The boy stared out at the little heap of gray matted fur. Heath had sweet talked one of the palace healers into visiting the kennels and seeing to the worst of its wounds. The little mutt would make a full recovery, and now it was asleep at his feet.
What should he call the pile of bones that had beaten all odds? What name would give it a title above the rest?
It wasn’t like the other hounds. It was special.
It was underestimated, just like him.
“Wolf.” The boy finally said. It was a name to remind the others of its accomplishment and its unquestionable loyalty to those of its pack. “I want his name to be Wolf.”
4
When the boy turned twelve, Sir Audric introduced a new weapon to their daily rotation: the battle axe.
It required more precision and skill than the sword, but Darren immediately felt a connection he had previously lacked. There was something primal about hefting an axe in each hand, and though his shoulders burned like nothing else after each session, he never wanted it to end.
All of the knights fought with swords or arrows from afar, and some soldiers used polearms. But as far as the boy could see, no one used the axe, and he wanted to be different. If he was going to stand out from the masses, he wanted to do it with the weapon everyone else was afraid to use.
Fear was a powerful thing. It was also a motivator to push on long past the point of exhaustion. Sir Audric and Eve were first to remark that he pushed himself too hard, but Darren didn’t care.
It felt good to be the best, and with the axe, he finally was. Eve still beat him in archery, and they were evenly matched with the sword, but the axe required a strength she didn’t have. Darren pressed that advantage, lifting special weights at every opportunity.
Eve teased him—Darren had shot up six inches in the course of a year, adding muscle to his frame so that he now towered over her by a whole head and outweighed her by half. But Eve had the agility he would always lack. The girl was fast and she was smart. Any victory over his slim opponent was hard earned, and he had a sense it would never, ever, come easy.
On their fifth month using the axe, Sir Audric finally permitted the two to intermix their weapons in a freestanding duel. Previously, they had only taken turns with patterns, trading off the sword for the axe.
Hook in then out, slash and cut. It was a dance, a heavy pattern that took more strength and dexterity to parry. The swift movements of Eve’s sword and shield were a challenge for two hefty blades, but Darren was getting better. Every day he was getting used to the weight.
And today he was determined to win.
He might have, too…
But as he swung with what should have been the winning blow, an overpowering gust sent him sprawling against the wall instead.
For a moment, he just lay there, stunned.
What in the gods’ blasted names just happened?
He should have won. Darren hadn’t tripped. His form had been perfect. He had spent far too many hours making sure he cut with just the right amount of weight, and that he had full control of his swing—
And then, as the boy was pushing himself up off the dirt, dust coating his arms, he saw Eve.
Her weapons were on the ground in a heap. Normally Sir Audric would chide them for such careless regard, but both he and his daughter were too busy staring at her hands. She held her fingertips close to her face as she studied them with wide, unblinking eyes.
All at once, the boy knew exactly why Eve had won.
“You have magic.” Darren was first to speak the words, torn between disbelief and something else, something that burned in that far corner of his chest.
“But I…” The girl couldn’t finish her sentence. She couldn’t deny it. Darren hadn’t miraculously tripped and thrown himself across the grounds. Eve had cast magic unconsciously, but with enough force to blast him several yards away.
It was the only explanation that made sense. Eve’s instinct, her need for self-preservation against Darren’s winning blow, had called on a latent pool of magic from somewhere within.
It wasn’t unheard of. Magic only emerged during adolescence, and both Eve and Darren were of the right age. It was one of the many reasons the realm’s three war schools—the School of Knighthood, the Cavalry for Soldiers, and the Academy of Magic—recruited as early as age twelve and as late as seventeen.
Darren simply hadn’t considered his friend a candidate. Magic was rare. The two had always shared a laugh over the countless courtiers’ children wasting away in the library, pouring over magical instruction with stuffy tutors when their time would be better spent investing in something more practical, like battle formation and sparring. If their magic never emerged, and most of theirs never did, then they were ill-prepared for anything else. And then, instead of earning the high prestige of knighthood, they would have to settle for the life of a soldier.
The Cavalry had the easiest acceptance of all. Three of every four applicants passed their trial year. In the School, only four of every ten were allowed to become squires. And at the Academy, only one of every ten was accepted as an apprentice mage… The odds of succeeding, even if you were one of the lucky few with magic, were minimal at best.
“Eve.” Sir Audric cleared his throat. “Go and see if you can find Mage Marius in the Council of Magic’s chamber. He isn’t supposed to depart for another week. Tell him that we need a recommendation for a tutor here in the palace.”
What? Darren’s eyes shot to the knight master. A mage tutor, but that meant…
“We’re going to need the best we can get. Combat is the most competitive faction, and they only apprentice five students to each study after the first year.”
“But, Father—” Eve swallowed, her hands tucked in at her sides “—I thought you were training me to be a knight.”
“If you fail the Academy’s trial, we will still send you to the School.”
“But I…” Her shoulders fell. “I want to be like you and Darren, Father.”