3 Months Earlier

The girl missed the sword by a hair on her head. Literally. As she ducked out of the way she saw three strands of ginger hair flutter to the dusty ground. Her opponent, The Brute, stumbled towards her as gracefully as a charging bull, he flared his nostrils in his disjointed nose broken not so long ago, his piggy eyes stared out at her through his red face. The type of red only accomplished through a lifetime of bar brawls and a daily barrel of rum.

She hardly had time to think before her opponent charged at her again, she feinted the left. Suddenly, she slammed into him, locking her arms and throwing him over her shoulder. Her attacker nosedived into the ground, letting out an almighty grunt as he swallowed a mouthful of dirt.

The stadium around her erupted, stomping their feet and yelling their beery ballads, they were making the temporary amphitheatre shake so much, the girl feared it would collapse into a pile of leather and wood.. In fact they were so loud she almost didn't her opponent trying to sneak up behind her - which was a feat in itself as he was as unsubtle as a herd of Feldûnost. She cart wheeled out the way of his hammy fist, she jumped up and unsheathed her sword. She needed to get this fight started if she wanted to keep her audience interested.

She parried her adversary's first blow, before then wheeling around and hitting him in the back of the leg. She grunted and wheeled around ready to block any more of her blows. But the girl was a step ahead of him, she only needed to land two more blows and she would have won this fight – and the prize money. The audience were almost spilling out of their seats and so were their drinks. Puddles of beer were forming on the ground and the girl had to dodge more than one flying tankard. Unfortunately, her rival was not so quick. A pewter tankard hit him square in the in the head, angering him even more. "I'm surprised that didn't knock out your brains, my dear friend," the girl jeered, "But then again, how can you lose something, you do not have".

The lout roared and charged at her again. The girl dived out the way and went to land a blow again, but all she saw was stars as The Brute punched her squarely in the jaw. The audience let out a collective groan as she lay sprawled on the dirty ground of the stadium.

"Little bug ain't so clever now. Little Bug going to get squashed!" The Brute roared. Ismira spat blood and slowly, but surely she stood up. Even though this guy seemed to have the language skills of a toddler, Ismira had underestimated him, he wasn't a total oaf after all.

Good, it meant she didn't have to feel guilty about beating him to a pulp. "Alright," she said staring into his glassy eyes that peered out under heavy brows, "You want to dance. Let's dance"

They stood their staring at each other, The Brute and The Girl, for a minute or an hour. Time seemed to move like honey, thick and slow.

He ran at her, roaring. She dived to the slide, stirring up a cloud of dust. The Brute turned clumsily. The girl went to roll, but she couldn't. Her belt buckle had gotten snagged in the matting of the stadium floor. She swore in every colour of the rainbow as The Brute approached her, smiling manically, blood dripping down his face. She pulled and pulled but her belt would not give. He was almost on top of her now, she tried to undo her belt but her fingers would not do as they were told, maybe if she... no that would not work. The brute stood above her now, he lifted his sword above his head; the normally raucous audience went silent as he brought it down. A woman screamed. A raven let out a mournful cry.

And he let out a confused grunt. Where the girl had been, there was just a cut belt. He let out of an even more confused grunt as he tried to raise his sword but it remained embedded in the straw matting. What witchcraft was this? Where had the girl gone? What the-? He wondered no more as the girl gave him a swift kick in the balls. He doubled over grunting, the girl stood in front of him proud and unafraid, a true warrior. She lifted her sword and, ever so lightly, tapped him on the shoulder.

The crowd went wild.

The girl laughed as tankards, copper pennies and flowers rained down around her. She curtsied, which only seemed to fuel their enthusiasm even more. The Brute sat behind her in shock, he couldn't understand it, was he just beaten? By a girl? Anger overwhelmed him and he dived for the girl, only to find himself grasping thin air. Then all he felt was a pain in the back of his skull as the girl drop kicked him in the back of the head. His face went slack and he fell to the ground.

"I've always hated sour losers," she muttered.

A marshal came out, dressed in the royal blue of the House of Alagësia, albeit a rather faded royal blue. He carried a rather deflated red cushion in front of him, which he held out at arm's length. The girl fancied that he had the expression of someone permanently smelling something really bad. He presented her with a small bag of gold coins and a small gold model of a sword. "I present thee...uh, the champion of the 7th Annual Therinsford Sword fighting Competition ..."

"Save the speech, mumble-news, give me the bloody reward already," the girl laughed. This produced laughs and gasps from the audience. The marshal's lips pursed like he was sucking an extremely sour lemon. He shoved the money and the trophy into her hands, the girls raised them above her head and let out a spine-tingling battle cry. The audience joined in. Men, women and children cheered for her. It gave her a rush no fight could compare to – everyone was cheering for her.

Well, nearly everyone. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a cloaked figure. His face was all in shadow, apart from a pair of bright, blazing blue eyes that started at her steadily. A large leather cased hand gripped a splintered a hand rail. The girl smiled a sadly. He must have broken it during the fight. When he realised that she might get hurt. Or worse. She scolded herself inwardly; getting hurt was not an option. If she got hurt then everyone would find out who she was and then she would be in a world of trouble. She turned back to the crowd still celebrating their victory. To them she was just a fighter, a victor, entertainment. But, little did they know that the person who had won one of the hardest and dirtiest sword fighting competitions in Alagësia was in fact a lady.

The Lady Ismira of Carvahall to be precise.