Jente joined the troops three days later, hair shorn short, fitted in the smallest, cheapest armor the armorer could find. He’d sneered at her and scorned her for her paler skin (which gave her an excuse to wear a tunic for modesty’s sake), but she’d just bobbed her head politely and skittered into place.
She scared the daylights out of the man next to her when she surged into action at Engel’s direction, swinging her sword with practiced ease, dancer’s grace.
At the lunch break, one of the soldiers smiled at her. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”
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