowd. Some curious. Some dismissive. Some hungry.

She recognized some of the competitors. Young men. Sons of minor nobles. Guild apprentices. Mercenary hopefuls. They trained at the garrison. They had instructors. They had proper equipment. They had been preparing since childhood, like her—but with resources. With support. With doors that opened instead of closed.

She heard the whispers.

"Is that the barber’s girl?"

"The one who swings the sword around?"

"I heard she actually trains. Like, seriously."

"Seriously? Look at her. She is built like a draft horse."

"A draft horse with tits, more like."

Laughter.

"Do you think she gives massages to the knights too?" a young man called out. He was leaning against the rail. He had a thin face and a thinner mustache. His armor was polished. His sword was engraved. A noble’s son. "I bet she gives more than just massages. Look at that ass. She could massage my back. And my front. And everything in between."

His friends laughed.

"Come on, Dorn," one said. "Leave her alone."

"I am just saying," Dorn said. He smirked. "A barber’s granddaughter. On the knight’s platform. What is the world coming to? Next thing you know, they will let farm animals enlist."

More laughter.

Sera did not turn. She did not acknowledge them. She stood in the center of the platform. She closed her eyes. She breathed.

The announcement came.

"PLATFORM THREE! FIRST MATCH! SERA TOMASDOTTER VERSUS DORN HAVERSHAM!"

The crowd roared.

Dorn pushed off the rail. He climbed the platform. He drew his sword. It was a fine blade. Engraved. Polished. Expensive. He swung it loosely. Showmanship. He was performing for the crowd.

"Ready, little barber?" he called. He grinned. His mustache twitched.

Sera opened her eyes.

She drew.

SHING—

The sound was clean. Sharp. Final. The blade cleared the scabbard in a single motion. She held it in a middle guard. Point forward. Edge up. Her stance was shoulder-width. Her weight was centered. Her breathing was even.

Dorn’s grin faltered.

For a moment. Just a moment. He had expected her to be nervous. Scared. Flustered. She was none of those things. Her eyes were steady. Brown. Hard. The eyes of a girl who had been swinging swords since she was three.

"Begin!" the referee called.

Dorn moved first.

He lunged. A classic opening. Blade high. Point aimed at her chest. Fast. He had training. He was not incompetent. His footwork was clean. His blade was sharp.

Sera parried.

CLANG—

Steel met steel. The sound rang across the platform. Sparks flew. Her parry was tight. Minimal. She did not waste movement. She redirected his blade to the side and stepped forward. Her counter was a thrust—quick, direct, aimed at his exposed shoulder.

Dorn pulled back. Barely. Her blade kissed his vest. The leather was cut. A thin line.

First blood.

The crowd gasped.

"Impressive," a voice said from the stands. An older man. A veteran. He leaned forward. "She is strong. Indeed."

"Indeed," the man beside him agreed. "She has been trained well. By whom, I wonder."

"Dorn is a fool," the veteran said. "He telegraphs everything."

On the platform, Dorn was furious.

His face was red. The cut on his vest was shallow, but the embarrassment was deep. He snarled. He gripped his sword with both hands. He came in hard.

CLANG CLANG CLANG—

Three strikes. Fast. Heavy. Overhead. Diagonal. Thrust. He was trying to overwhelm her. Power over precision.

Sera blocked. Sidestepped. Deflected. Her footwork was perfect. She moved like water. She absorbed his aggression and gave nothing back. Her expression did not change. Her breathing did not quicken.

"Come on, Dorn!" his friends shouted. "She is just a girl!"

"Hit her! Break her guard!"

Dorn snarled. He lunged again. A wide, sweeping cut. Meant to intimidate. Meant to push her back.

Sera stepped inside his guard.

Her blade met his. She hooked his crossguard. She twisted. The technique was called a bind. She had watched a knight perform it once when she was eight. She had practiced it ten thousand times since.

Dorn’s sword flew from his hand.

CLATTER—

It hit the platform. It slid. It fell off the edge. It landed in the dirt.

The crowd went silent.

Dorn stumbled forward. Off-balance. Defenseless. Sera’s blade was at his throat. The edge rested against his skin. Not cutting. Touching. A promise.

"Yield," she said.

Her voice was calm. Not breathless. Not shaking. The voice of a woman who had been preparing for this moment for sixteen years.

Dorn’s face was purple. His eyes were wide. His hands were empty. He looked at her blade. At her eyes. At the crowd.

"I yield," he whispered.

The referee raised his hand.

"WINNER! SERA TOMASDOTTER!"

The crowd erupted. Cheers. Gasps. Applause. Sera lowered her blade. She sheathed it.

SHING—

She turned to leave the platform.

And then Dorn spoke.

"You bitch," he muttered. Loud enough for the front rows to hear. "You think you are something? You think winning one match makes you a knight? Go back to your massage table. Go back to rubbing old men’s backs. You will get more customers this way. Maybe you can massage their dicks while you are at it. Maybe someone will actually fuck you and knock some sense into that thick skull."

Sera stopped.

She did not turn. She did not draw. She stood on the edge of the platform. Her back was to him.

"You think your words can make my sword drop?" she said.

Her voice was quiet. Almost gentle. It carried in the silence that had fallen over the crowd.

Dorn flinched.

"Idiot," she said.

She looked over her shoulder. Her eyes found his. Brown. Hard. Unblinking. The eyes of a girl who had heard every variation of "you cannot" and had stopped listening.

Dorn trembled.

He did not know why. She was just a woman. Just a barber’s granddaughter. But her eyes—those eyes were not the eyes of a woman who could be broken by words. They were the eyes of someone who had been forged by them. Hammered on the anvil of mockery and quenched in the water of contempt. Every insult he had thrown at her had been thrown before. By better men. By worse men. By everyone. And she was still standing.

She turned away.

She walked down the platform steps. The crowd parted for her. She heard the whispers. Some admiring. Some envious. Some disgusted.

"Strong girl."

"She will never make it past the second round."

"Did you see that parry? Clean as crystal."

"She should be in a kitchen, not on a platform."

’SOMEONE SAVE ME FROM THESE FOOLS,’ she thought taking a leap forward with confidence,’Now soon I will be a Knight!’