Dame Melinda

The wind moved like a living thing along the cliffside, bending the tall grass and carrying the scent of salt from the restless sea below. The sky was pale with early morning light, streaked with soft gold and fading stars. From the path below, I heard the sharp ring of steel cutting through the quiet.

She stood at the edge of the cliff, framed by the wide horizon. Her armor caught the dawn, polished plates glinting with every motion. In her hands, a sword flashed and turned as she practiced, her strikes swift and certain.

Dame Melinda moved with steady grace, each step firm against the stone. She swung, turned, and drove the blade forward as if facing an unseen foe. Though she trained alone, there was purpose in every breath she took.

At last, she stilled. The blade lowered, its tip resting against the earth as the wind tugged at her crimson cloak. Slowly, she reached up and removed her helmet.

A cascade of brown hair fell free, bound in a thick braid that rested over her shoulder. Her face was strong yet fair, touched by the cool light of morning. There was resolve in her eyes, but also a quiet warmth that softened her noble features.

She turned toward me then, having sensed my presence. Her gaze did not waver, and she held her sword loosely at her side, ready yet unthreatening.

“Pray tell,” she called, her voice clear above the wind, rich with courtly bearing, “who art thou that treadest upon this lonely height? Speak thy name and purpose, lest I mistake thee for one who means me ill.”