Undefeated

The raven-haired warrior strode into the torchlit arena, her armor polished to a mirror shine. Flames danced across steel as a spotless white skirt flowed around her greaves with every measured step.

She was no small woman, standing taller and broader than most peasant men.

A well-dressed merchant stood among the spectators circling the cobbled ring. A lifetime of buying and selling had taught him to judge a man at a glance. Warriors were always the easiest to spot. A peasant could carry a sword, but battle-hardened frames were impossible to counterfeit.

Tonight, the crowd was filled with warriors.

The merchant glanced at the man beside him. He wore the same blue-and-gold colors as the warrior in the ring.

“She’s never lost?” the merchant asked.

“Not even close.” He grinned. “The pride of the McHale clan.”

“Tonight she will lose.”

There was a certainty in the merchant’s tone, but not a hint of boastfulness.

“You don’t understa—”

The man stopped as his eyes found his champion.

The color drained from her face as she stared past a gap in the crowd. A lone figure approached in the darkness.

“Th-this is a mistake,” she stammered. “I can’t fight a man. It’s not allowed.”

The figure stepped into the glow of the flickering torchlight.

Golden hair.

A woman’s face.

Her opponent was unmistakably a woman, yet that did not calm the terror. The challenger stood a head taller, broad-shouldered, with muscles that looked carved from granite.

She swallowed her fear, planted her feet, and readied her sword.

The blonde woman crossed the arena in a blur.

CLANG!

The raven-haired warrior barely raised her sword in time to catch the first strike. The impact sent pain racing up both arms.

The second blow tore the sword from her hands. It clattered across the cobbled stones.

Silence swept across the ring.

The golden-haired woman seemed unsure what to do next. After a brief hesitation, she bowed slightly. “Thank you for the match. You fought honorably.”

Scanning the crowd filled with warriors, her eyes settled on the largest among them. Wearing the same red-and-black colors, he met her gaze.

Then he gave a single nod.

Only then did she return to the edge of the arena, leaving the raven-haired woman standing alone at its center, her arms hanging limp.

An older warrior looked toward the McHale supporters.

“Your girl did well. Most can’t hold on past the first blow.”

Another challenger stepped forward. She lasted a single exchange.

When the final opponent entered the arena, she took one look at the towering blonde and bowed her head. She forfeited without drawing her weapon.

There were no cheers. The veterans had expected the outcome. The newcomers simply stared.

“Her name is Atalanta,” the merchant remarked. “Just fifteen. Pity she’s not a man.”

Then he turned and disappeared into the crowd.

***

Lord Elric entered the manor with three broad-shouldered men behind him. Though none quite matched his imposing size, their stoic expressions marked them as his sons.

Atalanta entered last.

None spoke as they crossed into the dining room, where an immaculately set table waited for seven. Food was already steaming on the platters. The four men took their seats and immediately began eating.

Atalanta continued toward the kitchen.

“Sit,” Elric said.

She obeyed without a word.

A silver-haired woman with tired eyes entered carrying another plate of freshly grilled meat.

Atalanta looked up. “Thank you, Mother.”

Her mother answered with only a faint smile before returning to the kitchen.

A cool breeze drifted through the dining room, followed by footsteps on stone.

A small figure left a trail of muddy footprints as she entered. Her face was hidden behind the whitehorn slung across her shoulders, its pale fur shimmering in the candlelight.

She dropped it onto the polished floor with a wet thud, smearing indigo blood across the stone.

The hunter was only thirteen, two years younger than Atalanta and at least two-and-a-half heads shorter. Otherwise, the resemblance between the sisters was unmistakable.

The girl hung up her bow and quiver.

“That does not belong in the house,” Atalanta admonished. “Take it outside.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, sister. This is tomorrow’s dinner.”

“Someone will have to clean the mess—the gods know you won’t. Take it outside.”

Their mother returned carrying another plate. Her eyes flickered toward the carcass before she silently continued serving the men.

Only then did the large man lift his gaze from his meal. “Artemis, move it. Claudia, clean.”

Artemis scowled at her sister before dragging the carcass back outside.

The silver-haired woman immediately knelt and began scrubbing the blood from the floor.

Atalanta rose. “Mother, let me help with that.”

“No,” her father replied. “You’ll stain your uniform.”

“Uniform?” one of her brothers grunted. “It’s a dress.”

“I found a husband for her. She will be expected to be presented in a clean uniform.”

Artemis returned, her white shirt stained dark while her muddy boots and trousers tracked fresh dirt across the floor.

“A husband?” Atalanta asked.

“Yes. It’s an excellent exchange. The Orban clan’s eldest is a disappointment. They’re desperate to improve their bloodline, so I secured maximum value.”

Though he answered Atalanta, his eyes remained on his sons. “I secured prime mates for your brothers… and three thousand gold.”

He took another drink of ale while Artemis carved into her meat.

“Boys, you should thank your sister. Her little performance today sealed the deal.”

Atalanta lowered her gaze. “But I don’t want to bear knights. I want to be a knight.”

Artemis looked up, her eyes widening.

Lord Elric slammed his fist onto the table. “Are you daft? You’re a woman—not a knight!”

Atalanta met his eyes. “I have never lost a—”

“You have no idea what a fight is.” He rose to his feet. “What you do is a dance to display your value as a mate. That’s all.”

“But I—”

“Goddammit! Draw your sword!”

“What? I—”

“Draw!”

Atalanta obeyed.

“Now strike.”

She attacked without hesitation. Exactly as she had in the arena.

Steel met steel.

A shower of sparks burst between them.

Then her sword exploded into fragments.

Cold steel rested against her throat. She couldn’t move her head, but she knew it was her father’s blade.

“Elric, no!” her mother cried.

“Relax, woman. I would not be so unchivalrous as to diminish the value of the merchandise after the deal has already been made.”

His cold eyes never left Atalanta.

“Your sword—a toy.

Your armor—a costume.

You are a child.”

He lowered the blade.

She still felt its cold edge against her throat.

“No.” His voice remained calm. “A child has possibilities.”

He returned to his chair. “You are a woman.”

Lord Elric finished his meal in silence. When he rose, his sons stood with him and followed him across the room.

At the doorway he unbuckled his great battle sword, rested it against the stone wall, and disappeared into the manor.

Only then did Atalanta’s mother finally sit down to eat.

Atalanta crouched beside the shattered remains of her sword, gathering each broken piece in silence.

Artemis walked over and stopped beside her.

Atalanta looked up. “What? Are you here to gloat?”

Artemis didn’t answer. Her gaze lingered on her sister before drifting toward their mother.

Then she turned and walked away.

Atalanta eventually retired to her room.

The window stood open.

She crossed to it and breathed in the cool night air. Twin full moons hung overhead like giant eyes.

She felt very small.

She changed into her nightgown, dimmed the lantern beside her bed, and slipped beneath the covers.

There Atalanta lay in the moonlight, staring at the ceiling.

At first she replayed the day’s events.

The duels.

Her father.

Her mother.

Artemis.

Before long, the day gave way to the year.

The year became her life.

She didn’t know how much time had passed.

She only knew she didn’t want to stare at that ceiling anymore.

She didn’t want to live this life anymore.

She climbed out of bed, slipped out of her nightgown, and dressed once more in her uniform—the white skirt first, then the red-and-black adornments. Last came the armor.

She studied herself in the mirror.

Her father’s words echoed in her mind.

Not armor.

A costume.

It was all she had.

So it was what she wore.

She descended the stairs in silence. Though she hadn’t made a sound, she knew she was being watched.

It didn’t matter.

The decision had already been made.

Her father’s battle sword rested beside the door.

“Leave or die.”

Atalanta took the sword…

and left.