CHAPTER II: CONDITIONS AND TEMPTING OFFER
DOROTHEA stood before the towering gates of the Knight's Headquarters, their iron filigree glinting like cold fire beneath the morning sun. Her breath caught as she stared up—half in awe, half in defiance.
'This is it,' she thought. 'The day I attempt the impossible.'
The weight of centuries pressed down on those gates, on every rule carved in stone, every name etched in marble. She knew the odds. Knew that girls from the fields are not allowed to wear armor, let alone wield a knight's honor. But giving up would mean betraying the ones who believed in her.
Solace's bold and soft voice still echoed in her mind. "Follow what's in your heart, Dorothea. You might be closer to your dream than you think." And her mother, Petra gave her a go when she discussed it with her last night.
A sharp breath escaped Dorothea's lips, her fingers curled into fists as she stepped forward. The great iron doors loomed closer, flanked by stone lions and judgment.
The knight at the gate turned at the sharp echo of boots on stone. He raised an eyebrow, already halfway back to boredom, as his gaze settled on the figure approaching.
"State your business, young lady," he said, the title laced with equal parts disinterest and discipline.
He was tall, armored head to toe in polished steel that caught the morning light, the crest of the chivalric order emblazoned on his chest like a badge of unquestionable authority. His helmet rested beneath one arm, revealing a face carved by battle and repetition—too many years, too many hopefuls, and far too few heroes.
He sized her up, then added with a smirk, "Here to visit your lover?"
It was an assumption he made without thought. After all, what woman came to the Knight's Headquarters unless she was following a man?
But Dorothea wasn't here for anyone but herself.
"No," she replied calmly, meeting his gaze without a hint of doubt. "I'm here to apply for knight training."
That earned her a second look.
"Apply?" he repeated that word, as if she'd just claimed the sky was green. His eyes flicked down her form. She was wearing leather boots worn from miles of walking, a weather-stained cloak with no family sigil, no squire's badge, no ring of noble lineage. Her long braid falling over one shoulder and a sword strapped to her back like a silent promise.
The law was clear—only noble boys, claimed by blood or title before their seventh year, could even dream of joining the Order. Dorothea knew this. She had no noble blood, no family crest, and not even the courtesy of being born male.
But she had one thing the law hadn't accounted for—Solace and her mother's words of encouragement and the determination she instilled in her heart.
"Yes," she answered. "Please allow me to have an audience with the training master or your grand commander. I'm here to make my case."
The knight barked a short laugh, shaking his head like she'd asked to borrow his sword for polishing.
"You do know you're a woman, right?" he scoffed. "You know the rules. This isn't a place for—"
"Let me be the exception."
Her voice cut clean through his amusement.
He paused, squinting at her. Was she crazy? Or just too stubborn to care? After a long silence, he conceded.
"Fine. Don't say I didn't warn you."
With a grunt, he turned and opened the gate just wide enough for her to slip through.
Beyond it, the courtyard lay quiet, bathed in the soft gold of morning. No knights have been sparring yet, just silence and stone and a sense that the world was waiting to see what she'd do next.
Dorothea walked alone across the courtyard until she reached a tall oak door, marked with a weathered plaque that read Knight's Hall. She didn't know where the grand commander's office was, but someone in there would.
She pressed the door open and stepped inside, her boots echoing against the cold stone floor. She carried no pedigree scroll, no family crest upon her cloak, and, most importantly, no manly features could be found in her. The only thing she brought inside was a weathered longsword she bought from a weapon shop on her way to the Knight's Headquarters strapped to her back and a fire in her chest that no law could extinguish.
The moment Dorothea stepped into the hall, the noise hit her like a wave—steel clanging, laughter echoing off stone, the rough murmur of men trading stories and jabs in equal measure. Some were polishing their swords and armors that gleamed like silver fire under the torchlight.
She hadn't even crossed halfway before the chatter stuttered and fell into silence. Dozens of eyes turned toward her. Some of them were curious, some amused, and far too many skeptical.
A red haired knight, barely older than she was and twice as smug, leaned back on a chair with his boots on the table. His armor shone like he'd never seen battle, and his grin was just a bit too proud of itself.
"You're in the wrong hall, servant girl," he stated with a chuckle. "Kitchens are two doors down."
Dorothea stopped in the center of the room, unbothered. "I'm not a servant. I'm here to see your commander or the grand commander. Will you please take me to him?"
The knight's grin widened. "And what business does a young lady have with the commander?"
"I've come to apply for training," she answered plainly. "I want to become a knight."
And that was all it took.
The room exploded in not warm kind of laughter. The kind of laughter that shut doors before they even opened, that said 'You don't belong here and never will.'
A burly knight stood up, the kind of man who looked like he'd fought wars just to keep the rules from changing. His voice carried over the crowd like a hammer hitting stone.
"You know the law," he said. "Only males of noble blood or those adopted into noble houses before the age of seven are permitted to train under us. Those laws are older than this city's walls."
Dorothea held his gaze. Her voice was calm, but her words landed like flint against steel. "Then maybe it's time those laws remembered why they were written to protect the realm, not to prop up bloodlines or feed the pride of men."
A silence fell again, but this one was different. It wasn't a surprise, it was something heavier and more unsettled. She could feel it then—that she was standing on a razor's edge. Between what had always been and what might, finally, be possible.
"I didn't come here to seek your approval," she added. "I came to speak with someone who has the authority to say yes or no."
A black haired knight lounging near the wall snorted. "And you think you could keep up with us? Women don't have the strength for what we do. You'd fall in the first week."
Dorothea resisted the urge to roll her eyes so hard they'd fall out of her head. That tired old stereotype, once again dripping from the mouths of those repugnant men, made her stomach churn with disdain.
"If you're so sure," Dorothea's voice was cool and sharp, "why not test me? I'll take you on, right here."
Dorothea knew how to fight. She had the scars from her self training, the calluses, and the muscle memory to prove it but doubt still whispered at the edges of her resolve. These men were trained, armored, and arrogant enough to believe that alone made them unbeatable.
Still, she refused to step back. Not for a hall full of swaggering brutes who thought a woman's worth was measured by the weight of her skirts.
The knight stood with a sneer. "You've got some nerve, girl. But arrogance won't save you from steel."
He unsheathed his sword with a hiss of metal.
"Hey, this isn't smart," another knight said, stepping between them. "She's not even a recruit–."
But no one listened to his voice. The hall had already begun to shift, benches scooting back, armor creaking as knights made room. The tension was a live thing now, coiled tight.
Dorothea stepped into the space without hesitation. Her hand went to the hilt of her worn sword, the leather grip warm from her journey.
"You first," she told him then the knight lunged, heavy on his feet, blade whistling through the air with brute force behind it. He wasn't aiming to spar with her. His goal was to humiliate her.
Dorothea didn't wince and pivoted sideways, letting his sword bite into empty air, then brought the flat of her blade up in a clean arc, knocking his weapon off course. The clash rang sharp across the hall then a series of gasps followed.
"Lucky hit," someone muttered.
But it wasn't a luck. It was timing and precision made by the training she done in secret alleyways with herself. Hours of sweat in hidden fields while noble sons drank wine and told stories of their imagined glory.
The knight came again, this time feinting left but Dorothea read his moves. She dropped low, swept his legs out from under him, and before he could recover, her blade was at his throat.
Not only was the defeated knight left in stunned silence, but even the onlooking knights stood frozen, their awe-struck gazes fixed on a woman who had just shattered their expectations.
She stepped back. "Next?"
Then a second knight who looked older and more experienced than the first one stepped forward. His eyes weren't eyeing her with mockery but full of calculation. "I'll try her."
They circled. This one moved smarter, and faster. Dorothea adjusted and let him come close, baited him with an opening, and when he took it, she twisted around his momentum, using his strength against him, and disarmed him with a flick of her blade that sent his sword clattering across the stone.
The hall was no longer laughing.
A third came forward, reluctant but curious. This looks like a test now not a mockery. He attacked with measured strikes, but Dorothea ducked, parried, and struck with speed and control. She didn't beat him with brute strength. She beat him with the kind of discipline no one had expected from someone like her.
One by one, they came.
And one by one, she put them down.
Sweat beaded on her brow. Her breath was short. She felt exhausted but her eyes never wavered, and her stance never faltered. The last knight stumbled back, disarmed, his pride left in pieces on the floor.
Dorothea stood alone at the center of the fallen knights, her sword lowered, chest rising and falling with the rhythm of earned breath.
No one jeered nor laughed at her.
The hall, once so full of mockery, now held its breath in stunned silence. Dozens of battle-tested knights watched her—swords slack in hand, pride dented, mouths slightly open—as if trying to reconcile the woman standing before them with the one they'd just underestimated.
She hadn't just fought. She had danced with steel, sidestepping brute strength with precision, deflecting attacks like she'd been born for the blade. No training from the Order. No noble title. Just skill, grit, and a kind of fire they didn't know how to measure until now.
Then came the slow, unhurried clapping full of galling amusement.
Dorothea turned toward the sound of claps—and she stood still, shocked to see him here.
Blond hair like spun gold, a grin that knew too much, and eyes the color of trouble itself. The same rake who had flirted with her yesterday with the confidence of a man who'd never heard the word "no" used sincerely.
'What in the saints' names is he doing here?' she thought, already regretting meeting him about the last twenty-four hours. 'Don't tell me he's a knight. Please don't tell me he's one of them.' She clung to denial like a lifeline, spinning hopeful lies in her head even as the truth stood gleaming in steel before her. The knight's uniform he's wearing didn't lie and neither could she.
He sauntered through the parting crowd like a cat who knew exactly how much attention he was getting. His armor was as polished as his charm, and the smirk on his face only grew when he saw her staring.
"You know," he spoken in a warm voice, like velvet over steel, "I came for the swordplay, but stayed for the surprise."
He stopped in front of her, just close enough to be inappropriate. His eyes gleamed with teasing delight. "Splendid fight. Truly. I enjoyed every moment."
Then, after a pause that felt far too practiced, he added with a wink, "Though what I enjoyed most… was seeing you again. Must be fate, don't you think?"
Dorothea clicked her tongue out of annoyance. She wasn't sure if she wanted to slap him, stab him with her sword or sprint out of the room entirely.
"Fate?" she repeated dryly. "More like a curse with good hair."
The blond knight just laughed, clearly unbothered with her sarcastic remarks and far too pleased with himself.
Dorothea stepped back just enough to reclaim her space, but not enough to show retreat. She narrowed her eyes at him, arms crossed, her sword resting beside her waist.
"I didn't come here to entertain admirers," she said coolly with one of her eyebrow raised. "So if you're done with the clapping and the flattery, maybe let me speak with someone who has an authority."
He grinned wider—undeterred, even more amused.
"Oh, but I do have authority," he stated. "Sir Frederick of House Andersen. The Grand Commander unfortunately." He offered a mock bow with an elegant flourish. "A knight. A noble. And, as of today, your biggest fan."
Dorothea's eyes went wide as saucers. Shocked to hear that he was one of the golden-blooded elites who had everything handed to them at birth, including charm and arrogance in equal measure.
"Great," she couldn't help but to muttered in sarcasm. "A flirt, a show-off, and a noble. What a combo."
Frederick leaned in just slightly, lowering his voice. "You forgot devastatingly handsome."
"I didn't forget. I just don't give points for things you probably admire in mirrors."
A few knights nearby tried to hide their grins. The tension in the room had shifted and was no longer full of hostility, replaced with something charged and watchful.
Frederick straightened, his expression turning just slightly more serious beneath the layers of teasing.
"You know," he paused for a moment, "I didn't believe one of my men when they reported to me that a commoner woman was here picking a fight with one of the knights. Thought it was just a joke they made but now…" He tilted his head. "You've defeated all of them. I'm wondering if we've been training the recruits in a wrong way."
Dorothea warily searched his face. She couldn't tell if it was another flowery words of him or something almost like respect.
"You're not going to ridicule me?" Dorothea asked, arching a brow as she looked at him. "Or lecture me for stirring up trouble in your place?"
The Grand Commander's sharp sky blue eyes rested on her for a beat too long. Then he exhaled through his nose and the faintest trace of a smirk was tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"No," he said. "They had it coming. Mockery deserves a response. You just happened to deliver it thoroughly."
Dorothea blinked, caught off guard by the hint of dry humor in his voice. Then he added, more evenly, "And I'm assuming you're here to talk to me about something important."
"It is."
"Good. Then let's talk somewhere with less disturbances."
He turned to his troops. "And as for the rest of you, consider this your lesson in humility. I hereby ordered all of you to do one hundred push-ups and one hundred sit-ups now."
A collective groan rippled through the hall, but none dared challenge the grand commander. They all sheathed their swords and clanking sounds were heard as they dropped it to the stone floor along with their armor, already regretting their words more than their bruises.
"Follow me," Without waiting for her response, the blonde commander strode away, his cape snapping behind him like a banner.
She obeyed and walked behind him until they reached his office.
The Grand Commander's office was far less grand than Dorothea expected—stone walls lined with maps, weapon racks, and parchment-stuffed shelves. No throne-like chair or ornate banners were seen. Just a sturdy desk, a pair of chairs, and a man who clearly valued function over display.
Grand Commander Frederick motioned toward the chair with a subtle flick of his fingers, then shut the door behind them with a definitive click that echoed like a judge's gavel. Dorothea sat, smoothing her clothes with more grace than she felt, her nerves humming beneath her skin.
"So," he circled behind his desk and leaning against it with the casual arrogance of a man who knew exactly how much space he took up, "you've come to talk to me about joining the Order, right?"
"Yes," she replied in a polite and formal tone. "I'd like to request apprenticeship training—under one of your knights."
She swallowed the distaste she held for the golden-haired commander, his smug grin still fresh in her memory from yesterday's infuriating encounter. This was no time for her grudges. She needed a place in the Order and impressions were everything.
He studied her, arms crossed, gaze as sharp as an unsheathed blade. "Being polite doesn't suit you." he drawled, eyes glinting. "I preferred the fire you showed me yesterday. Now that was convincing."
She clicked her tongue in irritation then glared at him, not hiding her annoyance and his smile deepened. Gods, she hated men like him—charming, unpredictable, and dangerous in all the wrong ways.
"I can make you join the Order," his voice were silked in confidence. "I can use my authority to bend the rules."
The flicker of hope lit in her chest—then dimmed as he added, "Of course, it comes with a condition."
Her spine stiffened. "What condition?"
"You'll train under me," he rose up from his chair. "You'll answer only my rules all alone and not the dusty ones inked in the Order's archives."
Dorothea's eyes narrowed. "Why?"
"Because," He stepped toward her, "I saw something in your stance earlier. It was full of determination and hunger. Your skills are not ruined, just unshaped and I want to be the one to polish it."
A pause stretched between them, filled with unsaid things. She searched his face, looking for some trace of manipulation, but found only sincerity. That means he really meant it.
She arched an eyebrow, folding her arms. "Polish me, Grand Commander?"
A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Don't make it sound like an indecent offer. I'm being generous."
"And brutally honest," she answered, rising to meet his gaze. "You really think you can turn me into one of your prized knights?"
He didn't wavered. "No. I think you can. I'm just giving you the forge."
Dorothea searched his face, weighing his offer. No, it wasn't just an offer—it was a gamble. A close-quarters gamble. Training with him meant immersion, challenge, and... risk especially with a man who wielded charm like a sword.
Accepting his offer was like stepping into a den of wolves—danger lurked in every smooth word he spoke. She needed to tread carefully, to think twice and then twice again. Men like him were a storm in disguise. All charm and sweet whispers until they stripped a woman of everything—heart, pride, even hope—and vanished into the night without a backward glance.
"Give me time to decide." That's the only response Dorothea could give.
He nodded, amusement still dancing in his eyes. "I'll give you a day then," he said. "But if you choose yes... prepare for everything to change."
When it was her turned to leave, he stepped forward and came too close to her. He could feel his warm and mint-sweet breath against her cheek.
"And if you do say yes," he whispered, "try not to fall for me during training. I hear it's terribly distracting."
Dorothea clicked her tongue. "If I ever fall for you, I expect to be trampled by a warhorse for mercy's sake."
He chuckled. "That's the spirit, Dorothea."
She stormed out of his office, each step echoing her fury. Her jaw clenched, pulse burning with irritation—not just at his shameless flirtation, but at herself for letting it get under her skin. She had come here prepared to battle tradition, steel, and centuries of prejudice but she hadn't expected him to be the battlefield.
But how did he know her name?