The following text is the first chapter from The Awakening Of Essensia. All rights reserved. No part of this text is to be reproduced, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without express permission from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. No portion of this work may be used to train large language models or similar AI systems. 

This chapter has been edited by Saskia M. Johnson and will be professionally edited in May 2026. 

Chapter One
First Blood 

The Gods had never much cared for Vaelira. She wasn’t overly fond of them either, but she held a particularly sour spot for Vaerun, the God of Storms and Seas, this morning.
  Rain pummelled the sodden streets of Anhaven as Vaelira raced down the muddied path. Water poured from the slate roof tiles of cottages on either side of her, their wooden shutters closed tightly against the storm, window boxes overflowing, flowers freed of their petals, so only stalks jutted up from the swirling mass of water and soil.
  Vaelira dug a hand into her waxed cloak, freeing a pair of gloves and yanking them onto her frozen fingers. Distracted, her foot caught on a stray rock, and she went down hard, cursing and spitting wet dirt from her mouth. She scrambled up, a metallic taste clinging to her tongue as she let her breath and feet find their steady rhythm once more.
  Rain streamed into her eyes as blurred rows of dark, hooded figures came into view. She prayed she could slip in unnoticed, but a sharp tug yanked her to a stop.
  “You’re late.”
  Commander Lysander towered over her like a vengeful god, the dark lines of his face creased in disappointment.
  She offered her best apologetic grin, and he mercifully let go of her arm, gesturing towards the group.
  Ducking past him, she squeezed herself amongst the others, ignoring their irritated glances. Someone shuffled in beside her.
  “The fact the Commander hasn’t thrown your ass off the wall yet is a miracle,” said Freya, raising her voice above the downpour. A pair of green eyes and a wicked smile peeked out from beneath her hood.
  Vaelira grinned back, recognising the familiar threat that was regularly hurled at recruits who slacked off during training. In the hundreds of years since it’s construction, no one had ever actually been thrown from the towering stone wall that encircled their town. At least as far as she knew.
  Vaelira turned forward as Commander Lysander began.
  “The raiders may take cover from a storm, but the demons will not.” His voice rang clear, sharp as steel, cutting through the relentless rain. “This is everything you’ve been preparing for. We shall begin with close combat.”
  Vaelira sucked in a breath, letting her hammering pulse steady. Three trials. Three chances to show the Commander that her years of training had paid off. To decide if she was worthy of joining Anhaven’s guard.
  Sparring and short sword were today, and she knew archery would come tomorrow, but after that, only the Gods knew. They would be no help.
  Commander Lysander gestured to two men standing behind him, their grim faces barely visible through the rain.
  “As usual, Caerthalyn has sent guards to observe, but I doubt any of you will be good enough for them.”
  A ripple of laughter passed through the group. No one had been selected for the Royal Guard in generations.
  Vaelira didn’t share their amusement. She had long given up the dream of being selected for the Royal Guard. All she wanted was to protect this town, like her father before her, and his before him. If she didn’t make it through this, she would be stuck working the orchards with her brother, or worse, working alongside Kili in the Sanatorium.
  She shuddered at the memory of metal cots, the stinging reek of vinegar, open wounds, and pus and—
  “Lira,” Freya hissed.
  Vaelira blinked and found heads turning her way. Freya nudged her. “You’re up. Go.”
  Vaelira forced her way to the front and threw down her cloak, rain pooling in its folds in an instant. Better she be wet than risk her opponent getting a hold of it. Rain soaked through her tunic, water filling her boots like it was determined to find every inch of her skin. Slicking back a few strands of hair that had come loose of her plait, she looked for her opponent, trying to ignore the stares of the crowd and the ice seeping towards her bones.
  Her heart raced in her chest, and she exhaled, steadying herself as someone emerged from the group of recruits.
  A sharp face, wiry build. Keenan.
  He was easily a head taller than her, but she had a stronger frame. A fair match.
  “The Three see all,” Commander Lysander called, “let them find what they seek. Begin.”
  They circled each other immediately, only a few feet apart. Vaelira kept her breath even and stepped to her left, her boots sinking into the soft earth.
  Keenan’s fist came flying, but she saw the shift of his feet and ducked easily under the blow, shoving him aside as she stepped past. He righted himself, his brow furrowed.
  He’d probably hoped this would be over quickly. Her height always seemed to make people underestimate her. Made them ignore the muscle she’d earned with endless hours of training.
  He swung again, but feinted, Vaelira dodging too late. His fist caught her jaw and she tasted blood, pain ricochetting through her teeth.
  She worked her mouth. He had pulled his punch. Rage simmered at the insult, but she swallowed it down, gathering her focus, letting instinct take over.
  She felt his next move coming before she saw it. Her body shifted as if of its own free will, dodging the blow and sending her fist into his cheekbone with practised precision, a tingling sensation sparking in her palm.
  He staggered back, glancing reflexively at the crowd.
  A flicker of movement behind him caught her eye. The taller of the Royal Guards took a step forward.
  Keenan turned, and she pulled her attention back to the fight, swinging her leg up and around, her heel striking his stomach hard. He hit the ground with a wet thud, clutching at his ribs.
  She paused, catching the Commanders gaze. He shook his head once.
  Keenan tried to rise, but she kicked him back down, straddling his hips and pinning his arms. She took a beat to read the shock plastered on his face, then slammed her fist into his cheekbone.
  Crimson welled.
  First blood.
  It was over.
  Vaelira stood and offered her hand. He took it, hauling himself up with a grim nod. Something akin to humiliation burned behind his eyes, and for a moment she thought he might take another swing, but he only retrieved his cloak and disappeared into the shelter of the barracks.
  Vaelira scooped up her own cloak and followed, glancing once at Commander Lysander. He was a bastard for making her go first, but at least he had given her an easy opponent. She could have sworn she saw the faintest curve of a smile before he stepped forward to announce the next fight.
 
  Inside the barracks, Vaelira headed to the washroom. She hung her cloak on a brass peg to drip dry, and pulled off her boots, tipping out the water and ringing out her socks. She paused, staring at her reflection in the chipped mirror above the wash basin.
  Strands of dark hair clung to her face, and her full lips were cracked from the cold. She turned her head to the side, examining the faint purple tinge that was spreading across her jaw. She’d taken a hit but had come out on top in the end, and that was all that mattered. 
  A stuttered breath escaped her, transforming into a quiet laugh that rocked her chest. All she had to do is make it through short sword combat, and the first trial would be complete. She could head back home to the cottage, tell her brother the good news, then get some much-needed sleep.
  You can do this.
  Freya burst into the washroom just as Vaelira finished lacing up her boots. She took her arm, hauling her into the corridor and towards the dining hall.
  The air was thick with the stink of wet wool and sweat, the warm glow from the central firepit embracing them as they dropped onto a bench with bowls of steaming soup.
  “Finished him in two moves,” Freya said, grinning as she shoved up her soaked sleeves. “You’d have been proud.”
  Vaelira huffed a laugh. “You could have any of us on the ground in less than five.” She took a bite of the bread, tearing through the hard crust.
  Freya winked. “You did well. Easy opponent though. Keenan, right?”
  Vaelira nodded. “Think I’ll get lucky again in short sword?”
  “Not a chance.” Freya dunked her bread into the thick soup. “He won’t let you off that easy. One weak link…”
  Freya didn’t need to say it. None of them did. It had been drilled into them from day one.
  Over one-hundred years ago, the Great Demon Fire tore across the continent, reducing everything in its path to ash and leaving behind the barren Wastelands. Mercifully, Eastvale’s western mountain range had halted the flames, but not the demons that now stalked the night, or the ruthless Wasteland raiders that terrorised travellers by day.
  Those charged with defence couldn’t afford to be weak. Couldn’t afford to hesitate. If you did, it could mean the death of a citizen, a fellow guard, a friend. Family.
  Freya elbowed Vaelira in the ribs and nodded towards the doors.
  Rurik Grall stalked in, lip split, blood streaking across his chin. A bruise was already blooming over one eye, making him look more menacing than usual. 
  Vaelira tried to restrain a grin. 
  “Didn’t stop at first blood,” Freya muttered. No one followed Rurik inside.
  “Sent whoever it was straight to the San,” Vaelira said, her voice dropping low as she tracked Rurik’s hulking frame across the hall. 
  She had never spoken to Rurik, and all she knew about the man was that he was a brute. That, and his parents grew heartviolets for the chapels. The small plum-coloured flower had become a symbol of hope, the only plant to make it out of the Wastelands after the fire. That such a man would one day be responsible for safeguarding such a delicate thing… 
  Vaelira tore her piece of bread in two, her initial satisfaction at seeing his injuries souring on her tongue. 
  “Shame,” she said. “I was hoping he might lose for once.”
  Freya glanced down at Vaelira, “You know, I think he’s the only person I wouldn’t want to be paired against.”

 Vaelira groaned as her name was called. She shot Freya a glare and her friend held up her hands, grimacing.
  The rain had finally let up, but thick mud clung to her boots as she pulled a short sword from the rack and turned towards her opponent.
  Rurik stood on the opposite side of the training field, grinning from ear to ear.
  Standing almost two heads taller than her and double the width in pure muscle, Rurik had the advantage. His lip had stopped bleeding, but the skin around his eye was a mottled mess of purple and blue. It didn’t seem to bother him.
  Commander Lysander stood on the edge of the field, deep in conversation with one of the Royal Guards. His posture was stiff, as if he was purposefully avoiding her gaze.
  Coward. She was outmatched, and he knew it.
  Vaelira tilted her head up to the dull clouds that blanketed the sky, muttering a prayer to whatever gods still bothered to listen. This wouldn’t end well.
  Rurik was still grinning, swinging his sword in lazy circles, the blade like a toy in his massive hands. He rolled his shoulders once and launched himself at her, not waiting for the Commander to call it. 
  He was quicker than she’d expected and she barely got her blade up in time, the force of the impact sliding her backwards through the mud.
  Their swords broke apart, and he swung low.
  She danced back, feeling the rush of air as the blade missed her ribs by mere inches.
  She feinted left but he sidestepped her easily, ramming the pommel of his sword into her back.
  Vaelira gasped, pain flaring down her spine. She raised her sword to meet his next blow. Their blades locked and her arms strained against the force, his broad face grinning down at her, sweat beading on his temple.
  She twisted, breaking the connection, and threw an elbow at his face, but he was too damned tall. Rurik caught her arm and twisted painfully before hurling her down into the mud.
  Laughter rippled through the watching crowd, sending heat flushing up Vaelira’s neck.
  Someone shouted, but she couldn’t make out the words through the pounding in her ears. She scrambled up, wiping mud from her face with her sleeve.
  Rurik advanced. His blows were brutal, each impact rattling her bones. He swung again and again, forcing her back.
  He hit her thigh hard with the flat side of his blade. Anger burned hot in her chest. He was playing with her, putting on a show, no doubt.
  Vaelira’s legs trembled, and a rattling breath escaped through her lips.
  Another blow came, too fast this time. The blade tore through skin, the pain as biting as the coppery taste filling her mouth.
  The blades weren’t meant to be sharp, were they?
  Her hand went to the wound, her palm coming away bloodied.
  She had lost. 
  A brutal kick to her ribs sent her hurtling backwards, the air rushing from her in an instant. 
  Her sword went flying.
  The world blurred. 
  She coughed, wheezing for breath. The bastard had kicked her right where he’d just cut her. 
  Through her tears, she barely saw Rurik stalking towards her, blade raised high as it arced overhead.
  He was going to kill her. Right here, in front of everyone, and there was nothing she could do to stop him.
  She raised a palm, as if it could save her from the inevitable blow, slamming her eyes shut as she braced for impact. 
  The clang of metal rang out.
  One of the Royal Guards stood over her, his blade locked fast against Rurik’s.
  She blinked, and Rurik’s sword was in the mud 
  “Enough!” Commander Lysander’s voice boomed from across the field. 
  Rurik stepped back, hatred burning in his eyes, his shoulders heaving as he panted with fury. He spat on the ground then stalked away, leaving Vaelira wondering what she had ever done to deserve such treatment from a man she had barely spoken two words to. 
  Vaelira turned to thank the guard, but all she saw was a broad back retreating to the other side of the field. 
  Caked in mud and unable to meet the Commander's stare, she struggled to her feet. 
  Her spine ached and her side throbbed, but the shame burning in her throat hurt worse than either.