Written by: Zack "Tony" Emmert
The following is a retelling of a story shared with me by Squire Willoughby of the Knights of the Aberrant Gate
Long before she was Dame Mirield Castillion, before the legends and the accolades, she was just Mirield—called “Wharf Rat” by the soldiers in the training yard.
She wasn't born to a name like most of those lads. The others had crests or court tutors, or at the very least parents who had walked this path before. But Mirield? She had callused hands, a makeshift sword carved from driftwood, and a chip on her shoulder that could sink ships.
The Master-at-Arms tolerated her presence only because the law of the land was to, “Let the sea choose who wears the steel.”
In those days, the Annual Gauntlet of Rathkeale happened every spring. Early spring, mind you. When it was still cold and the season was confused. The Gauntlet was a chance for even people like Mirield to prove their worth and fight for a place at the table.
And fight she did. Losing meant going home for another year. Back to the docks with nothing and no one.
She fought well—too well, by noble standards. That’s when one of the local Knights stepped forward. Blonde. Strong. Cocky to a fault.
"I will challenge the wharf rat," he said. Certain of his victory. "She's quick on her feet, but let's see how she fares against real strength and skill."
Mirield accepted the challenge with nothing but a nod as she walked with this man to the center ring. Nothing but salt in her eyes and fury in her heart.
They dueled in the center ring—watched by nobles, knights, and wealthy merchants alike. He danced like he was in a ballroom, graceful, practiced. But Mirield moved like the tide—unpredictable, surging when least expected.
He nicked her cheek. She cut his shoulder. The crowd leaned in.
Then he cheated. When he tripped, he flung sand into her eyes. Blinded, she stumbled, and the crowd gasped.
But she’d learned to fight without sight—on stormy decks, in midnight squalls. She ducked, sidestepped, and when he lunged with smug certainty, she disarmed him with a sweep of her leg and drove her wooden blade into the sand by his throat.
Then, Mirield did the damnedest thing. She offered him a hand up despite the disrespect, and despite his poor conduct, she showed him the way a real Knight would behave.
But he didn't like that, slapped her hand away and grabbed her arm. Turned the tables on her and the crowd gasped again.
A hush fell over them all, and Mirield was beaten, layin' in the dirt. Should have been humiliated and broken, but she forced herself up and offered to shake his hand.
He refused, turned his back on her with a scoff. But one person applauded for her in that crowd. One person who saw her worth. A certain Knight of the Aberrant Gate.
"The sea has chosen!" he said to Mirield that day. And that's how she became a Squire, and later a Knight, and then a legend.
Years on, that cheating warrior would sail under her command. He never spoke of the duel again.
But once, in a tavern, drunk on old rum, he whispered, “She didn’t fight me. She fought the world. And won."
