Forged by Her Hand

The iron shears were cold against my scalp. Heavier than the ones Mother used for sewing, colder than the river in winter. I didn't hesitate. I opened them wide and brought them to the base of my neck, where my braid was thickest. The first cut was a brutal, grating sound. Not a clean snip, but a saw-like crunch of hair resisting its own murder. I had to work the blades back and forth, my knuckles white. A thick, black hank of it fell to the dirt floor, coiling like a dead snake.

I hacked away, tears blurring my vision but never falling. Crying was a luxury I’d packed away with my dolls and ribbons. The shearing was clumsy, leaving uneven tufts that stuck out at odd angles. When I was done, the stranger staring back at me from the polished water basin had my eyes, but nothing else. Her face was too soft, her jaw too gentle. But her hair was the ragged crop of a boy who didn't care for appearances. It would have to be enough.

Next came the binding. I took the long strips of linen Mother had left on my bed—her silent, terrified consent. I unwound the roll and started just below my breasts, pulling the fabric tight enough to steal my breath. The first wrap was a shock, a harsh compression that made my ribs ache in protest. I kept winding, layer over layer, crushing my chest flat against my bones. Each pull was a promise to my father, whose rattling cough was the only sound from the other room. Each turn of the linen was a nail in the coffin of Ashby, the daughter. By the time I was done, a dull, constant pain had settled in my torso. Breathing was a shallow, deliberate act. I was no longer a girl. I was a cage.

His armor was waiting. It smelled of him—of rust, old leather, and faint, lingering sweat. It was too big. The leather straps of the cuirass had to be cinched to their tightest holes, and still, the chest plate gapped away from my body, a hollow space where a man’s chest should have been. The greaves were heavy on my shins, the pauldrons comically wide on my narrow shoulders. I felt like a child playing dress-up for a war I couldn’t comprehend. I strapped his sword to my hip. The weight of it was immense, a solid, terrifying anchor pulling me toward my fate.

My parents were waiting by the door. Mother’s face was a mask of grief, her hand pressed to her mouth to hold back a sob. She reached out, her fingers brushing the cold metal of the breastplate, then flinched away as if it had burned her. She couldn't look at my face.

My father, leaning heavily on his cane, met my eyes. He was pale, his own breath coming in ragged gasps, but his gaze was clear. He didn't speak. He didn't have to. I saw the shame warring with the pride, the love fighting the terror. He gave a single, sharp nod. It was both a blessing and a death sentence.

I turned and walked out the door without looking back. I was Ash now. Just Ash. And with each step away from the only home I had ever known, the ill-fitting armor groaned, a constant reminder of the man I was pretending to be and the daughter I had left behind. The dirt road stretched out before me, leading to the recruitment post, and to a life I might not survive.

The recruitment post was a blur of shouting men and harried scribes. I mumbled my name—“Ash”—and presented my father’s conscription notice. The official barely glanced at me, his eyes already on the next man in line. He shoved a wooden token into my hand and pointed toward a muddy, sprawling encampment that stretched out like a festering wound on the landscape.

The moment I passed through the makeshift gate, the world dissolved into chaos. The air was a thick soup of smells: unwashed bodies, stale wine, human waste, and the metallic tang of blood from the practice yard. It was a stench so potent it made my eyes water. Men were everywhere, a roiling sea of rough-spun tunics and scarred knuckles. They wrestled in the mud, gambled with loud, guttural laughs, and sharpened blades with a grim intensity that chilled me to the bone. I kept my head down, my shoulders hunched, trying to make myself smaller, trying to mimic the swagger in their walk but only managing a stiff, awkward gait. The binding around my chest was a constant, suffocating pressure, a reminder of the secret I was guarding with every shallow breath.

A grizzled officer with a face like a slab of granite barked out tent assignments. When my token was called, he gave me a long, dismissive look that raked over my small frame and the oversized armor. He spat on the ground near my feet. “Tent seven. Try not to get lost, little man.”

Tent seven was a cramped, stifling space made of patched animal hides that did little to keep out the damp chill. Six straw pallets were crammed inside, leaving barely enough room to walk. The air was even thicker in here, heavy with the smell of sweat-soaked linen and leather. Three men were already inside, their gear strewn about with careless abandon. They looked up as I entered, their conversation dying. I felt their eyes on me, measuring, judging. I gave a short, jerky nod, my voice failing me, and quickly claimed the last empty pallet in the far corner.

As I dropped my pack, my gaze caught on the fourth person in the tent. She was sitting on her pallet, back straight against the central pole, meticulously cleaning a set of throwing knives with an oiled cloth. She wasn't large like the other men, but she was solid, her body a collection of dense muscle and sharp angles visible even through her tunic. A long, jagged scar cut from her left temple down to her jaw, a pale white line against her sun-darkened skin. She moved with an unnerving economy, her hands sure and steady, her focus absolute.

Then she looked up.

Her eyes, dark and piercing, landed on me. It wasn't a glance; it was an appraisal. Her gaze moved from my unevenly cropped hair, down the ill-fitting armor that hung loose on my shoulders, to the sword at my hip that looked too heavy for me to wield. It was a slow, deliberate inventory, and with every passing second, I felt more exposed than if I’d been standing there naked. The linen binding felt paper-thin, my carefully constructed identity a fragile shell she could shatter with a single word. There was no flicker of welcome, no curiosity. There was only a cold, hard assessment that found me lacking. She saw weakness. She saw a liability.

My heart hammered against the cage of my ribs. I felt a flush of heat crawl up my neck, a purely feminine reaction I had to fight to suppress. I forced myself to meet her stare, to hold it for just a second, trying to project a confidence I didn't feel.

Her lips thinned into a line of faint contempt. Then, just as suddenly as it had started, it was over. She dismissed me, turning her attention back to her blades, the polished steel winking in the dim light. She hadn't said a word, but the message was clear. I didn’t belong here. And she knew it.

The next morning, a horn blast tore through the camp before the sun had even breached the horizon. A command was shouted, echoing from tent to tent: “Fall out! Full gear inspection! Five minutes!”

Panic seized me. I scrambled to strap on the heavy armor over my tunic and bindings, my fingers clumsy in the cold, pre-dawn air. The other men in the tent moved with a practiced, grumbling efficiency. I was the last one out, stumbling into the neat lines forming in the main clearing. The air was frigid, my breath pluming in front of my face.

The unit commander, a barrel-chested man named Captain Bao, stood at the front. But it was the woman beside him who held everyone’s attention. Tania. She wore her own armor with the ease of a second skin, her scarred face impassive, her dark eyes sweeping over the rows of new recruits with an unnerving intensity. She was the one who would inspect us. My stomach twisted into a knot.

She started at the far end of the line, her movements sharp and economical. She would stop before a man, tug on a strap, tap a shield, run a critical eye over a blade’s edge. Her comments were low and clipped, meant only for the commander and the recruit. A quiet word of correction here, a sharp nod there. She was thorough, professional, and terrifying.

And then she was in front of me.

Silence. It was so absolute that I could hear the faint clink of a pot from the cook’s tent a hundred yards away. All other sound seemed to have ceased. I stared straight ahead, focusing on the gray fabric of the tent beyond her shoulder, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. The linen binding felt like a band of hot iron.

She didn't speak. Instead, she reached out and took hold of the pauldron on my right shoulder. It was too wide, sitting awkwardly high. She lifted it easily, showing the gap between the leather and my shoulder. “This is your father’s, isn’t it?”

Her voice was not loud, but it was as clear and cold as a winter stream, cutting through the morning air. Every man nearby heard it. I felt a hot flush of shame creep up my neck. I managed a stiff nod, my throat too tight to form words.

“A noble gesture,” she said, her tone devoid of any admiration. She let the pauldron drop with a dull thud against the breastplate. She tapped the center of my cuirass with two fingers. The hollow sound echoed in the quiet. “But sentiment doesn’t stop a spear. A blade slips under this gap, pierces your lung, and you die choking on your own blood. Slowly.”

She circled me like a wolf inspecting a lamb. Her eyes missed nothing. “The greaves are too long. You’ll trip running. The vambraces are too loose; they’ll catch on your own sword. You are a walking hazard.” She stopped in front of me again, her face inches from mine. I could see the fine lines around her eyes, the stark white of the scar. “Look at me, boy.”

I forced my eyes to meet hers. It was like looking into a deep well.

“War is not a story you tell your children. It’s a butcher’s yard. The man next to you depends on you to hold your ground. He depends on you to be strong enough, fast enough, and skilled enough to not get him killed.” Her voice dropped even lower, a venomous whisper that was somehow more humiliating than a shout. “You are none of those things. You are small, you are ill-equipped, and you are weak. You are a liability. Your presence here puts every man in this unit at risk.”

She held my gaze for a moment longer, her expression one of pure, undiluted contempt. Then she turned away without another word, moving to the next man as if I had already ceased to exist. The inspection continued, but I didn’t hear it. I was frozen, trapped in a bubble of burning shame. The eyes of the other recruits were on me—some with pity, most with scorn. Tania hadn’t just criticized my armor; she had branded me. I was the weak link. The dead weight. The boy who was going to get them all killed.

Sleep was impossible. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Tania’s face, her expression of absolute disdain burned into the back of my eyelids. Her words echoed in the suffocating quiet of the tent, each one a fresh sting. Weak. A liability. The snores of the other men were a grating reminder that I was an outsider here, a fraud waiting to be exposed.

Anger, hot and sharp, was a better feeling than shame. It propelled me from my pallet, the straw scratching my skin. I grabbed my father’s sword, the cold steel a solid, unforgiving weight in my hand, and slipped out of the tent.

The camp was quiet under a sliver of moon, the tents like sleeping beasts in the pale light. I found a secluded clearing behind the stables, the air thick with the scent of hay and earth. Here, at least, no one could see me. No one could judge me.

I moved through the basic forms my father had taught me, my body a chorus of aches. My shoulders screamed from the weight of the armor, my thighs burned from the marches, and my back protested every twist. The sword felt clumsy, an extension of my own inadequacy. I pushed through the pain, my breath coming in ragged gasps. I repeated the motions again and again, sweat stinging my eyes, trying to force my trembling muscles into some semblance of competence. I was fueled by nothing but humiliation and a desperate, bitter need to prove that woman wrong.

“Your stance is open. A child could run you through.”

The voice came from the shadows, as sharp and sudden as a blade in the dark. I froze, my sword held awkwardly mid-swing. Tania stepped into the moonlight. She wasn’t wearing her armor, just a simple tunic and trousers that did nothing to hide the solid power of her body. Her arms were crossed over her chest, her scarred face impassive. She looked as if she had been born from the night itself.

My blood ran cold. I felt naked under her gaze, all my frantic, clumsy efforts laid bare.

She walked toward me, her steps silent on the packed earth. She didn't raise her voice. She didn't have to. “Your feet are too close together. You have no balance. A strong wind could knock you over.” She stopped just out of arm’s reach and gestured with her chin at my sword. “Your grip is wrong. You’re holding it like a farmer’s tool. You’ll break your own wrist on the first parry.”

Each word was a precise, surgical cut. There was no encouragement, no room for argument. It was a simple statement of fact. My failure was absolute.

“Show me a low block,” she commanded.

My mind went blank for a second before I clumsily moved into the defensive position, lowering my sword.

“Wrong.” She was beside me in an instant. She didn't touch me. Instead, she moved her own body, mirroring my position but correcting every flaw. Her feet were shoulder-width apart, her knees bent, her back straight. Her power was rooted in the ground. “Your weight is on your heels. It should be on the balls of your feet. Your elbow is locked; it should be bent. You’re fighting the sword, not guiding it.” She moved back, her dark eyes pinning me in place. “Again. Hold it.”

I shifted my body, trying to mimic her form. My muscles, already exhausted, screamed in protest at the unfamiliar strain. A fire started in my shoulders, a deep, searing burn that spread down into my biceps.

“Hold it,” she repeated, her voice flat.

Seconds stretched into an eternity. The sword grew heavier, impossibly heavy. My arms began to tremble, the vibration traveling from my fingertips all the way to my teeth, which I had clenched to keep from making a sound. Sweat dripped from my hair into my eyes. All I could see was her silhouette, unmoving, watching me.

“If you drop your guard now, you’re dead,” she said, her voice a low murmur. “The man you were supposed to protect is dead. All because your arms are tired.”

The trembling became a violent shudder. My vision blurred. The fire in my shoulders was an inferno, consuming every last bit of my strength. I wanted to drop the sword, to collapse, to curse her. But I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.

My arms gave out without my permission. The sword fell from my nerveless fingers, clattering onto the dirt with a sound that felt as loud as a thunderclap. I staggered, my legs barely holding me, my whole body shaking with exertion and failure.

She looked down at the sword, then back at me. Her expression hadn't changed. “You are weaker than I thought,” she said, and then she turned and walked away, disappearing back into the shadows as silently as she had arrived.

I stood there, gasping for air, shaking in the cold moonlight. Hate coiled in my gut, hot and venomous. I hated her for her cruelty, for her impossible standards, for seeing right through me. But beneath the hate, something else was taking root. A strange, twisted kind of determination. A burning obsession to one day hold that stance until my arms broke, and to see something other than contempt in her eyes when I did.