Author's note: a birthday prompt for Manna (months belated!). Rated T for gore.
When he was a page, drilling against a frayed practice dummy, a blow he struck was the last it took: his practice blade slashed right through its neck, snapping the burlap strands that held it together, and straw exploded in every direction as it crumpled over itself. From across the ring, Sain—newly squired—doubled over as well, laughing, calling,
"Kent, you killed it!"
For years, he assumed that was what killing felt like: something tearing beneath his sword, a warm spray, and the satisfaction of a job well done.
He never learned for sure, however. Despite his age, despite the many missions Lord Hausen had sent him and Sain and others on to chase brigands from villages or patrol the streets, he had never had to kill a man. Most fled, on foot, as he thundered after them on horseback with his sword outstretched. Others merely looked at him, the rigid posture that had been knocked into him by General Wallace himself, and understood that fighting would be useless. The one time there had been rebels, their leader threw himself at Sain, who slew him without hesitation. The others retreated. Kent hadn't even had to lift his weapon.
This time, it was different. A bandit was throwing himself at Lyndis, axe raised high, and while Kent had only met her yesterday, he knew that she was his lady, that Hausen's blood pumped through her veins, that his life was sworn to protect hers. He knew it without a doubt. So he galloped beside her, past her, charging to meet her attacker, and slashed off his head in one strike.
There was no snapping, no smell of straw. He felt his sword's edge hack through the gristle of his throat, the hardness of his spine, sending shudders up his arm all the way to the shoulder. The air smelled like blood. He was vaguely aware of Sain looking at him from yards away.
The man's body hit the ground hard. Lifeless. Once it had contained something, and Kent was acutely aware that he'd stolen it.
And he didn't regret it.
He thought he would. For all his training, he thought he would hate to kill a man, that guilt would keep him up at night. But now Lady Lyndis was walking toward him, her own sword in her hand, concern in her eyes.
I killed my first man.
"Sir Kent?"
I killed him for you.
"I trust you are unharmed, milady," he said, and at her bewildered nod, he rode off to take the next foe.
