With a small smile aimed at Rajani, Tilda reached for the dagger on her belt and handed it to her. “It’s dented, but it will serve you well in killing a prince or two.”
She blinked down at the blade for a long moment as though she wasn't sure what it was, yet the way her fingers curled hard around the hilt suggested otherwise.
“I guess you know how to use it?”
“One end is for holding,” she said, raising her chin to look at her. “The pointy end is for stabbing.” She shrugged. “It’s not that difficult, really.”
Rajani and Tilda from The Dawnbringer
I commissioned @kittensartswriting to draw one of my favourite scenes in book 1, and it turned out so beautiful!
Flames licked hot and high in the hearth. She sat close before it, too close perhaps. But she had dreamt of fire, of flames and ember, and now she couldn’t resist this longing. A longing to let the heat touch her skin.
...
Am I still dreaming?
Rajani from The Dawnbringer
I’ve recently commissioned the lovely @hekat-ie. Make sure to check out her blog and instagram!
“I cannot help you. I cannot guide you. Your offer is kind, but I’m not the right person for this.”
“Then be my friend. Hold my hand and tell me everything will be fine.” Tears shimmered in her eyes. “I'm surrounded by millions and yet I'm alone. I need you.”
Status: Outlined | PoVs: Tilda, Rajani, Alrune, Robin and Martha
The Dawnbringer Side Characters | Freya von Finholdt
~380 words excerpt; continued under the cut
Freya folded her arms before her breastplate. “When I stood eye to eye with that bandit, I thought of Faro,” she said silently. “I wanted to kill him, for Faro.”
A sting went through his chest. Sombre was her face, her eyes hard as they were fixed on the sea, or perhaps they saw nothing at all. “But you didn't,” he said.
“No, I didn't. But in that moment it was all I wanted, all that mattered. I never got to avenge my brother, and I thought as the years passed, my fury would cease, but it didn't. It was merely subdued, never quenched. And now I'm here, feeling as though I should have done something.”
“Revenge will not bring Faro back,” he said carefully, yet with a firmness.
There had been a time when Robin had thought of it too. Of revenge. He still remembered clearly the day when his father had told him that Farold had been killed by a bandit. At first, there had been sadness. But as the days, weeks had passed, he felt the fury Freya spoke of. However, the man that had taken a part of their family, had never been identified and was never brought to justice.
Freya laughed bitterly. “That is an awful fate, isn't it? You long for revenge, but in the end nothing of that matters. In the end you are still alone, with a hole in your heart that can never be filled.”
“You are not alone, Freya, and you never were.”
“Yet the place beside me is still empty.” Her angered voice quaked for the first time, and when she finally glanced at him, tears shimmered in her brown eyes. “He would be a great, respected knight now. He would stand here with us and speak words of encouragement while all we do now is lament about things we can never have.”
“Yes,” Robin muttered as his thoughts trailed to the jovial days of his childhood with his cousin, “he was rather good at that.”
She smiled then, sadly, but curved an arm around his waist, and he laid his around her shoulder. “You're right,” she said. “I am not alone. But my heart still aches.”
“I know.” Gently, he pulled her a little closer. “Mine, too.”
Where Robin meets a little girl in the woods ... (800 words; continued under the cut)
Robin reached for his waterskin on the saddle, but stalled in his motion. A sound wafted through the earthy air. A faint voice, singing. Eyes scurrying over his surroundings, he found its source. Not far from him stood a small figure beside a tree, slender arms clasped around the trunk as though it was scared of falling. A little girl with long dark hair that had come loose from a dishevelled braid. Her face was nudged against the bark, eyes shut, but her mouth formed the words of a song.
Carefully, Robin dismounted, wound the reins around his hand and approached the girl. “Hello,” he said softly, but received no response. “Do you need help?”
Her silent song proceeded undeterred, yet thin and almost woeful. The words were unintelligible, but he knew the melody. It was a children's lullaby. His mother had often sung it to his sisters when they were but infants.
Even as he came closer still, did she not look at him. Dirt was smudged on her jaw and a dark, red stain caked her blue wool dress, just above her hip. Blood.
With his heart in his throat, he tied Taler's reins to a young tree and patted his neck. He crouched before the girl, making sure to keep enough distance. “Hello,” he said again. “Are you hurt?”
The girl's eyes jerked opened. They widened all the more as she glanced at him, stumbling backwards with fright distorting her face. Smeared blood shimmered on her light brown skin above her eyebrow. It did not seem to be her blood, however. Earlier tears had left streaks on her dirty cheeks. She couldn't be older than six years.
“I'm not going to hurt you, I promise,” he said. “I'm here to help you. Are you hurt?” Slowly, her face softened, but she shook her head. “Do you want to tell me your name?” She shook her head again. A smart girl, he thought, then brought his lips to curl into a little smile. Placing a hand upon his heart, he continued, “I am Sir Robin.”
“You are a knight?” she peeped then, tilting her head a little. Her dark eyes looked more curious than frightened now.
Relief made him sigh. “Yes, I am.”
“Can I see your sword?”
Puzzled, he said, “Of course,” and drew his blade in a wary motion. Not his own though, but the one Jivan had given him. He held it up on blade and hilt, and she reached a hand for it. “Be careful, it is very sharp.”
Despite his warning, an avid grin unfurled on her face, but she withdrew her hand. She was unaware of the horrors that could be done with a weapon like this. “You have two?”
He followed her gaze to his gelding's saddle where his tarnished blade hung. The pommel of a golden rose blinked in what little sunlight fell through the trees. “I do. It is rather dirty, I'm afraid.” It was not wholly a lie, after all.
“Can I see?”
Uneasiness made his heart beat faster. The girl's eyes followed his motion as he sheathed his blade. “It is best that you don't see it.”
She grimaced. “But my hands are dirty already. See?” She showed him her hands – little children's hands caked in mud and blood. What horrible thing happened to this poor girl?
“I have some water,” he said. “Do you want to come and clean them?” She nodded, stepped a little closer, and he was glad to have filled his waterskin in a clear stream not long ago.
Slowly, he dribbled the water over her hands while she rubbed them together. When the water was all spilled, dirt and blood still clung to her skin. She wiped them dry on her dress, causing the blue fabric to stain even more.
“Thank you,” she muttered shyly. “You're a good knight.” She brushed a strand of dark hair behind her ear, looked between him and Taler. “I'm Edda, Sir Knight.”
“It is a pleasure meeting you, Edda.” Robin kept his voice soft and calm. Whatever horrors she had seen, she must have forgotten, dispelled them from her innocent mind. “Can you tell me where your parents are? You shouldn't be walking around on your own.”
At once he regretted his question as her eyes widened, and she threw a skittish gaze over her shoulder. “You're a good knight?” she asked silently.
“I will protect you,” he vowed.
The girl looked at her feet, fists balled into her dress. Fright shrouded her little face, and it put fright into his heart too. “There were men,” she whispered. “Bad men. My papa said I should run. So I run.”
The third tournament day (~940 words; continued under the cut)
I had so much fun writing this scene and I could file on this forever, but I thought why not sharing it? We also get a little glimpse of Martha, princess of Issarien and Tilda’s cousin. Hope you enjoy!
Pavilions littered the grasslands in the distance, bright and colourful in the light of the sun. Some even shimmered behind the skeleton-like trees. Nature still did not have a full grip on spring, and only scattered green leaves emerged from branches. But the blotches of colour that the people left on the landscape were a magnificent view. Even many of the common folk that had gathered all around had donned colourful clothes. They all had come to watch the games and cheer for their gracious princess.
Martha was well loved by the people, just like her father. Often they showed themselves to the folk, spoke to them, shook their hands. Some moons before, Martha began to visit the orphanages in the city where she brought food and toys to the children. To show kindness and clemency was expected of her, but she loved being close to her people.
Banners flapped high on poles in the brisk breeze. The largest of banners displayed a great tower and the rising sun behind on an orange field. The royal coat-of-arms.
Trumpets sounded shrill and loud, silencing the bustling crowd for a moment, before more cheers erupted as knights and lords entered the lists on great steeds. Just as the riders were clad in magnificent, shining armour with flashing cloaks, the horses were draped in splendid caparisons.
Soon Tilda's hands tingled from clapping, and she let them sink into her lap. Her eyes darted from participant to participant, not sure where she should look first as they rode in circles around the field, presenting themselves to the spectators. The sun that squinted through the clouds caught beautifully upon their armour. There still were twenty-three competitors who fought for the win.
One knight halted his horse before the stand they sat on. A young man with dark hair and bright eyes and a cape of deep blue and red. He reached up a hand, producing a pink flower. A great smile curved around Martha's lips, and she descended the few steps to pluck it from his fingers. Tilda couldn't help but wonder where he found the rare flower, seeing as only few bloomed around this time of year. Had he stolen it from the royal gardens? With bright, red cheeks, Martha returned to her seat. She showed her the flower as a shy giggle spilled from her lips.
“You will receive many more, I wager,” Tilda said, amused. “If you'd dance with each of them, you'd be old and grey before you finished.”
“Oh, don't be daft,” she replied, her face still nearly as red as her hair. “I'd only dance with one or two.”
“And who might be those lucky ones?”
Martha bit her bottom lip, blue eyes wandering to the parading riders, before glancing at her again. “Sir Isger von Lierkap and Sir Meinold Hornsing.”
The last name made her breath falter. Perhaps it wasn't wise to tell her that Sir Meinold had tried to woo her too, on the day they had arrived in Alasing. After all, it was Martha who, as an only child, had to produce an heir. Although, she hoped Sir Meinold would be no true candidate. He was vain and arrogant. The way he had smirked at her still made her shudder.
Mother had warned her that once in the capital, men would try to flatter her. Not because she was deemed as particularly beautiful, she knew, but because she was the daughter of one of the most wealthiest lords in Issarien and the niece of the king. They only wanted her name, her riches, and cared little for her heart. Under no circumstances would she marry such a man, even if it was expected of her. She would fight fiercely to not fall prey to men scrambling for power. Her father tried to determine her life already, she wouldn't let another man try to take advantage of her.
There was only one who truly held her heart with gentle, caring hands. And it would be his for all times. Despite the longing, she fought the urge to cast a gaze over her shoulder.
Tilda rose from her seat as her brother rode onto the lists, clapping her hands. A cape of scarlet with gold embroidered roses billowed behind him, and he was mounted on his black destrier that was clad in the same red caparison. Golden roses were stitched to the borders too. Landogar had his helmet hugged to his side as he one-handedly guided his horse. He nodded to the people, but he did not smile.
He always forgets to smile, she thought, mildly amused. Lando looked so much like their father, grim-faced with stern dark eyes. He almost spoke like Father too.
The jousting took all morning and most of noon too. Lances crashed and splintered against armour. Armour rattled loudly as the riders were knocked off their horses and toppled into the dirt. Gasps and groans, cheers and screams filled the air wildly. Often Tilda found herself clasping the armrests of her chair. Some riders were so awfully thrown off their horses that her breath stalled. The tension that built on tournaments was equally as enthralling as exhausting.
There were eight, perhaps nine, attendants who stood out against the rest. Her brother was amongst them, riding gallantly and confidently. He drove many men from their saddles, and was exceedingly celebrated by the people. Although in his fifth match, he lost his balance as the lance thrust with a loud clatter against his shoulder. The exploding wood sounded like shattering bones.
Her heart stilled. The crowd gasped. Landogar did not move at first, but then he quickly stood as though nothing had happened. A sigh of relief escaped her lips, and she unclenched her fists.
In Tilda’s chapter I briefly mentioned this scene, and somehow it turned into a full scene and I had to write it down! And apparently, I like writing my characters as children. She is about 10 years here. ( ~1000 words)
The air grew cooler as Tilda chased up the steps of the Tower of Thorns. Fists bunched in the fabric of her blue dress, lifting it up to make the climb easier.
She halted by the arch, a hand pressed to the cold stone, panting, and peeked ahead to the battlements. Her heart pounded in an excited rhythm.
It was Sir Yorick standing guard. Farther ahead was another guard, but the distance made it impossible for her to tell who it was. Sir Linhard perhaps, or Mangold.
With swift steps she stalked across the battlements and came to a halt beside the knight. She glanced up to him, giving him a polite smile. She curtsied too, like a proper lady. Just like her mother had taught her. “Hello,” she said, breathless.
Sir Yorick looked puzzled. “You shouldn't be here. You were told to stay inside.”
Tilda pouted, and swung her skirts around her ankles. “It's boring inside.”
He sighed, and gazed ahead, overlooking her family's lands. “You sneaked off.” It wasn't a question.
Stepping closer to the crenellation, she followed his gaze. “Please, don't tell my father,” she said quickly. “Please.”
“You shouldn't be here,” Sir Yorick repeated. “It's not safe.”
“I'm not afraid,” she replied, and straightened her back, raising her chin too.
“Well, you should be.”
“Are you afraid?”
“Me?” Yorick huffed. “If I were afraid, I wouldn't be standing here.”
“Then I'm not afraid either,” she said decidedly, and patted the adorned hilt on his hip. “And we have your sword to protect us.”
He laughed wryly. “There are some things a sword cannot protect you from, little lady. Owning a sword doesn't make you invincible.” He gently tipped a finger of his gloved hand on her forehead. “Sometimes it is better to rely on your head instead. And your heart.”
Tilda chewed on her bottom lip, and thought for a moment. “I want to stay here.”
Now his laugh was true, and the bark made her flinch. “You are a smart girl. But I fear you're too curious and too stubborn for your own good. Perhaps you should listen more to what older people tell you.”
She propped her arms upon the cool stone of the crenel, and glanced down the rocks before letting her eyes wander across the lush fields. A thick forest stretched out to her right.
The castle Dorneburg was built upon massive rocks, and the view never failed to amaze her. Even now as the sun hid behind grey clouds, and all was veiled in a bleakness.
She wished she could go out there, to go for a ride on her pony, or play in the forest with her brothers. But under these circumstances her father wouldn't allow it.
A gust of wind blew strands of hair into her face. “I want to see it,” she said, smoothing her hair. “I want to see the dragon.”
Yorick hummed. “It has been six days since it had been sighted. I believe it has moved on by now.”
Disappointment made her heart grew heavy. “Then why are we not allowed to leave the castle?”
“Your lord father wants to be sure it is truly gone. He has men scouting the area for any sign of it. He doesn't want to risk anything.” Yorick grinned down at her. “Or do you want to get roasted like a pig? Roll in some salt and pepper first, perhaps.”
Tilda grimaced. “You're mean,” she growled, and lifted her head to the sky, watching the swollen clouds shift slowly. “A dragon has to eat too,” she said then. “Just like any other animal.”
“Yes, and they prefer little highborn ladies that don't heed any warnings and do whatever they want. Although, there isn't really much meat on your bones. I doubt the dragon likes scrawny little squirrels.”
“Shut up.” She punched his arm, and, rattling, her fist met the metal of his plate armour. A stifled yelp escaped her.
“That is your doing,” Yorick said, amused, as she rubbed her aching knuckles.
“I am a lady!” she countered, her heart racing. “You should not make fun of me!”
“Apologies, my lady, for unsettling your tender heart. Although, if I might point out, your behaviour is very unladylike.” His voice still was mocking, and Tilda fought the urge to punch him again. “Now, please do me the favour and return inside. I don't want you to get into trouble.”
She folded her arms in defiance, and decided to ignore him. He can't tell me anything. He's just a knight.
Something dark soared in the distance, just above the treetops. Excitement bubbled through her veins – and was crushed at once. It was just a bird of prey.
“I think it would be quite exciting to see a dragon,” she said. “Don't you think?”
Yorick shrugged. “I have seen one.”
“Really?” Curiosity had turned her voice into a chirp, and she grinned.
“I must have been your age then,” he replied, as calm as if he would talk about some petty thing; like what he had for breakfast. “It was just a little one. About the size of Elger's hounds. I found it in the woods, but before I could get any closer, it took off, and I never saw it again.”
“How did it look?”
“How did it look?” he echoed, and frowned. “Well … like a dragon? I don't remember much. I was only ten.”
“They all look different,” she retorted, disappointed. “Some have more horns than others. Some are black, some are green or red. There are wyverns too!”
“And how would you know all that?”
“Books?”
Yorick chortled. “Ah. Children's books.”
“They are real stories!”
He fully turned to her, a hand on the hilt of his sword. “Tilda, please go inside, or I will have to tell your father.” She opened her mouth, but he cut her off. “I will tell your father.”
“Fine!” She shot him a glare, before turning on her heel and scurrying towards the tower.
