Albruna POV: The Mage and the Swordswoman.
I was born into a family of lesser nobility.
Not poor. Not powerful. Just... respectable. The kind of family that owned a modest estate, employed a handful of servants, and was invited to the occasional gathering of more important houses. We were the third cousins of relevance. The footnote in genealogies. The family that mattered just enough to be acknowledged but never enough to be remembered.
I understood this from a young age. My mother made sure of it.
"You are fortunate," she would say, adjusting my collar before a visit to a greater house. "You have a name. A position. You have opportunities that commoners will never have."
She never said: But you are not important. You are not special. You must work twice as hard to be half as noticed.
I learned that lesson on my own.
Magic came easily to me.
Too easily, perhaps. While other children struggled to light a candle or move a pebble, I could already manipulate water and perform basic water magic My tutors praised me. My parents exchanged glances that held relief and something else, something that looked like hope.
A mage in the family. A real one. Not a hedge-witch or a charlatan. Someone who could rise. Someone who could elevate our name.
The pressure settled onto my shoulders like a second skin. I wore it every day.
***
We met when we were six years old.
Her father was a swordsman, not a noble, but a respected one. A man who had earned his place through skill and blood and years of service to a house greater than mine. He had been invited to our estate for a training demonstration, and he had brought his daughter.
I remember seeing her for the first time. A girl with scraped knees and messy hair, holding a wooden sword like it was an extension of her arm. She looked at me with sharp eyes and said, "Do you want to practice with me?"
I had never held a sword. I had never needed to. But something in her expression made me say yes.
She beat me soundly. Then she laughed and helped me up.
"You're terrible," she said.
"You're worse at magic," I shot back.
She grinned. "Then we're even."
We were inseparable after that.
Our differences never separated us.
I was the mage. She was the swordswoman. I studied incantations and the flow of Zaurf through the body. She studied stances and strikes and the art of reading an opponent's movements.
But we trained together. Every day. In the garden, in the training yard, in the fields beyond the estate.
I would practice my spells while she watched, offering commentary that was sometimes helpful and sometimes deliberately infuriating.
"Your waterjet is crooked."
"waterjet aren't supposed to be straight."
"They look cooler when they're straight."
I would throw one at her. She would dodge, laughing.
She would practice her sword work while I watched, critiquing her footwork with the same energy she used to critique my spell work.
"Your feet are too far apart."
"That's how you get power."
"You look like a crab."
She would swing at me. I would conjure a shield. We would both end up on the ground, breathless and grinning.
We studied together.
I taught her the basics of magic, not enough to wield it, but enough to understand. She taught me the basics of swordplay, not enough to fight, but enough to defend myself if my magic ever failed.
***
We made a decision at the age of twelve.
Together, we would attend Academy, where I would learn magic and she would learn swordplay.
The mage and the swordswoman.
Albruna and Adelgund.
The Academy was everything I had imagined and nothing like I expected.
It rose from the capital like a monument to ambition, towers of pale stone, arched windows that caught the light, courtyards filled with students from every corner of the realm. The gates alone were taller than my family's entire estate. I stood before them with my pack on my shoulder and my heart in my throat, feeling smaller than I had ever felt in my life.
Adelgund stood beside me. She didn't look small. She looked hungry.
"Ready?" she asked.
"No," I admitted.
"Good." She grinned. "Me neither."
We walked through the gates together.
The first weeks were a blur of orientation, placement tests, and the quiet terror of realizing exactly how much I didn't know.
I had thought I was talented. I had thought my years of private tutoring and natural affinity would place me among the best.
I was wrong.
The Academy was filled with prodigies. Sons and daughters of great houses, trained by the finest tutors money could buy. Commoners who had clawed their way through sheer determination. Foreign students with techniques I had never seen, magical traditions that operated on entirely different principles.
And then there was me. A lesser noble's daughter from a family no one had heard of, struggling to keep pace with people who had been preparing for this their entire lives.
Adelgund thrived. She found her place among the warriors immediately, sparring with students twice her size, learning from instructors who pushed her past every limit she had. She came back to our shared quarters bruised and exhausted and glowing with satisfaction.
I came back frustrated. Overwhelmed. Questioning everything.
"You're too hard on yourself," she said one night, watching me struggle through a textbook on advanced incantation.
"I'm not hard enough," I muttered. "I'm behind. Everyone here is…"
"Everyone here had advantages you didn't." She sat beside me, nudging my shoulder. "You're catching up. You're just too stubborn to see it."
I wanted to argue. But she was right. She usually was.
The history of magic was not what I expected.
I had grown up with stories, fairy tales, really. Mages who could summon storms with a word. Wizards who could level mountains. The kind of magic that belonged to legend, not reality.
The Academy's history of magic was my favorite class.
Not because of the professor, he was a droning old man who spoke as if every word cost him a coin, but because of what he taught. The origins of magic. The evolution of casting. The reasons behind the methods we took for granted.
I sat in the lecture hall, quill scratching against parchment, while Adelgund dozed beside me. She had never cared for theory. Swords were her language. But she came anyway, because I asked her to.
"The ancients," the professor intoned, "did not cast magic as we do today."
I sat up a little straighter. The history of magic was my favorite subject, and this was the part I had been waiting for.
"In the earliest days of mortal magic, every spell began with the name of a god. Not just any god, but Eninshigal, the God of Magic."
He wrote the name on the blackboard.
"According to our sacred tradition, Zaharus entrusted Eninshigal with overseeing magic. Eninshigal, in turn, gifted magic to Cassonia, the Mother of Magic. Thus, every mortal spell begins by invoking his name."
He paused, allowing us to copy the words.
"The invocation is an expression of reverence. Before a caster performs magic, the caster acknowledges the god entrusted with its oversight. This is followed by the intended magical effect, the connecting words, and finally the action that completes the incantation."
He wrote an example beneath the god's name.
Divine Invocation → Intended Effect → Connecting Phrase → Casting Command
"This is a simplified rendering of the ancient ritual construction," he explained. "The original words follow a sacred grammatical form preserved through religious ceremonies and ancient magical traditions."
I underlined the god's name in my notes.
"So every spell begins with Eninshigal?" a student asked.
"Every spell. Whether the caster intends to summon fire, manipulate water, raise a barrier, or mend a wound, his name must be spoken first. The magical effect changes. The divine invocation does not."
I found myself fascinated by the idea. Every spell, regardless of its purpose, began with the same acknowledgment. A tradition preserved across generations, linking the magic we practiced in the Academy to the earliest days of mortal civilization.
"But this method had a weakness," the professor continued.
He erased the example and turned toward the class.
"The ancient incantations were spoken aloud. During the great wars, this proved disastrous. An enemy mage could hear the invocation, recognize the intended spell, and prepare a countermeasure before the caster completed it."
Around me, students began paying closer attention.
"Imagine announcing your attack before delivering it. A fire spell gives your opponent time to raise a water barrier. An ice spell warns them to prepare for the cold. Even a powerful mage can be defeated if the enemy knows what is coming."
Adelgund, who had been fighting to keep her eyes open, glanced at me.
For once, even she was listening.
"The mages of that age sought a solution. They attempted to cast without speaking at all, believing that sufficient concentration and willpower might replace the incantation."
The professor shook his head.
"They failed. The words were not merely a religious custom that could be discarded at convenience. They were anchors that gave magic form and direction. Without them, the spell dissipated before it could manifest."
I remembered my own disastrous attempt at silent casting. The nosebleed. The lecture from my tutor. The embarrassing realization that talent alone could not overcome every limitation.
He turned, writing on the board: The Compromise.
"Eventually, they discovered that magic could be cast through an almost inaudible whisper. The words still had to be spoken, but they could be spoken so quietly that only the mage could hear them. This changed magical warfare entirely."
I leaned forward, my quill forgotten.
"A whisper cannot be heard from across a battlefield. A whisper cannot be intercepted. A whisper allows a mage to cast in complete secrecy, to strike without warning, to adapt without revealing their hand."
The professor smiled thinly. "And so, whisper casting became the standard. It is now taught in every academy, practiced by every mage, and expected in every battle. You will learn it. You will master it. Or you will die."
I mastered it quickly.
Of course I did. Magic came naturally to me. Whisper casting was simply another skill to add to my collection. Within weeks, I could cast basic spells with nothing more than a breath of sound, my lips barely moving, my intent clear to the magic even if it was invisible to the world.
Adelgund struggled.
She had never been good at magic. She could manage the basics spell. But whisper casting required a precision she simply did not possess. She would whisper too loudly, or too softly, or with the wrong emphasis, and the spell would fizzle or explode or do something entirely unexpected.
It was... frustrating.
Not for her. For me.
"Try again," I said, for what felt like the hundredth time.
Adelgund sighed, pushing her hair out of her face. "I am trying."
"Try harder."
"I'm not you, Albruna." Her voice was sharp. "Not everyone was born with your talent."
The words hit me like a slap. I opened my mouth to apologize, but she was already laughing, the frustration melting off her face.
"Relax," she said, bumping her shoulder against mine. "I'm not offended. I know I'm terrible at this. But I don't need it, remember? I have my sword."
I wanted to argue. To tell her that magic was important, that she should keep trying, that she would get it eventually. But I knew her. I knew she would never rely on magic the way I did. Her path was different.
So I just smiled and said, "Then I suppose I'll have to keep you alive while you swing your sword around."
"Keep me alive?" She snorted. "I'm the one who saves you every time we spar."
"Because I let you win."
"You wish."
I laughed. She laughed. And the frustration faded.
This was us. Two halves of a whole. The mage and the swordswoman. Different in every way that mattered, and yet somehow perfect together.
Four years passed in a blur of study and training and late nights spent talking about the future.
And then, suddenly, it was over.
We stood in the courtyard of the Academy, our diplomas in hand, our futures uncertain. Around us, students celebrated with family and friends. Some had already secured positions in noble houses. Others were returning to their estates. A few were joining the military.
Adelgund and I stood apart, watching the chaos with quiet contemplation.
"So," she said. "What now?"
I considered the question. I had been offered a position as a court mage, a good position, respectable, stable. My family would be proud. My mother would finally have something to brag about.
But the thought of spending my days in a court, casting spells for nobles who didn't understand magic and didn't care to learn... it felt like a cage.
"I don't know," I admitted. "I've spent four years learning theory. I've never actually used it. Not for anything real."
Adelgund nodded. "Same. I've trained my whole life, but I've never fought a real battle. Never faced a real monster. I've never..." She trailed off, searching for words.
"Never tested yourself," I finished.
"Yes."
We stood in silence, watching the sun set over the Academy walls.
Then Adelgund turned to me, her eyes bright with an idea I knew all too well.
"Let's travel," she said.
I blinked. "Travel?"
"Together. Around the country. See different towns, encounter different monsters, meet different people. Gain practical experience. Improve our abilities." She grinned. "We've learned everything they can teach us here. But the real world is a different teacher."
I thought about it. The court position. My family's expectations. The safe, predictable future that awaited me if I chose it.
And then I thought about the open road. Unknown horizons. Adventures I could not yet imagine.
"We're not seeking fame," I said slowly.
"No."
"We're not trying to save the world."
"No."
"We're just... two young women who want to experience the world."
Adelgund nodded. "Exactly."
I smiled. "Then let's go."
She threw her arm around my shoulders, pulling me close. "I knew you'd say yes."
"You didn't know anything."
"I knew." She squeezed me tighter. "Because you're not the type to settle for a cage. You're like me. You want to see what's out there."
I did not deny it.
Because she was right.
***
We met Averhilda in a tavern.
It was not a grand meeting. There were no prophecies, no dramatic rescues, no clashes of destiny. Just three tired travelers in a crowded inn, looking for a table.
The tavern was full. The kind of full that meant every seat was taken and every corner was claimed. Adelgund and I stood in the doorway, scanning the room for somewhere, anywhere, to sit.
"There," Adelgund said, nodding toward a table in the corner. A single woman sat there, a spear propped against the wall beside her, a half-empty bowl of stew in front of her.
"She's alone," I said. "We can't just…"
Adelgund walked, and I followed, and somehow we always ended up exactly where we needed to be.
"Mind if we share?" Adelgund asked, already pulling out a chair.
The woman looked up. She had sharp eyes, the kind that seemed to take in everything at once, our weapons, our clothes, the way we stood, the way we moved. She was maybe a few years older than us, with calloused hands and a calm that felt earned rather than given.
"Go ahead," she said.
We sat. Ordered food. Ate in silence for a while.
Then the woman spoke.
"Travelers?"
"Adventurers," Adelgund said, though we hadn't officially become any such thing yet.
The woman raised an eyebrow. "Adventurers. You're not registered."
I blinked. "How can you tell?"
"Your gear. Too clean. Too new. You've trained, but you haven't worked." She took a bite of her stew. "I'm Averhilda, by the way."
"Adelgund. This is Albruna."
Averhilda nodded at me. "Mage?"
"Yes."
She nodded at Adelgund. "Sword?"
"Sword," Adelgund confirmed.
Averhilda leaned back, studying us both. "You're a strange pair. What's your story?"
We told her. Not everything, not the details of our childhoods, our families, our dreams, but enough. Two women who had trained at the Academy and wanted to see the world. Two women who were tired of theory and hungry for experience.
Averhilda listened. When we finished, she was quiet for a long moment.
Then she said, "I'm traveling alone. Have been for about a year now. It's... lonely, sometimes. And dangerous, always." She paused. "What do you say we travel together for a while? See if we don't drive each other mad."
Adelgund grinned. "I like her."
I sighed. "You like everyone who can fight."
"I like everyone who can keep up."
Averhilda looked between us, amusement flickering in her eyes. "Is this what I'm signing up for?"
"Unfortunately," I said.
"Fortunately," Adelgund corrected.
And just like that, we became three.
Averhilda was different from us.
Adelgund was bold and reckless, always charging ahead, trusting her instincts and her blade. I was cautious and calculating, thinking three steps ahead, relying on preparation and precision. We balanced each other well enough, but we were both... idealistic. We had spent our lives in training halls and lecture rooms, learning the way things should be done.
Averhilda had learned the way things actually were.
She was practical in a way that neither of us had ever needed to be. She knew how to haggle for supplies, how to read the weather, how to find shelter when there was none. She knew which monsters were worth fighting and which were better avoided. She knew how to survive.
"You think too much," she told me once, after I had spent an hour planning an approach to a cave we needed to clear. "Just go in and see what happens."
"That's how people die," I said.
"That's how people learn."
She was also quieter than us. More contained. She didn't talk about her past, and we didn't ask. But sometimes, late at night, when the fire had burned low and Adelgund was asleep, she would look at the stars and there would be something in her eyes, something heavy, something I recognized.
I never asked. I understood.
Some stories are not meant to be shared until they are ready.
***
The idea of becoming adventurers came from Averhilda.
We had been traveling together for a few weeks by then. Drifting from town to town. Taking small jobs when we could find them, escorting merchants, clearing pests from cellars, the kind of work that paid just enough to keep us fed and housed.
We were sitting around a campfire, eating a meal that was mostly potatoes, when Averhilda spoke.
"Why don't we become adventurers?"
Adelgund paused mid-bite. "We are adventurers."
"No, we're travelers who occasionally stab things for money." Averhilda poked the fire with her stick. "I mean actual adventurers. Registered. Guild members."
I frowned. "The Adventurers' Guild? Aren't they…"
"Desperate? Disorganized? A mess?" Averhilda shrugged. "Yes. But they're also the best way to find work. Real work. Monster hunts. Escort missions. Dungeon clears. The kind of jobs that pay well and teach you something."
I considered it. The Adventurers' Guild had a reputation, not entirely good. They were the ones who handled the jobs no one else wanted. Dangerous work. Unpredictable work. The kind of work that needed people willing to risk their lives for coin.
But it was also a way to travel. To gain experience. To improve our abilities.
And it was a way to find purpose.
"You're serious," I said.
"Always." Averhilda looked at me, her eyes steady. "You two want to see the world? Fine. But seeing the world is expensive. And dangerous. The Guild gives us both, a way to travel and a way to survive."
Adelgund was already grinning. "I'm in."
I looked at her. Then at Averhilda. Then at the fire, crackling between us.
"Together?" I asked.
"Together," they said.
And that was that.
***
The Guild Hall was not what I expected.
I had imagined something grand, marble pillars, soaring ceilings, the kind of architecture that announced importance. Instead, we found a squat building at the edge of town, its walls weathered, its door slightly crooked on its hinges.
"Impressive," Adelgund said, not even trying to hide her disappointment.
"Function over form," Averhilda replied. "Come on."
Inside, the hall was crowded. Adventurers of every shape and size filled the room, bearded men with axes, lean women with bows, young recruits who looked as lost as we felt. A bulletin board on one wall was covered in job postings, their papers yellowed and curling at the edges.
We approached the registration desk. The woman behind it looked at us with the tired eyes of someone who had seen too many hopeful faces and too few legends.
"New?" she asked.
"Yes," I said.
She asked us for our name, place of origin and Unique Phrase."
I paused. "Unique Phrase?"
"Your reason for being an adventurer. Your goal. What drives you." She shrugged. "It's tradition. Helps us remember why we do this."
I thought about my family. The lesser nobles who had pinned their hopes on me. I thought about Adelgund, who had followed her father's path. I thought about Averhilda, who had been traveling alone for reasons she never shared.
And I thought about what I truly wanted.
Not fame. Not fortune. Not power for its own sake.
I wanted to be strong. Strong enough to protect the people I cared about. Strong enough to make a difference.
"I want to be stronger so I can save everyone."
I spoke the words without hesitation. Because in that moment, I meant them. I truly believed that strength was the answer, that if I became powerful enough, I could save anyone, protect anyone, prevent any tragedy.
I was young. I was idealistic. I was certain that the world worked that way.
The woman handed us our card without looking and handed us three bronze badges, the lowest rank, the beginning of everything.
"Welcome to the Guild," she said, and her voice was flat, uninterested. "Try not to die."
We pinned our badges to our clothes.
And for the first time, I felt like an adventurer.
We were beginners.
We had trained. We had studied. We had spent years preparing for this life.
But training was not the same as doing. Theory was not the same as practice.
