Dear Mother,

For three months, Ellen and I have been acting as Princess Guinevere's vassals: I as her personal bodyguard, Ellen as a lady-in-waiting. Even now, I feel blessed and even a little undeserving of my title. The princess could have selected Lady Brenda the sage or any of the other knights who are senior to me in rank and skill. Yet she chose me. I am determined not to disappoint her; whatever misfortune befalls our nation.

However, this role comes with many administrative duties. Ellen often helps to keep me awake during long and tedious meetings in the King's Court, since she is used to long sermons. At first, it was exciting to be in that grand dome with the most accomplished knights, General Murdock himself and even occasionally King Zephiel. Like our country, the Court is austere yet still regal: it has a stone floor and Doric columns, with the only hints of nobility being the red banners unfurled during meetings and a portrait of King Zephiel below the Bern flag. You would be too familiar with it already, having been the leading tactician there for many years.

Yet the briefings are far from brief. There is little chance to speak with any of the knights about their skill or learn from my seniors. The whole affair is endless speculation about trade and continental relations. National politics feels like those gossipy women's magazines that obscure writers sell at their stalls, only the names of conspirators in a love triangle are replaced with countries and kings' names.

Worse yet, it is harder to find time to sharpen my combat skills, the main part of my duty as a Bern knight. Fortunately, Gale offered to be my training partner at sunrise, though rising so early has taken some getting used to. Please rest assured that I am taking all precautions to keep any confidential information about the princess concealed. Gale and I do not speak much, only about techniques or methods for conditioning ourselves and wyverns. This is a good opportunity to familiarise myself with his combat style, in the event that we do end up on opposite sides of the battlefield.

Zeiss is settling well into training again. He is still oblivious to the possibility of Gale being an Etrurian spy and is in fact envious of my opportunity to train privately with him.

I hope you and Father are looking after yourselves.

With much love from your daughter

Miledy


'I'll be going 100% for this practise duel so pay attention,' Gale leaps onto his wyvern Skarlen. Skarlen is almost twice the size of Trifinne, 'we'll keep going until one of us drops their weapon or surrenders.'

'That won't be me, Gale!' I pull myself on to Trifinne, 'I'm ready!'

We shoot into the air at the same time. He's flown well above me. I narrowly steer Trifinne to the side when Gale plunges down with an iron lance. The match has just begun but my heart is already pumping. This is Gale at 100%: strong yet nimble. The cold atmosphere burns through my throat and lungs.

Trifinne and I can't beat him and Skarlen on speed and strength. Trifinne and I dive into a cloud. We could try confusing him. The growl of our wyverns makes me tense. I'm losing. Trifinne wails, becoming disoriented along with me.

'Stop running Miledy!' Gale shouts with his lance poised, 'take control of the fight!' He's flying closer. Skarlen's black eyes glare straight into mine. An idea hits me: Gale needs to pause during the strike. That's when I can loop Trifinne around the side and counter. Skarlen's wings will be out of the way to allow for a clear shot at Gale.

'Trifinne— now!' I pull Trifinne in arc. It'll be a sharp angle for her but she's agile enough. Trifinne lets out a shriek. My feet loosen from the stirrups. My body shudders as I enter free fall. The blade of Gale's lance slices right past my nose.

'Miledy!' He shouts. A whooshing sensation fills my chest. My body makes a thud onto the leathery back of a wyvern. The scales are too large and rough to be Trifinne's.

'Skarlen, we're landing,' Gale's chest heaves against me as he holds my body securely against his during the descent. My head is numb. I'm ready to vomit out my innards. I fold like paper over his arm when he tries to lower me to the ground.

'I'm sorry, Miledy,' Gale's voice is a murmur. My heartbeat is an earthquake crashing through my eardrums, 'that altitude was probably too high to hold a practice match.'

'Ah... Of course...' My mind replays the failed manoeuvre, 'basic physics... I needed to hold more securely... That wasn't… A good striking position.'

'You certainly surprised me,' Gale loosens his hold as I regain my stability, 'I almost cut your head off.'

'That's training though, isn't it?' I force a smile while steadying on my feet, 'real battles are risky and unexpected.'

'Instead, my blade slashed your hair,' Gale lowers his head, 'for that, I sincerely apologise.

'Oh! D-Don't worry about it!' I stammer while one hand scours through my hairs. All I can feel are uneven, stubby stalks, 'it's better than losing my head.'


'Miledy!' Ellen's shrieks when she sees me, 'your hair. You poor, poor thing!'

'Ellen, relax. It was an accident during training this morning,' I run my hands through the jagged blunt ends on my head. I haven't even looked at myself in the mirror but it feels lopsided, 'hair grows. Plenty of soldiers have lost fingers and toes. I almost lost my head.' Still, I'm afraid to examine the damage in a mirror.

'What are you going to do about this evening's meeting?' Ellen grabs both my wrists, 'you're a representative of Princess Guinevere. You can't appear at the King's Court like this!'

'But we had a meeting last month already,' I feel the embarrassment well up, first for forgetting the meeting, second when I imagine myself looking like a haystack in front of Bern's highest officials.

'Didn't you receive a note?' Ellen headdress flutters nervously in the wind as she stammers, 'General Murdock has some urgent matters to cover today.'

'Why must we have meetings about things if they're so urgent?!' I exclaim, tying a scarf over my head, 'I could just wear this for today.'

'Head and face coverings are illegal in the King's Court,' Ellen adjusts the cloth over my head, 'the only exceptions are people whose identities must strictly be protected and those awaiting capital punishment. The point is, we don't have time. You need to fix your hair.'

'Couldn't I just go to the palace hairdresser?'

'Miledy, they're booked out because people are getting ready for the King's Court meeting!'

'Basically, this was the worst day to have a hair cutting accident...' Me, a knight of Bern, being thwarted by silly issues like my hairdo. All because of these tedious meetings! 'Well, I could always try going into town.'

'Most of them are inexperienced with short hair for women,' Ellen's eyes are downcast, before looking up with a determined glint, 'there may be someone at the markets. There are sellers from all over.'


Vibrant, patterned drapes draw our eyes to the markets. The aroma of spices and leather blankets the square. Some stall owners are from other parts of Bern, selling specialty armour and wyvern care tools. Others display rare fruits in geometric arrangements or elaborate carvings. I keep a hand on my pouch to deter pickpockets. Soon, we come by tents exhibiting colourful fabrics and materials from all over the continent. A store owner files her nails behind a display of jewellery, hair pieces and polished stones. Children crowd around a travelling band that plays a jaunty tune on an accordion and woodwind instruments.

My gaze swivels to the strange faces leering at us. They lick their lips at our coin pouches. No wonder nobles usually come here with bodyguards. I hold onto the scarf over my head. A baby perched on his father's shoulders whacks me, almost dislodging my cover, 'Ellen, I can get a man's cut at a barber in town. I just need something presentable, right?'

'Miledy, you mustn't give up on femininity!' Ellen insists, pulling me by the arm, 'one of the priests told me that short hair is popular with women in other parts of the continent. Famous female knights and noblewomen in bobs and styled bowl cuts. There must be someone who can do something like that.'

'Aren't clerics meant to be unconcerned with personal vanity?' I snigger.

'It's about neatness and respect for others,' she cries. Perhaps I was joking too far, casting doubt on her virtue. A smile presses against her lips when she murmurs, 'although it does occur to me that Sir Gale will be there…'

'Look,' I catch sight of a woman surrounded by head mannequins. They model an array of hair styles and colours, 'why don't I just get a wig?'

'... M-Miledy, let's go somewhere else,' Ellen whimpers. Her face is white like a radish, 'w-we shouldn't talk to her.'

'OK, you wait here. I'll just be there and then out again,' I stride over to the moon-patterned tent. The realistic wigs create an unsettling contrast with the featureless faces. The shopkeeper's violet eyeshadow glitters. She is braiding a chestnut wig. Her fingers weave through a network of tangles, manipulating sections of different lengths into an elegant waterfall.

'Excuse me, ma'am,' I place my hand on the brocaded tablecloth, 'I'd like to buy a wig.'

'Pardon me,' the woman looks up from her art piece, 'I hope you were not waiting long.' Maybe I should just get my actual hair cut here. She looks very skilled and passionate about hair. Plus, a wig won't stay on during training. I'm sure she could work with what I have, 'I was wondering if you could cut short hair for women? Something that is appropriate for formal occasions. The only women with short hair I've seen are children.'

'Yes, short hair is becoming vogue thanks to some famous Etrurian beauties,' the shopkeeper pulls my chin closer to her to examine my jawline and facial features, 'some women have an easier time sporting them than others. But you have an excellent face shape. Come inside. Then we can look at your hair. I assume by the scarf that you've had some dire accident.'

'I'm not sure I'd class it as dire, but I would rather remove the scarf in a less crowded place, thank you.' I listen to the shopkeeper shout to an assistant at the back. They're speaking in a foreign language with rolling 'r's and harsh 'k's. The employee whimpers as she takes the madam's place at the storefront. The new girl minding the shop is a skeleton draped in a white apron.


Behind an exotic screen at the back of the tent, a dark-skinned woman slumps on the ground. Her bald head glistens with sweat as she combs knots out of a blonde wig.

'This is our most skilled hairdresser, Madira,' the Madam's voice sweetens up when she addresses me again, 'Madira—.' They continue in a foreign language, occasionally looking at me and nodding.

I tentatively remove the head scarf after Madira seats me on a stool in front of a vanity. The mirror shocks me with the reflection of jagged steps where Gale's blade sliced my hair. Madira begins combing, 'beautiful colour. But can't leave like this.' Her accent reminds me of the store owners from Nabata, the desert region, 'bit tricky because this.' She picks up thumb-length hairs at the top, 'but I cut short like— you know Lady Priscilla?' I shake my head while she tinkers with tools in a tin bucket. Her fingers measure out the side of my hair, 'troubadour. Very famous beauty. Hundreds of suitors. For you, I have to make a bit shorter at the back. But then you have hundreds of suitors. Like Lady Priscilla.'

'I'm not sure I need hundreds of suitors...' I laugh, relaxing my grip on the seat beneath me, 'I'm sure you must have hundreds of suitors too, Madira.' Madira could be a bronze sculpture: emerald irises in copper skin, a chin and nose sandpapered and varnished by an expert artisan.

'No.' Snip, snip. Her eyes cross to gradually cut shorter towards the back, 'I travel with Madam. You a born here?'

'Yes, born and bred in Bern,' I catch the reflection of our shadows stretched against the partition behind us, 'are you from Nabata? My mother tells me that that's where the first wyverns were born. How did you end up all the way here with the madam?'

'She... Rescued me from the village,' Madira's breath quickens during the pause.

I had heard about bandits roaming the desert in search of ancient treasures. Perhaps it's uncomfortable to talk about. I change the subject, 'the wigs are beautiful. It must take a lot of skill to braid them like that. Who uses them?'

'All sorts,' Madira bends over, revealing bruises further up the backs of her thighs, 'theatre companies, bards, ageing nobles...' She uses some kind of wooden ruler to parse through my hair, evening out the length as needed, 'women of the night. Got to please all sorts of folks, you see.' I wince, suddenly realising why Madira is bald. It's to expedite the preparation for her nightly duties. Madira smirks, 'I see disgust on your face. You are good woman. I know.'

'No,' I try to stop imagining the other things she's touched when her fingers sift through my hair, 'I was just... surprised.' What circumstances brought her to that situation? Perhaps poverty? Or... Did the madam trick her? 'Madira, does the madam pay you fairly?'

'She treats me better than the other girls.' Madira combs out my hair. Crimson strands flutter onto my linen dress, 'I mend their clothes. I do their hair and makeup. They are like my sisters from all across the continent. We travel everywhere together.'

Other girls? This madam is trafficking women in the sinful trade and operating here without a licence!

Madira checks that the two sides of my hair are symmetrical using the ear lobes as guides, 'lovely. You like?'

'Thank you,' I hand a few coins to Madira.

She shakes her head, 'pay madam at the front.'

'This is my tip for you,' I dump the coins in Madira's sweaty palms. Her fingers fold around mine before slipping away to deposit the coins in her dress pocket.


'Where is Gale?' I find Ellen playing lance-sword-axe with a group of children, 'he's on duty today.'

'Are you that eager to show Sir Gale your hair cut?' Ellen giggles, reaching up to touch my angled bob, 'it suits you: contemporary but still feminine and regal, just like – have you ever seen drawings of Lady Priscilla in the women's pamphlets?'

'I don't care who this Lady Priscilla is!' The children flee when I raise my voice, 'we must arrest that hairdresser!'