Sera's earliest memory was the sound of steel.
Not real steel. She was three. She held a wooden stick she had found behind the barber's shop. Her grandfather's shop. Old Tomas worked there, cutting hair, trimming beards, massaging the shoulders of tired merchants. The shop smelled of lavender oil and talcum powder. The floors were swept clean. The mirror on the wall was cracked in one corner, and Sera used to stare at her reflection in the cracked half, watching her face split in two.
She did not know why that fascinated her.
She knew the stick was not a sword. She knew she was not a knight. She was a barber's granddaughter. Her mother had died birthing her. Her father was a ghost—a name on a registry, nothing more. Old Tomas had raised her alone. He had raised her on lavender oil and talcum powder and stories of the old wars.
But Sera did not care about stories.
She cared about the sound.
The stick hit the fence post.
THWACK—
