I’m used to being mistaken for a boy, even when I’m not in disguise one way or another. Right now I could definitely pass for a boy.
It’s even possible I’ve picked up a lot of male mannerisms over the years. I’m surrounded by guys at the academy. Most of the faculty are male, too. The King’s Guard doesn’t explicitly ban women from joining; it just suggests they might like to do something else instead, like have a nice little lie down.
Of course, every rule has an exception, and I’m proof that they take girls under very specific circumstances, when nobody else can, or will, and when the girl has certain talents, traits, or bloodlines.
But most of the time, girls aren’t abandoned by their families. If they’re orphaned, someone else generally takes them in, or they’re raised by another family who wants them to be a wife for one of their sons one day.
I was lucky. Nobody wanted me.
That does mean I’m pretty much treated like one of the guys, because nobody there has any idea how to treat a girl, and even if they did know how to treat a girl, I wouldn’t want them to. I’ve heard the way they talk about women. It’s enough to make my skin crawl.
All this means I’m not scared of this guy, and I’m definitely not going to correct him. My hood is still up, and my mask is still on. As long as those elements stay in place, I’ll be safe enough.
“I didn’t mean to bump into you. I just didn’t see you there. Chill.”
“Chill?” He rumbles the word like it’s a deadly insult.
“Yeah. It means relax, old man. Don’t freak out.”
“I am not freaking out, you little shit,” he growls. “You need a lesson in manners.”
“Oh, yeah? Who is going to give me one?”
What he doesn’t know about me, aside from the fact that I’m a girl, is the other fact—I love a good argument. Sure, I could apologize, but fuck that. I don’t like his tone, so I can’t resist mouthing off to him.
He is incredibly hot, though. Those brilliant eyes, that hair, the clothes that look expensive, but not flashy.
His clothes aren’t what get my attention, though. He has a face card that a lot of girls I know—all two of them—would almost certainly want to collect. I can’t drag my eyes away from him, his annoyed expression set on a face that is all jaw and cheekbones and brows that are well-shaped, and the slightly arrogant flare of his nostrils. I don’t know what the hell I am doing, but it feels like I’m trying to imprint his image on my mind.
I have to remind myself that hot does not equal good. His attractiveness means nothing if he’s the sort of person who thinks threatening people half his size on the street is some kind of flex.
He looks down at my hip. “Is that a real sword, or a costume prop?”
“It’s real,” I tell him. “And I know how to use it.”
He has no fucking idea how well I know how to use it.
“I’ll teach you a damn good lesson,” he growls. “We will duel, you and I, and you’ll learn your lesson thoroughly, the hard way. You strike me as the type to need harsh teaching.”
“A duel?” I repeat the words, because that’s old-fashioned as hell, not to mention highly illegal. When the various military academies were established, cadets and soldiers used to duel between schools all the time. It was banned because of the deaths and stuff, and because it was technically murder, though people argued that it wasn’t murder if you agreed to be murdered, and they had a point.
He nods. “I’ll teach you a lesson you won’t soon forget, whelp. Meet me outside the St. Michel Monastery at noon.”
“Noon,” I nod. “Fine. See you then.”
I go on my way, now in even more of a hurry thanks to him. He’s going to find himself on the wrong end of my saber, of that I am certain.
Having gotten out of his way and put some distance between us, I stop to figure out what I’m going to do now. Midday is about an hour away. Maybe I should get something to eat. I might need the calories for kicking that guy’s ass.
Actually, I should check my weapons. I should make sure my saber is sharp. It’s been a while since I tried to actually use it for real fighting. I avoid doing that, because people get seriously hurt when you hit them with sharp metal. Unfortunately for hot, mean street guy, I’ve had no shortage of practice with blunted weapons.
I decide to head to the unofficial weapons merchant. There’s always someone who can alter weapons there. Usually some disenchanted, disenfranchised ex-military guy who loves weaponry more than he loves anything.
Or his kid.
Today it’s his kid. Thank God.
Jory, the weapon-smith’s kid, has been my friend since we met outside the academy years ago. He was an apprentice then, and I was a shitty little kid who kept begging him for the swords he was practicing making. He’s one of the few really good friends I have outside the academy, which is why I walk right up to him at the counter even though there’s a small crowd in the shop.
