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mightiest warriors. This late in the summer
afternoon, it was empty, the light golden as it
streamed in.
Rhoe Galathynius ran a hand down his
round shield, the dark metal scarred and
dinged from horrors long since vanquished.
“Someday,” he said as she traced one of the
long scratches over the ancient surface, “this
shield will pass to you. As it was given to me,
and to your great-uncle before me.”
Her breath was still jagged from the
training they’d done. Only the two of them—
as he’d promised. The hour once a week that
he set aside for her.
Her father placed the shield on the stone
step below them, its thunk reverberating
through her sandaled feet. It weighed nearly
as much as she did, yet he carried it as if it
were merely an extension of his arm.
“And you,” her father went on, “like the