Ida

[New Session]

The courtyard was crisp with the sharp bite of autumn. Evening light slanted in through the stone walls of the barracks, painting the world in hues of orange and red. The wind tugged at Ida's long, pale pink hair, teasing strands loose from the tight ponytail she had pulled it into earlier. She stood rigid in her well-polished plate armor, the weight familiar, comforting in its constant pressure. Her eyes scanned the field in front of her—the new recruits standing awkwardly, trying to act unphased under her sharp gaze.

It was late in the day, maybe an hour before dusk. The cobbled training grounds beneath their feet echoed with the muted steps of guards moving about their duties. Despite the lull, there was an ever-present tension in the air. Always waiting, always vigilant.

Ida had seen too much to ever let her guard down, even in the supposed safety of the Royal Guard's own domain. One moment of carelessness can be fatal, she thought, absently fingering the pommel of her sword. Her armor clinked softly as she shifted her weight, her mind half-focused on the rookies who had been assigned under her supervision. They had that glimmer in their eyes, the look of people who still thought they were invincible, that war was glorious.

They didn’t understand.

But they will, she mused, lips pressing into a thin, bitter smile. The memory of screams, bloodied fields, and broken comrades flashed briefly behind her eyes, but she shook it off.

She drew herself up and addressed them. "The battlefield isn’t kind. Neither am I." Her voice was steady, cold, the way it always was. "You've all seen your share of skirmishes, I’m sure. But the Royal Guard is different. We're not just soldiers; we're the shield that stands between the kingdom and chaos. Every action, every breath, has a weight beyond your understanding. If you’re not prepared for that, you’d better get out now." She nodded curtly towards the exit of the training grounds, her expression indifferent.

"Now," she said after a pause, her gaze boring into them, testing, "anyone think they’re up for it?"

The wind whistled softly between the stones of the courtyard, as if holding its breath, waiting for an answer.

It was early spring, the kind of morning when the chill still clung stubbornly to the air despite the warm sun rising over the horizon. The annual collaborative training had been underway for three days, and yet each morning when Ida awoke, there was no solace, no peace in the soft light creeping through the window of her temporary quarters. The grassy training fields of Albioneth's Royal Guard barracks extended far in the distance, an uneasy mix of anticipation and tension stretching along with it. Scattered throughout the grounds were not just familiar faces of fellow guardsmen but a host of foreign figures, tall and monstrous, non-humans from other allied nations.

"Allies," they were calling them.

A part of her found it rich. Were it not for Albioneth's tentative political strategies, her blade would be driven through half the grotesque figures who now clumsily bumbled their way through the training grounds.

Pulling her plate armor tighter over her body, Ida fastened the final buckle. Her pale pink hair was slicked back into a high ponytail, strands twisting stubbornly, refusing perfect containment. She hated the thing she saw in the reflection, all those memories forcing her head down toward shame whenever her sharp pink eyes met her own gaze. The insignia of her rank was absent, stripped clean from her pauldrons and chest. The Royal Guard uniform may fit perfectly, but the stares from fellow soldiers and 'allies' alike did not.

"Good morning to us all," Ida muttered under her breath with sharp sarcasm.

Outside, an unmissable sight awaited her.

"Isn't that the ogre from Jotenhal?" one voice whispered from a group of Royal Guards as Ida emerged onto the field. A hulking seven-foot-tall mass of rippling muscle and hardened, dark-green skin turned his back towards her and took a practice swing with a massive club made from a tree trunk as if he were wielding a toothpick.

There were all manner of non-humans here. The aforementioned ogre was just the largest of the crowd. Elves with unnervingly lithe forms strung bows with long, graceful movements that felt entirely too calm for a warzone. Orcs, seemingly eager to display their brute strength at all costs, practiced their battle stances while engaging in what they probably thought was "banter" but sounded more like feral growls. Off in one corner, some kind of slime-creature bubbled noiselessly, practicing... whatever a slime practices.

Ida's hand went instinctively to her sword’s hilt, fingers tightening on the grip. A tick she hadn't quite rid herself of. But she wasn't about to pull the blade.

"Allies," she repeated the word to herself, the sound bitter and rough in her throat.

She strode forward, the metal of her greaves scraping and clanking with each sharp, calculated step. Her breath came out in an exhale she couldn't control, whether from cold, frustration, or exhaustion, she couldn't tell anymore. Today was for them to run some mock battles, train formations and tactics they might use in future campaigns. The thought of having to rely on this ragtag group of creatures made her blood run colder than the morning air.

A fey elf, only reaching up to her shoulder in height, pranced past her, delicate face set into a scowl of irritation as they saw Ida.

"Another Albioneth human. Do they grow none who can manage a smile?" the elf sneered.

"Not when they're in the presence of disappointing company," Ida fired back without hesitation, her voice sharp as the sword resting at her side. The elf glared and fluttered on ahead, though she noticed their pace quickened just a little.

"Gods above..." she sighed, feeling the growing weight on her shoulders. Her attention drifted over the disparate crowd, attempting to analyze tactics, motives, weaknesses, and failed. Every fiber of her being rejected this. She could hear the King's words echoing from his decree of alliance, about peace and unity, but all Ida saw was unpredictable chaos.

These ‘allies’ reminded her far too much of the massacres she'd witnessed, things she buried deep within the pit of herself and left locked away in the nightmare-ridden corners of her soul.

We’re being played. Albioneth.

"How foolish of them to think we can trust these... beasts."

She turned her face away from the field, trying to gather her strength, and behind that emotionless facade, the familiar storm stirred once more.

"Let's get this over with," she muttered under her breath as she walked forward.

Ida jerked awake, her breath caught in her throat, eyes wide in the dim, fading light of dusk. The air in her barracks room was still, too still, pressing in on her like a tangible weight. Her fingers clenched the rough wool blanket, heart pounding. It was that damned nightmare again, only this time it had sunk its claws even deeper. The images swarmed in her head—faceless comrades being ripped apart, her family collapsing like dolls, blood soaking everything red. Her hair, damp with sweat, clung to her neck, and a metallic taste lingered on her lips.

She lay there, gasping for air as the final echoes of screaming settled into silence.

"Just a dream," she muttered, dragging a hand over her face as if it would wipe away the lingering horrors. But is it ever just a dream, Hearth— She winced at the name she'd long discarded.

Sitting up slowly, she shifted her legs over the edge of the cot. Cold, bare feet on the stone floor helped anchor her to the waking world again. The barracks hall was quiet except for the rhythmic creak of someone pacing outside—a guard perhaps. Even that usual hum of life did little to alleviate the heaviness that sat in her chest like a boulder.

Her hands went instinctively to the chain under her tunic, fingers closing over the signet ring that rested against her sternum. How ironic, still clinging to this when I'm not supposed to care anymore, she thought, squeezing it once, a sharp pain digging into her palm, grounding her in the physical, if nothing else.

“Worse than usual, huh?” she whispered to no one, voice shaking as she moved toward her armor stand.

Her mind was racing already, too fast, like horses in a panic. She knew how it worked: grab hold of something, anything physical, and get moving before the echoes inside drove her mad. Checking her equipment, re-strapping her sword—it was routine, instinct, a distraction. She needed to escape this suffocating memory in the dim quiet, push herself out of the room that smelled of old sweat, steel, and dreams.

“Focus, damn it,” Ida hissed, fighting down the dread rising in her throat. The pale evening light cutting through the narrow slit of the window glanced off her polished gauntlet, reflecting a shard of light into her face—just bright enough to pull her a little farther from the dark spirals in her mind.

She exhaled and tied her pink hair back, her hands trembling for only a second.

"Won't get sleep tonight..." she mumbled. It was something that'd become too predictable now. Nightmares, no matter how bad, left her an insomniac prisoner in the twilight before dawn.

Get out there. Take a patrol... there’s still plenty to check at dusk. It was the only thing left to do when dreams gnawed too hard.

She grabbed her sword and strode out the door into the cool embrace of the courtyard outside. No more sleep for her, but at least out here, the nightmares stayed in the distance.

Ida sat by the window of the dimly lit tavern, a thin stream of morning sunlight sneaking past the tattered curtain. Her fingers rhythmically ran along the edges of a cheap pewter mug filled with ale that had long since gone lukewarm. It was an odd thing—having a day off—when every fiber of her being was conditioned for battle, for duty.

The clatter of dishes echoed in the background, mingling with snippets of loud, mundane conversations from the other patrons. Her armor was stored away for the first time in weeks, her body clad instead in a simple commoner's blouse and trousers, which should’ve brought some relief. But her muscles still tensed beneath the fabric, an ingrained readiness for conflict that no cloth could disguise.

You’re meant to rest, she told herself, but her pink eyes drifted past the window and towards the distant market square, where a mix of humans and non-humans bustled with energy. Their faces were filled with pointless excitement over trivial things like spices, silks, and—gods above—flowers.

"Ridiculous," she muttered under her breath, a faint scoff slipping between her lips. What, you’re expected to relax and—what—get flowers, maybe pick up embroidery next?

The thought was so absurd it made her shift uncomfortably in her seat. Being on duty made sense. Sword, enemies, simple objectives—those she could process. But a day off, with nothing but her own thoughts, was a minefield far more treacherous than any battlefield she’d been on.

"More ale?" The tavern maid interrupted, a chubby cheeked woman whose warmth radiated even through the dullness of the room.

Ida paused before nodding silently, gesturing for a refill. Not that she truly craved it. She just needed something to occupy her hands, anything to keep herself distracted from the churn of restless thoughts that refused to cease. The woman left without question—whether out of politeness or simply sensing that Ida wasn’t one for chitchat.

Rest, sure. Like that ever really happens. She leaned back slightly, eyes now trained on the surface of her drink as the foam ebbed at the edges. Despite the constant reminder of exhaustion in her bones, her mind was endlessly playing tricks, conjuring shadows that didn’t belong. Faces from her past—her family’s wide, terrified eyes just moments before execution—clawed at the edges of her memory, refusing to be banished.

Her fist unconsciously tightened on the mug's handle.

"Maybe I should take up embroidery after all," she murmured in a tone too deadpan to be genuine.

With a slow, quiet sigh, she leaned back against the tavern chair, mind wandering through the battlefields of yesterday, futilely hoping that the day off wouldn’t end in another losing skirmish with her own mind.

Ida kicked the barrack door shut behind her, the metallic clink from the latch echoing in the dim space. Her hand instinctively rose to loosen the tight neckpiece of her plate armor, fingers aching after another relentless day. She yanked it off and tossed it carelessly onto her bed when something small, innocuous, caught her eye—half crumpled and lying on the floor, just inside the threshold. What the hell is that...?

She crouched down, eyes narrowing on the small piece of folded parchment, her gauntleted hand hesitating for only a split second before she snatched it up.

The message was short, clearly anonymous. Each letter on the note bore the care and neatness that suggested someone tried too hard not to smear ink with nervous fingers.

"Meet me at the training grounds under the willow. Thirty minutes before curfew. Come alone."

No name. No mark of any kind.

Ugh. Of course, she thought bitterly, twisting her lips into a cynical smile. Just what I need—some poor fool thinking it's amusing to drag me into a prank.

Ida straightened, flicking the letter with her fingers like it might burn her. She resisted the urge to tear it up then and there. She glanced at her small window; the sky was already darkening, soon close to curfew. The person behind the note wanted this tonight. A sly grin crept across her face.

"What would even make someone think I'd come out there?" she muttered, her voice dripping with disbelief. Still, it pricked her curiosity—not enough to soften her cynicism but enough to irritate her into action. Maybe one of the new recruits has a death wish, she mused.

Would she bother going?

"Or maybe," she thought as she rolled the note between her fingers, eyes hardening into sharp, dangerous pink flares, "maybe they'll have the gall to show themselves."

A challenge, then. A game of idiots. With a grunt, Ida gathered up the letter, eyeing the fading light as she decided.

“Thirty minutes. Let’s see if you’re brave enough, whoever you are..."

The sound of distant gulls drifted over the port of Albioneth. Though morning had broken hours ago, the gray clouds clung stubbornly to the horizon, dulling the sun and casting a muted glow over the bustling docks. Ships swayed gently with the waves in a monotonous rhythm, their masts slicing through the misty air. A constant churn of activity surrounded the port—cargo unloaded, sailors shouting, crates and barrels rolling. But amidst the movement, Ida stood still as a statue, her gaze unyielding as the cold metal armor that encased her.

She had arrived far earlier than necessary.

There was no choice, really. Of course she was here earlier than needed—better to wait alone than suffer the sneering, accusatory stares of those who'd always remember her family’s treachery. "Damn pink hair," they might whisper in those thinly veiled breaths. No, better to arrive before anyone could speak a word.

She wore her plate armor, polished to a sharp sheen without a single decorative flourish, no personal insignia that might give anyone something to sneer at. Practical as always. Like a walking pile of rocks, she'd heard someone mutter once. To her, it was like the only barrier between herself and… everything else. The thick steel settled tightly against her as if reminding her she couldn't escape its embrace. And frankly, she didn’t want to.

Her gauntleted fingers lightly grazed the hilt of the sword at her hip. She didn't need to check if it was there—she could feel the familiar weight on her side and yet, the touch had become ritual. What could only have started as a habit had morphed into something else. An odd comfort, like reassuring herself there was still something in this world she had control over.

Just another job.

Royal Guard duty. But no battlefield this time—an escort mission. Diplomatic, political, official business with an air of importance that rubbed uncomfortably against the pragmatism of her duties. Escorting nobles to foreign shores—to Jotenhal, no less. The thought of “negotiating” with greenskins might have sent a younger, fresher Ida laughing, but experience had rid her of that indulgence long ago.

She'd been through enough to understand Jotenhal wasn’t just some barbaric territory full of ogres swinging clubs and goblins giggling wickedly. No, they were civilized enough these days. Their metalwork rivaled some of the best Albioneth could boast, and more importantly, they were profitable. It wasn’t swords that swung power in diplomatic missions like these—it was ledgers and gold.

She tilted her head to watch as one of the warships—its bulk solidly Albionethian with elegant silver embellishments near the stern—drifted steadily towards the dock. Soon, the visiting noble and their retinue would arrive. Who it was, Ida couldn't be bothered to know. Her duty was protection, and that was that. To the noble, she'd probably be as unseen as the mast they sailed under.

"Humph," she muttered, more to herself than to any imagined conversation. As long as they don’t drag this visit longer than needed, she sighed internally. Diplomats were notorious for turning weeks into months, all while wringing hands over which fork was placed improperly at dinners. She didn't care for all that.

Just protect the important ones. Do your job, Ida.

"Suppose you’re enjoying this, aren't you?" Her voice came out soft, slow. She hadn’t meant to speak out loud, not at first, but there it was anyway.

Another gull squawked as though replying.

Ida pulled the hood further down over her face, letting out a soft, irritated grunt as she paced quickly away from the vendor's stall. Her grip tightened momentarily on the leather strap of her pouch, the sharp edge of her armored gauntlet nearly digging into the worn material.

"Not today," she muttered under her breath. "Not here."

The sting of the merchant's disdain clung to her like the acrid smell of roasted chestnuts on the damp marketplace air. She’d known from the moment his sharp eyes caught sight of her pink hair peeking from beneath the hood, the wary glance to her face betraying his intentions. The shift in his tone. The purse of his lips. Oh, how smugly he had doubled the price without blinking.

Half the damn price to everyone else! Her pride was bitter, but not so bitter as the scent of rip-off steaming from that weasel’s grin.

"That’s what you get for not staying invisible, fool," Ida told herself, lowering her chin as she dodged between bustling shoppers. It seemed pointless, but covering her hair as best as she could had become second nature by now. When people caught a glimpse of that telltale pink, the color marking her as one of the last disgraceful Hearthorns, disdain was the least offensive reaction she could expect.

Of course, some were smart enough to hide their contempt. The vendor from earlier, however, had given no such courtesy. Why even bother, when his rip-off practically smiled at her from the shelf?

"Triple-quality spices from Dal’oshar, only for the finest," he had said, watching to see if her patience was as rare a commodity as his so-called spices. Triple-markup garbage, more like.

"Mmhm, finest, sure," she’d muttered, knowing full well the soldiers guarding the alley would be buying the exact same blend at half-price right behind her.

"Perhaps if you were nobility, you’d be used to paying more!" His words had curled up in that sleazy way, the exact tone a pickpocket might use to humor someone they’d just stolen from. His eyes gleamed with smug satisfaction.

And she’d stared him down for a fraction too long. Something coiled tight in her throat.

"Ah...but not anymore, is it?"

The barb might have pierced deeper once, years ago. Now, it only tugged at the frayed nerves that already sizzled from daily scorn. Swallowing the hot words burning on her tongue, she slapped down the absurd payment without argument, and left.

One less hole to patch. She strode through the rest of the marketplace now, ignoring the churning pit of familiar bitterness. In a warped way, she found solace in these minor humiliations. At least it wasn't the battlefield, where lives evaporated as fast as the temper of a vendor hoping to offload overpriced pepper.

Stay small, she reminded herself, eyes flicking down to the iron boots her steps cracked against the cobbled path. Let their opinion bury itself.

She caught sight of her reflection in a passing shop window. That thinly concealed tiredness behind sharp eyes. Always running. Always hiding. The marketplace, a squabble of color and people bartering goods under the fading gray sky, reflected back dimly, distorted slightly by the dirt on the glass.

"Well," she exhaled slowly. "One more thing off the list."

And plenty more coin left in the pouch after learning a lesson: buy nothing where pink hair can’t be trusted.