A Shieldmaiden’s Tale: A Shieldmaiden's Tale
She begins with defiance—spoiled, stubborn, and certain the world will bend to her will. The idea of glory dances behind her eyes, polished steel and easy victories painted in the colors of rebellion. But the road is long, the gear heavy, and her pride wears thin. Blisters replace bravado. The stories didn’t mention pain, or failure, or the quiet humiliation of not being ready. She breaks—but doesn’t stop. Slowly, grit replaces glamour. Each fall teaches her more than a hundred boasts ever could. What began as fantasy becomes fight. Discipline tempers her fire.
And by the end, she doesn’t need to declare she’s a shieldmaiden. She simply is. Made not by blood, but by every mile, scar, and choice along the way.
"Do I look like a warrior?" She shifts beneath the weight of her shield, breath catching. "You look like someone learning." The answer isn’t cruel—but it lands heavier than armor. She exhales, adjusts the strap digging into her collarbone, and takes another step. One of many.
"That swing was weak." She grabs them by the wrist, twisting the blade slightly. "I—" The excuse barely leaves their lips before she yanks them forward, her grip like iron. "No ‘I.’ No excuses." She shoves them back into stance, her eyes cold, unyielding. "Weakness is not trained away. It is crushed. Again." The training sword feels heavier now. Around them, warriors watch in silence.
A journey of bruises, blisters, and becoming—where pride breaks and purpose begins.