The House of Hands first pages, YA fantasy

“Your stance is still too spread out, Kate,” Hassland said, snapping my ankles with his wooden sword like he was a gods-damned prison warden. 

“Do that one more time and I swear-” I began to growl, just as he swiped again for my ankle, hitting his mark a second before I could pull it away. I stumbled to the side, catching myself with my own wooden sword to keep from toppling into the dirt. 

Hassland gave me an amused smile. “See. Told you your stance was too wide.” 

I glared at my brother as I propped myself back up, shuffling my feet closer together this time.

He paid no mind to my scowl, the expression more common on my face nowadays than a smile. His brown eyes were still narrowed at my feet. “It still doesn’t look right. Do you always stand that way?”

“Hassland,” I barked, snapping him out of his focus. He held up his hands in defeat and turned back towards the elegant ebony manor that loomed behind us. 

“Right. Sorry. Maybe I’m just overthinking it. Have you seen Father today by the way? He wasn’t even at breakfast.” Hassland was still staring at the House of Hands, as if asking the building instead of me. He was distracted. He’d been distracted all morning. That or infuriatingly focused on one insignificant, stupid thing, like my fighting stance. 

“No. And why do you care?”

“Dunno. I just-” He paused, scratching the back of his head, his eyes still glued to the manor, to the exact window that belonged to my father’s study. Which was dark. Like it had been all week. “He’s just been gone a lot more recently, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know, Hassland,” I sighed, my mind now just as distracted as his as I picked at a piece of mud that’d found itself crusted to one of my blades. “Honestly, I find it peaceful. No reason to question it.”

“I guess,” Hassland said softly, turning back to me. But that was Hassland. He had to question everything. Stick his nose in everything. And it’d only ever gotten him in trouble. 

“Can we just get back to sparring? It’s hot and I’d rather not spend any more time out here than I have to.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Hassland mumbled, turning back to me. His gaze lit up as it crossed my feet. “Hey, your stance looks better!”

Every bit of strength I had kept me from rolling my eyes. Instead, I just gave him a forced smile, not eager to have his laser focus turned back onto my footwork. Even if I hadn’t moved an inch since he last glanced at me. 

For the next hour, we hardly spoke, only spun and ducked and jabbed at each other. Taking a second only to breath or pull ourselves back up off the ground. It was after one particularly long sparring match that I finally got a hit on Hassland. He’d miscalculated my speed, assuming I wouldn’t have enough time to twist out of his swipe for my right side. But I had, and I came back swinging for his left side now exposed.

I’d like to say I hit him harder than I’d meant to, but quite frankly, that’d be a lie. After the two raps at my ankle and the several more whacks I’d received during our sparring match, I’d been a little too pleased to finally get to show him how much a wooden sword could actually hurt. 

He barely had time to breathe out the word, “shit” as he doubled over, the air squeezed from his lungs like water from a wet rag. 

“King of Reih, Katerina, don't you think that was a bit hard for training?” Hassland said, his voice a pathetic mix between a wheeze and a whisper. 

“Sorry, it got away from me.” 

“Liar,” he mused, his face still contorted in pain as he rubbed his side. I didn’t bother defending myself. I only dusted off the wooden practice blades that almost perfectly matched my twin steel ones slung across my bed back in my room right now. 

“Katerina,” a voice cut through the sound of men sparring around us. 

I jumped, surprised to hear our father’s tone that was about as warm and lively as a four-day-old corpse. I felt my face heat as I met Hassland’s worried gaze. 

“The king is here asking for you.”

I watched Hassland tense, then whipped my head around to face my father. Before I could open my mouth to ask why, he cut me off with a sharp wave of his hand, letting only a weak whimper escape my lips. 

“Don’t keep him waiting,” my father snapped. 

There was an unsaid warning in his words. There always was.

So much for his peaceful absence I’d been growing to enjoy.

I swallowed hard. In the sunlight, our father’s blonde hair looked nearly as pale as his skin. His blue eyes were like ice as they ran their gaze across my mud-stained face and sweaty clothing. He gave me an irritated look but said nothing. 

I dipped my head, trying to hide the fear in my eyes. Still, Hassland sniffed it out like a bloodhound, his jaw uncomfortably tight as he picked up the wooden sword he’d left lying in the dirt and dusted it off stiffly. 

“Is something the matter, Hassland?” Our father’s tone was bored, but his eyes remained sharply focused on Hassland. My brother only shook his head, his face like stone. 

“Good.” Then, as if remembering why he was here in the first place, my father snapped, “Katerina, go.”

I nodded again and reached down to grab my blades. Satisfied with my response, he turned back on his heel, getting ready to walk back inside, when he spoke again over his shoulder. “And Hassland, next time you fight her, I expect you to win.”

Hassland’s face went red, his eyes shooting down to his feet. I felt a pang of guilt for my earlier move; I hadn’t realized our father had been watching. Even so, I knew apologizing to my older brother would only result in a lecture from him about the dangers of holding back during training. 

We watched our father walk back towards the keep, men pausing to salute as he approached. His tall and slender figure didn’t match the thick and muscular frames of the men he passed. But one look at his sharp face and cold eyes, and you could tell he was much worse. 

As soon as he was out of hearing distance, I loosened a breath. “Well, that was pleasant as always,” I laughed, turning back towards my brother. Hassland’s hands were balled into fists, his eyes painted in self-loathing. 

“It’s not a game, Katerina,” he snapped so hard I flinched. “He’s right. I shouldn’t be losing to anyone. Even you.” 

“Hass, come-” I started, but he cut me off, picking up my practice blades and storming off in the direction of our father. 

As the oldest by four years, Hassland had an immense amount of expectations weighing on his shoulders. He was to take over the House of Hands from our father one day, and he took it very seriously. So I tried my best not to feel hurt by the outburst. 

I stood in silence, not in any particular hurry to go to the king, and kicked a loose rock with my foot. 

A mission that came directly from the King of Reih was never a fun one. I tried not to dwell on whatever unpleasant task awaited me. What poor soul would have to be threatened, kidnapped, tortured, or murdered out of the public eye tonight for ‘the good of the kingdom.’ Because as my father never failed to remind his men, to keep the peace and unity of the Reih, sometimes the sword had to be unsheathed. As if the men that were a part of the House of Hands, really cared about whether or not what they were doing was justified and right. As if any of us really care. 

I let a loud exhale out through my nose and turned towards the House of Hands. 

Its high ebony walls stood proud and mighty, surrounded by training fields, stables, and barracks. The house itself was slender and tall. Three stories were dedicated to bed chambers and weapons rooms, with the kitchens, the Grand Hall, the library, and my father’s study all existing on the ground floor. Slender, cream-colored trimmed windows spanned across the front, connecting to a large balcony. The balcony was the centerpiece of this grand manor. Into the railings, a pair of golden hands clasped together had been shaped with the metal. It was our emblem, the mighty hands, unbreakable like the soldiers who lived within. As my father always said, “It is not the weapons that kill, but the hands that wield them.” 

I headed towards my father’s study, watching the men who sparred in the early autumn heat around me as I went, and wished much more to be behind the brunt of a sword than in front of the king.