Chapter 1 | Ravinica

Chapter 1

Ravinica

TODAY, I WOULD brING my family name honor. Even if I had to kill family to do it.

I did not fight for the probing eyes watching the battle on the other side of the Sticks. This wasn't a duel for the ages, to reclaim the noble birthright of my forefathers. I didn't much care for my stepfather at all, in fact—this wasn't about fathers or brothers or men.

No, I fought for the lesser, forgotten names. For my mother's lineage, passed down to me. Scoffed from the lips of the villagers. Derided in hushed whispers across the moor. Detested by the people who were supposed to be closest to me, even though I had no say in my name and simply had it passed down.

Lindeen.

That was me. Daughter of Lindi, my mother. That surname was how I saw myself.

Others called me Linmyrr.

Daughter of the swamp.

I circled my younger brother within the boxlike confines of the Sticks laid out in the village square—simple yew rods stretched fifteen feet in every direction. I'd been training for this moment for years.

Inside the Sticks lay glory. Stepping outside the box? Shameful defeat.

I paced from one side of the Sticks to the other, never moving my narrowed eyes away from my brother's face. My fingers bit into the worn wood of my light spear, leveled at my side in a single hand, while my off-hand danced in circles to distract.

That's how we were doing this. With spears. The Old Way.

Damon, my brother, took a similar stance across from me, bending his knees, raising his spear, watching me. His foundation looked less confident than mine. Perhaps that was my bias talking.

I knew how to look for weaknesses. Our village swordbaron had taught me well. Damon's stance was riddled with them.

Folding my lips into a thin line, I resisted smirking at the younger man. My half-brother had only turned eighteen a few months ago. I was in my twenty-second year and, unlike him, had taken my training seriously. I'd known this moment would one day come.

Damon looked antsy. Sweat beaded his forehead and upper lip, yet we hadn't even thrown our first thrusts. I wondered how much ale he'd had before this duel. It appeared to be having the opposite effect of calming his nerves. I could practically smell him, fifteen feet away.

Trepidation poured off him in waves.

Contrary to my honed training regimen, Damon had a tendency to chase the nearest skirt into the village pubs. He would drink with his little gang of sniveling blowhards, talk effortlessly about the great battles he hoped to be part of in the future, and try to fuck anything that moved.

I didn't have time for that shit.

I had an academy to get to.

Lunging forward one step, I pulled up short before making it two, kicking up a plume of dust and dirt around me. Damon flinched at my feint. I tilted the corner of my lip with the smirk I'd been hiding.

My half-brother's face twisted with anger—at flinching and being made to look like a fool by his sister.

Bystanders on the other side of the Sticks chuckled. A few hushed words rose up. I immediately drowned them out to focus.

My confidence was bordering on arrogance. Korvan had taught me not to underestimate my opponents—even one I'd grown up with and had known since he was knee-high.

So I squared my shoulders, bent my knees, and focused.

Damon flared his nostrils and charged, lifting his spear higher. He let out a battle cry as his boots carried him across the packed earth.

My eyes veered down, watching his legs rather than his spear or arms. He made it five paces, ten paces. His eyes widened as he bared his teeth in a snarl.

His back foot tilted to the right at the last second, showing me the trajectory his momentum would take—

And I twirled the opposite direction, keeping the haft of my spear tucked behind me. Sidestepping my brother easily, he thrust into nothingness with a fierce jab meant to impale me.

The back of my spear came out as I spun my weapon in a circle overhead and smacked the fortified wood against his arm.

I could have stuffed the pointy end through his ribs. I held off, because this was as much a spectacle as it was about proving a point.

The audience grunted.

Damon let out a cry of pain and frustration as his arm cracked from the hit, muscle bruised. He'd be feeling pins and needles all up his bicep and shoulder.

In a frenzy, Damon backpedaled. He brought his spear in front of him and jabbed again.

I smacked it aside with a wooden thud, making myself small—crouching to get out of his immediate vision.

Younger than me or not, he was still nearly a head taller than me. Physically my equal, if not stronger. He had a wiry build, which made him fast, yet I would always be quicker because I had better control over my body.

After parrying his jab, I riposted and lunged forward.

He darted aside like a snake, baring his teeth, grinding them hard enough for me to hear.

Our boots kicked up gravel and dirt. The scene became muddied, hard to see. The razor-edge silence from the crowd broke into open taunts, jeers, and hollers, as was traditional for a duel of this nature.

Our spears danced, locked in a melee closer than we should have been with these weapons.

This was personal for both of us.

Grime got into my eyes. I blinked the grit away, keeping my form tight and sprightly. Damon worked in big, overhand arcs, cocking his arm back before every thrust and lunge.

I parried every strike. The iron of my spearhead clanged against his, eliciting some sharper calls from the watchers.

When he did a quick one-two stab with his spear—feinting low before going high, I read the maneuver and stepped into his guard to take the wind out of his sails.

I knew the maneuver because I'd taught it to him.

The haft of my spear slid along the top of his, in a wooden equivalent to nails on a chalkboard. He tried to disengage and pull back—

I was too swift, stepped even closer, keeping the weight of my spear on top of his so he couldn't withdraw.

His dark eyes blew wide, and I smiled at him—

Right before bucking the end of my spear around like a baseball bat and smashing him in the face.

Damon crumpled to the ground, toppling onto his back as a spurt of blood sprayed from his nose.

Gasps from the crowd.

He kept his spear in hand, blinking wildly. Spear in hand meant the threat wasn't vanquished.

So I spun my weapon, leveled it, and angled the point at his throat, prepared to plunge into the soft tissue of his neck.

"Halt," came a stern voice from the northern end of the Sticks. Damon's side.

I paused, lifting my head from my enemy.

My stepfather emerged from the crowd, which was mostly made up of Damon's friends. He had his arms clasped behind his back like a field sergeant.

"I'm calling it," he announced, much to the chagrin of the audience, who wanted blood.

I did too, honestly.

"What?" I murmured, surprised.

"Your brother is not at your level yet, daughter."

I clenched my jaw. How dare he call me "daughter," when he'd been one of the echoers of the Linmyrr name. Practically the one who had singlehandedly bestowed it upon me, and made it stick.

"Fuck—what? No!" Damon screeched, scrambling away from my spearhead on his hands and knees before wobbling to his feet. "Don't end it, Da. I can take her. Give me another crack."

My stepfather, Hallan, frowned. "She's already given you more than enough cracks, Damon."

My impudent half-brother snarled at me, bending his knees and raising his spear. He did a few faux jabs at me from afar. I didn't flinch or react. I gave him an upright profile angle of my body, in case he wanted to try anything sneaky.

I knew my brother. All bark and no bite. I welcomed the challenge I knew would never come.

Which was why I was somewhat shocked when he charged at me anyway, all knobby elbows and angry tuts.

"Never underestimate your opponent, cub."

I held my spear straight out from my side, waiting.

Watching his troubled footwork, again.

Damon was plagued by anger. He was even sloppier than before. He came at me hard, as if trying to tackle me to the ground.

The hiss of disapproving bystanders filled the night.

At the last moment, Damon put all his weight behind his spear-thrust, carrying his momentum toward me.

I dropped down into a severe crouch, ducking under his lumber hardly three feet off the ground. With my hands touching the dirt, spear at my feet, I brought my leg out in a deft roundhouse sweep.

Damon's legs flew out from under him, my inertia carrying me in a spin like a trained breakdancer. When I came back around, leg still extended, Damon was on his back, billowing dirt around him.

He blinked up at the dark nighttime sky.

I lifted my heel and brought it down on his chest, hard.

The thud rang out. Air shot from his lungs in a sharp exhale. He folded in on himself. Dropped his spear. Curled into a fetal position, likely from a cracked rib.

I hopped to my feet, kicked his weapon away with the toe of my boot, and leveled my spearhead at his throat again.

He writhed, groaning in agony.

Across the way, Hallan scratched his forehead, evidently ashamed at his offspring's sudden show of audacity and balls.

My stepfather sighed. "As I said. You're not ready, son." He glanced to another man in the crowd and nodded.

Swordbaron Korvan, an elder of the village, crossed the barrier of the Sticks and stood in the center of the square. "Victor, Ravinica," he announced in his booming voice.

I grunted, nodded to him, and walked off.

No great cheer rose up from the audience as they departed. Because no one had wanted me to win.

An hour later, I had changed out of my fighting leathers and was dressed in more comfortable pants and a loose shirt that hid the curves of my body.

I stared into the crackling flames of a campfire outside my family longhouse. Alone. Going over the fight in my head, wondering if I could have done anything differently—if I could have disposed of my enemy quicker.

Shouldn't think of Damon as my enemy, I guess, I thought.

Something nudged my shoulder. A damp sloshing trickled over my tunic.

Furrowing my brow, I looked over.

Korvan held a mug of ale down to me. The wizened man sported a small grin under his bushy gray beard, plaited in twin rivers down to his chest. "You stare at that fire any harder, it might start talking to you, cub."

I blinked at him and the mug he held at me.

"Come on, take it," he said, nudging my shoulder again, spilling more ale over the rim. "My arm's getting tired. You deserve it after your victory."

I flashed him a small smile before taking the mug and sipping from it. "Doesn't feel like much of a victory beating up dogs."

"Dogs can bite." Korvan sat across from me at the fire.

"They can also bark. In fact, I think that's all this one can do."

He laughed, full-bellied as usual, and slurped from his own cup. "You shouldn't talk about your brother that way. He is young."

"Half-brother."

"Even so. Why are you so dour, cub? You've done a great thing. That trial all but solidified your inclusion to the academy. Twice over. You should be proud of yourself."

I appreciated the fatherly tone Korvan took with me. He was the closest thing I'd ever had to one. Even so, I didn't need him coddling me or explaining things to me. I knew how things worked in Selby Village and beyond. I hadn't been happy here for quite some time. My family and the villagers made sure of it.

Only once I left would I find some semblance of contentment, I felt. Once I had a purpose.

"You're right," I said, leaning back to blink away from the fire. There were yellow spots behind my lids from staring at the damn flames for so long. Seemed Korvan had been right about that too. "I should be more gracious."

Korvan tilted another smile under his beard. "I know it's difficult when someone like Damon Halldan is the target of that graciousness." His eyes lifted past my shoulder. "Ah. Looks like I sat down too soon."

I sat up, glancing back to follow his eyes.

Damon approached, looking sullen. He had a slight limp. Maybe I twisted it sweeping his legs out. He also favored his left side from his bruised rib.

I made ready to stand, but Korvan beat me to it. He drained his mug, winked at me, and stomped off. "Enjoy," he said to my half-brother, gesturing to where he'd been sitting.

Damon took his place across from me. My lax stance tightened. He looked angry, of course.

My brother would have been handsome if he smiled more. Isn't that what the boys here always say to me?

"Where are your friends?" I asked. "Hope they haven't abandoned you."

"After my abject failure?" Damon eked out. He scoffed. "Fuck you, Rav."

I smirked at him. Just like I had during our duel.

"Wipe that shitty smirk off your face," he drawled. "I get it. You had my number. I should have trained harder. Blah, blah—"

"You still wouldn't have beaten me, Damon. You broadcast your every move with your footwork. No amount of training over the past week or month would have prepared you for what I've been training years to do."

He snorted. He had a habit of sounding like a boar when things didn't go his way, all that scoffing and snorting.

I knew his pride was wounded, more than his body. Scratching the back of my neck, I swallowed my own pride. "You fought valiantly, brother. I commend you for even stepping into the Sticks to face me."

"Eirik would have fucked you up."

I shrugged. "Maybe. You're not Eirik."

Damon bowed his head, chin against his chest. "I'd have been called a coward and fool if I hadn't. Stepped into the Sticks, I mean." He ran a hand through his mop of greasy black hair. "Though you did the fool-making rather well on your own."

I let out a soft chuckle. We both had expectations here.

Then his eyes twinkled darkly—

And he reached his hand into the center of the fire.

I inhaled sharply, neck lurching.

My half-brother broke into a twisted grin. His hand didn't burn, he didn't scream. He lifted his free hand next to his face, curling his fingers. Firelight brightened his fingertips, burning with the yellow brightness of a blacksmith's forge. He had transferred the fire's energy from the hand inside the pit, to his free hand.

He snapped his fingers and sparks sizzled, the light snuffing. He pulled his hand out of the fire, unmarred, and dusted his palms off.

"You still can't do that though, Linmyrr."

With the insult, he guffawed and went to his feet. My younger brother made sure to check me with his hip on the way out, nearly bucking me off my log. He murmured something about me being a bitch before disappearing toward the pub.

Shame filled me more than anger. I'd already won. He was getting his frustrations out, understandably.

He wasn't wrong, either; I couldn't summon like he could.

Standing from the fire, reminded of my inadequacies, I shook my head and ambled toward the longhouse. Feeling dejected, but only momentarily.

My summoning will come to me. In time.

I was ready for sleep and the big day tomorrow.

Before I'd made it three steps into the house, I heard a throat clearing to my left.

My mother sat on a rocking chair in the darkness.

"Ma," I said, halting in the center of the room.

She pursed her lips. "Heard you beat Damon like a drum."

I nodded.

"As suspected," she said with a smile. It vanished as quickly as it had come, and she stood from the chair. "You've essentially guaranteed your acceptance into Vikingrune Academy with this victory, Ravinica."

"That's what Korvan tells me," I said. It was also what I'd been told for years—that I was the next in line. I was the most adept and worthy in Selby Village.

My mother approached me. Lindi was still beautiful, still young enough to be sought after by men other than my stepfather. Yet she remained true, despite his deficiencies.

I respected her. Thought the world of her. I had defeated Damon in her name.

Which was why I wasn't caught off-guard when she said, "You remember what you must do at the academy, daughter?"

"Of course." My teeth ground together as I gave her a tight nod. My eyes darted, making sure we were alone in the longhouse.

She held my gaze in her blue orbs. "Tell it to me then, dear."

I cleared my throat. My voice came out thick, low, and brooding. "I will find and kill the ones responsible for tarnishing our family name."