The field was a living hell. Smoke filled the air, fire danced in the mud which turned to a pool of blood and grime. The sounds of the dying mixed with the steel clashing and the thunder of hooves. All around men fell, dragged under by the chaos of battle, their lives ended before their cries died out.
Amid the chaos stood one figure, tall and untouchable. Their armor gleamed like molten gold streaked with silver, radiating a light that seemed almost alive. A red cape snapped behind them in the wind, flowing with every measured step of their great dark horse.
The half-faced helmet framed their features, leaving the mouth exposed, and crowned their head like a diadem. Above it, a faint, mysterious halo of stars hovered, as if the warrior carried light itself into the battlefield.
They moved with a force both sudden and unstoppable, cutting through enemy lines with a glaive that shone like living light, part spear, part sword they say. Enemy soldiers fell back, opening a path for others to follow, drawn by the courage blazing in every swing. The battlefield itself seemed to bend around them, as if nature itself recognized the figure as something more than mortal.
At the moment the visor lifted, the battlefield seemed to pause. And there it was — not a man beneath the shining helm, but a woman.
Long beautiful golden hair, amber eyes ablaze, standing tall with radiance, her glaive striking down any who dared challenge her. They say the soldiers could barely believe it, that a woman had turned the tide of war in a single sweep.
That woman was none other than Catalina Duavan
They called her the Maiden Knight, the first woman in generations to carve her name into the annals of war. Some claimed it was divine power that guided her strikes, that with a single motion she had turned the tide of three long years of bloodshed in one sweeping assault.
Whether that was truth or legend, it mattered little — for Catalina Duavan became a name whispered with awe, a symbol of courage and strength that no one would ever forget.
And yet…
I slammed the book shut.
"Well," I said, voice heavy with sarcasm, leaning back.
"Until she married a man years later. Even the realm's strongest woman still had to be bound by old men in fine suits and their endless rules. What a joke."
I tilted my head, eyes narrowing.
"Jean. What do you make of that? All that glory, all that power — and in the end, she couldn't survive the court without a husband propping her up."
My arms folded tightly against my chest.
"Her story's dazzling, yes — but it crumbles the moment politics enter the picture."
Jean sat across from me at the table, hunched slightly over a book, his bright brown hair catching the afternoon light. Jean chuckled, not looking up from their romance novel he was reading.
"You prattling like that is amusing. At least she achieved something! Women across the kingdom were inspired — just as you know… If not for Catalina's achievement years ago, you wouldn't be sitting here in a public library. They wouldn't even let a common woman touch books like these."
Jean finally set his book aside and glanced at the pile of books stacked near my elbow. Histories, treatises on finance, essays on noble etiquette.
He smirked. "You really do like the political side of things, don't you?" he said.
I nodded, brushing my hand over the nearest spine.
"I do. I want to learn how all of it works — the laws, the court, the way nobles move their pieces. But somehow…"
I tilted my head at the pages still open in front of me.
"Every book I read, her name shows up again. Catalina Duavan — even outside the battlefield, everything she did was tied to politics. It's as if she left fingerprints on every corner of high society."
Jean raised an eyebrow at me, his grin crooked. "Careful, Erika. Keep talking like that and people will think you're obsessed with her."
I scoffed, gathering the pile of books into my arms. "Don't be ridiculous. I just want to understand how she managed it all. From the battlefield to the court hall… she seems to appear everywhere I look."
Jean leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms lazily before standing.
"Mm, sounds like obsession to me." He winked, then reached over to lighten my load, plucking half the stack out of my hands.
"Come on, before you bury yourself under these."
We moved between the rows of shelves, the dust-scented quiet of the library wrapping around us. My mind still lingered on the thought, though — Catalina's name written over history like ink spilled across every page.
"Jean," I murmured as we walked toward the doors, "maybe that's what I should study most. Not just politics or finance. But… her. How she became all of that."
He gave me a sidelong look, amused. "Or maybe," he said, pushing the door open into the evening light.
"You just want to be her."
I didn't answer right away. The thought unsettled me — yet I couldn't deny there was a spark of truth in it.
The hush of the library faded behind us as we stepped out into the street, arms heavy with borrowed books. Jean was already muttering about fabrics, cuts, and how the sleeves of my dress would never do for the evening. I only smiled faintly, because that was how it always went — him fussing over threads and colors, me thinking ahead to the faces I would have to meet.
My name is Erika.
A lowborn, a commoner, no different from any other girl who scraped a living from the dust. But when I look back now, I suppose my life began the day Jean and I decided to invent someone else.
Her name was Heather.
Jean stitched her into being with needle and cloth, and I carried her with my voice, my smile, and the secrets we whispered to each other. Heather was everything I could never be — graceful, untouchable, a lady who belonged to marble halls and candlelit banquets. Where I saw locked doors, she slipped through. Where knowledge was forbidden to me, she reached out and claimed it.
That evening was no different. While Jean tightened the laces of my gown, muttering sharp critiques about posture and elegance, I uncorked a small vial, letting the purple liquid swirl over my eyes.
The change was subtle but unmistakable — the sign of nobility. Then, with a dab of another potion, my black hair burned to a vibrant red, hiding the northern traits that might betray me. I stared into the mirror until Erika faded away and Heather looked back at me.
The carriages lined the entrance of a sprawling manor, chandeliers glowing through its high windows like a second sky. The noblewomen swept in on perfumes and silks, their laughter sharp as silver. And there I was among them — Heather, the mysterious beauty whose lineage no one could quite place.
They welcomed me eagerly, asked after my gowns, begged for the name of the tailor behind them. And when I spoke, their eyes lingered, half on me, half on Jean's craft.
They didn't know that each thread in my dress was spun from scraps, or that the man they praised as some hidden genius of nobility was just my childhood friend with oak-brown hair and a lean frame.
To me, every word, every gesture was a lesson. I listened when they gossiped of alliances and rivalries. I smiled as they boasted of inheritances and debts. I followed their talk of marriages and estates with the same hunger others reserved for fairy tales.
Because for me, all of it was knowledge — and knowledge was the only thing that could set me free.
A lady in emerald silk leaned close, her voice honeyed.
"Lady Heather, you simply must tell me more of your travels. Your taste is… unparalleled."
I inclined my head, allowing the faintest smile to curl my lips. Each word I spoke, each measured laugh, was a step deeper into their world. I asked questions, carefully chosen, about estates, marriages, and trade ventures, letting their answers drip knowledge into my ears.
I stepped lightly across the polished floor, letting my skirts sweep just enough to suggest elegance, not clumsiness. My eyes flicked from group to group, taking in the chandeliers, the gilded walls, the clusters of nobles whispering behind delicate fans, their gestures and glances revealing more than words ever could.
The room was larger than any gathering I had sneaked into before — more glittering, more deliberate in its display of power. The weight of influence hung in the air like perfumed smoke, and I drank it in with quiet curiosity.
I moved with purpose, slipping between laughing ladies in sapphire gowns and men in embroidered coats, my posture impeccable, my eyes sharp. Each conversation I overheard added another stitch to the tapestry of understanding I was weaving.
Then a sudden, booming voice cut across the room, silencing a portion of the chatter.
"Marquess Roland Lieven Castell!" a guard announced, his tone crisp and commanding. "Has arrived!"
A ripple passed through the assembled nobility. Eyes darted toward the entrance, murmurs weaving through the crowd like wildfire. The name was familiar — impossible to ignore. My pulse quickened, curiosity sharpening.
Roland Lieven Castell. Husband of Catalina Duavan, the Maiden Knight. The very woman whose exploits filled every history, strategy, and etiquette book I had devoured.
I pressed forward, moving carefully yet deliberately through the crowd, letting the throng guide me without slowing my stride. My heart beat faster, anticipation buzzing beneath my composed exterior. Surely, he would be accompanied by his wife — the legendary figure who had turned the tide of war, whose very name carried the weight of whispered awe across the realm.
Though… she hasn't been seen in public for twelve years, I thought, a flicker of curiosity and disbelief stirring.
Could it really be her, standing beside him at last?
I kept my gaze fixed ahead, alert for the telltale shimmer of golden hair, the aura of authority that must surround someone of her renown. Every step, every calculated movement, brought me closer to the truth of the legend I had read about, yet never expected to witness in the flesh.