Everyone, I apologize greatly for my absence in the fandom. It's just I have been going through minor family problems, and I have had no chance to update or create a story. Sorry for the inconvenience and I hope no one has forgotten about me…

The Return of Joren will be taken off, rewritten, and reposted.

Also, I have greatly improved my writing skills, so you will have none of those childish sentences.

Disclaimer: I am not Tammy, so I own none of these characters, except maybe a few later on.

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The blade swung, shrieking, through the air, to clash with that of another. Sparks spilled from the impact of steel and steel. Pages winced at the clanging, grating sound the swords made when they crashed together. Sunlight glinted off the silver steel, blinding young boys with the flash. One sword found an opening. It slid against the opposing blade and twisted, sending the other sword twirling through the air and finding the tip of a youth's long nose.

"Yield."

Faleron of King's Reach grimaced and swiped at his brow, his expression good-naturedly sullen. "Good job, Kel," he said. "You've really improved."

"So have you, Fal," Keladry of Mindelan said graciously. "Instead of taking five seconds to disarm you it took me five minutes."

"Arrogance does become you, gentle lady," Faleron teased. "You must wear it more often."

"King's Reach!" Lord Wyldon of Cavall, called, "work on your stance and grip! They seem to be your main problems. Mindelan – your stance was also flawed. Fix it."

Kel carefully dammed her feelings behind a blank mask. The experienced training-master always picked on the tiniest detail when it came to her. She could have done twelve front flips up a mountain and he would have said she landed in the wrong direction. By now, if it had not been for her Yamani-trained etiquette, she probably would have throttled him.

"Could you teach me how you did that disarming thing?" Esmond of Nicoline asked, slightly mournfully, while the pages brushed their horses after weapon training. "I need something to surprise Quinden with next time I spar with him. He's beaten me every time."

A smile twitched her lips. "You might want to work on your grip, too. Your hands keep sliding out of position."

"Ah, Lady High And Mighty has spoken her words of wisdom," her best friend Nealan of Queenscove said in a seer's airy, mysterious voice. "Take heed, cur, and follow them if you wish to live a long and healthy life in your underwear…"

"Even if that advice did make sense, I still wouldn't follow it," Esmond told him. "Honestly Neal, you're too odd for your own good."

Some eavesdropping pages grinned; Neal was known for his dramatic and peculiar personality. In fact, he was infamous for it.

The lunch bell tolled its vociferous song lazily, and pages quickened in their brushing, slipping their mounts carrots or sugar cubes before disappearing from the stables. Soon, all but Kel had left. She smiled and patted her unruly strawberry roan gelding, Peachblossom before putting his tack up. He blew at her as she rubbed her calloused hand over his soft velvety muzzle.

His deep fiery brown eyes were the last thing Kel saw before a sharp intense pain erupted at the base of her neck and she collapsed into darkness.

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The large black mount slid to a halt as its master pulled sharply on its leather reins. Joren of Stone Mountain, squire to Sir Paxton of Nond, stared intently at the brush on his left, cold eyes narrowing suspiciously. He swung a leg over the saddle, landing lightly and elegantly in the dirt, hands firm on the reins.

"What was that, Pyro?" he asked his brazen steed as it fondly snorted horse spittle at him. He patted the side of the Pyro's head absently.

Pyro tossed his head impatiently, as though saying, I don't care, now let's go back so I can eat my carrots. Hello? Are you listening to me?

Joren grinned. That was probably exactly what this feisty animal was saying. Then the brush rustled again, louder and closer this time, and the grin slid off his face like melting butter.

It's probably just a rabbit, he told himself. He drew himself up importantly. Besides, it's not like I couldn't handle whatever came my way.

A man emerged from the bushes. Joren automatically rested his hand on his sword, unsheathing it halfway. The man smiled warmly, and gestured for him to put it away. Hesitantly the blond slid the blade back into its sheath. Almost immediately the man lost his smile as Joren was jerked backwards, and swiftly robbed of his sheathed weapon. He blindly groped for his dagger, and had closed his hands around it when another man interrupted his line of vision, grinning cruelly down at him.

"A nice bit of noble flesh, don't you think, Juza?" he called.

"This sword is magnificent," another man murmured.

"We could get nice ransom for this lad –"

"No," a man said firmly, his voice strict, rigid, and controlling. "He's enslaved, not ransomed. Put him with the girl."

"The girl?"

"Yes. There was a girl among the pages. As useful as any man, I would say. Her muscles are bigger than this small boy's."

Joren writhed in outrage, both at being called inferior to a girl and being called a small boy. He bit and scratched, clawing frantically when he saw an unidentifiable man come slowly towards him with a blunt club. He growled, in fear and rage, before the club swung down onto the top of his head and knocked him unconscious.

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Sorry it's kinda short, but it's pretty much just the prologue. I'm hoping this will be an actual story, not some plotless blah-thing like Fearless was. I hope you enjoy, and R/R, please. My friend, Nolee, the arrogant little bitch, wants me to tell you all to read her stories. Her penname is Nolee of Stone Mountain.