The  Squireship Trials were held on the extensive training grounds of the Duke’s estate, and were designed to seek out the next generation of Rhinestadt Knights from a collection of lower noble houses and commoners. As a Duke, Rhinestadt had the right to own his own private army of knights and foot soldiers that were loyal to him. He then swore his oath to the Empress, to protect her and the Empire should the need arise. Even as a commoner I could see the potential risks of this system, but from what I could glean from my studies it was an archaic system left over from the previous Emperor. The current Empress, Eliza Dol Vaniar Drachen the First, was a major reformer and had successfully managed to dismantle the archaic and dangerous systems of her father throughout the Empire; all except within the Rhinestadt Duchy. I didn’t really know why Rhinestadt got special treatment in this regard; perhaps the Empress owed him a favour or two. Either way, with a little bit of luck and a lot of effort, becoming a high ranking knight was the only way a commoner like me could gain access to Violette.

I arrived at the crack of dawn with a crowd of other commoners, most of whom were applying to be foot soldiers. Though not particularly glamorous, it was a job that offered decent pay and rewarded those of a more… violent disposition. But I wasn’t interested in joining them; no, I was aiming for the top, and my competition arrived soon after in carriages. 

The noble children were all from families beneath the Duke. It was a common way for families to strengthen bonds; sending their youngest to serve the Duke assured him of their loyalty. As a result they were practically guaranteed to pass the Trials whether they were skilled or not; to them the competition was a game. Meanwhile I needed to prove that as a commoner I had something better to offer than familial ties. 

The trials were broken up into a number of different challenges. On each challenge a contestant would receive a score, given by a panel of knights. Those who passed enough challenges were then given to an active duty knight to serve as a squire, thus starting their path towards Knighthood. 

As for the challenges themselves, there were five of them: Two obstacle courses, one on horseback and one on foot, a shooting contest, a written exam, and finally a swordsmanship tournament. 

I’ll be honest; I was terrified. The horseback obstacle course would be a challenge, especially as I had never ridden a horse in this life. The foot course was one place I could make some ground; I had done a lot of running in the last two years, and had some confidence in my physical ability. The shooting contest was more difficult; my father could only show me his own guard issue rifle: how to handle it, clean it, take it apart and put it back together. But despite that, the written exam would likely be the hardest; I knew how to read and write in this world’s language, but only to an acceptable degree. Not only that, there was no formalized education for children like me; I could only hope my game knowledge would save me. 

Lastly, there was the sword tournament. This was my best chance; it was the thing I had spent the most training on, and I knew that if I was underestimated by my opponent it would only work in my favour. Though my father was no genius swordsman, a guard knew how to fight and how to survive. Despite my fears, I was more determined to win than anyone. 

All the squireship candidates were sent to wait in a fancy tent. I got a good look at my rivals here: twelve noble children and five commoners in total, all between the ages of eight and twelve. Two of the commoners were clearly wealthy - likely from merchant families. Their clothes were no worse than the nobles, though they didn’t have a right to own their own swords. The other two commoners looked like their origins were closer to mine; ragged clothing and a needy look in their eyes betrayed their desperation. I could sympathize of course; I was hardly any better. But while their desperation stemmed from a dream, mine came from the cold knowledge of what precisely would happen to my benefactor if I failed. I could not fail. 

“Hah, is this the best competition you commoners could come up with?” An irritating voice broke through my thoughts.

I looked up from the corner of the tent where I sat, far away from everyone else. A short aristocratic girl stared down at me, an expression of disdain written across her face. But as I looked up at her, a strange feeling of familiarity overcame me as I took in her features. She had straw blonde hair which, despite being tied up into a high ponytail, reached the small of her back. Her lips were a lush red, and her cheeks had a healthy blush; a sure sign of makeup. But what was most striking was her eyes; they were a bright sea blue colour, almost as if they were photoshopped.

It suddenly hit me where I knew her from, and I tried to suppress a giggle as I realized she looked exactly like she had been ripped straight from a Barbie Saddle And Ride Adventure Set™.

“I’m sorry, is there something on my face?! What gives you the right to laugh at me.”

“N-no… sorry, haha… you just look like someone I know…”

“H-how dare you! I look nothing like a commoner!”

“Haha, even your speech fits the stereotype…” Another snort of laughter escaped me; the fact that I ran into the walking stereotype of a Mean Girl was just too funny.

“Hmph! Outrageous! What are you even laughing about?!!”

“Hahaha… oh dear, this is too much…”

“I demand an explanation!”

Another shriek of laughter escaped me as she spouted yet another classic line. It was like this girl was an amalgamation of every female bully stereotype: from the classic shoujo villainess, to a petty elementary schooler. Even her angry pout was on point. 

“How dare you! I will have you flogged for this insult!”

“Haha… haha… I… I didn’t insult you though?” I managed to gasp out. My stomach was starting to hurt from the absurdity of the situation.

“I beg your pardon?!” 

I clambered to my feet, and took great pleasure in watching the girl’s face turn to fear as she realized I was nearly two heads taller than her. I gave her a cheeky grin, not caring if she was insulted or not; it wouldn’t matter either way if I passed the trials. 

“I was only laughing, you know? I never said it was at you… or would you prefer if I had?”

“Wh- what?!” the girl sputtered, confused by my absurdly stupid logic. 

“I can laugh at you if you want me to. Though I charge a fee for that service… well, you’re cute so I’ll give you a discount.”

“C-cute?!!” Her make-up became visible as her face turned a far more interesting shade of red. Goodness, she was fun to tease. “I-I knew it! You are making fun of me!”

“Not at all. I haven’t been paid yet.”

“Bah! You can’t fool me! You’re just a peasant girl who doesn’t know her place! No, a carrot top! You’re tall and thin, and your hair is the same colour as a carrot!”

Her pitiful attempts to regain the upper hand caused me to bite down on my lip, restraining another bout of laughter.

“Well, I suppose that makes you a beet, since your face is as red as one. That’s nice, we have nicknames for each other now!”

“N-nicknames?! How dare you! I-”

“Ignore her Marianne, she’s just trying to rile you up.” One of the other noble boys interrupted our fun, putting a hand on the girl’s shoulder. 

“Rile her up?” I recoiled in mock outrage. “Certainly not; I was only trying to make friends. She’s the only other girl here after all.”

“Friends?! Is that what you call making friends?!” Marianne’s voice was practically a shriek. 

“Ignore her. Come on, the commoners are a waste of time anyways.”

I watched in amusement as the boy pulled her away. She certainly was fun, and ironically enough I was grateful to her for the distraction from the overwhelming anxiety I was hiding under a casual smile. 

Fortunately the wait was not drawn out any longer as the tent flap opened and a soldier stepped through.

“Good morning everyone. My name is Sergeant Foster, and you will refer to me as such.”

The man’s head was completely shaved and his eyes were grey and frigid, giving me the impression that he was a cold hearted and serious man. His constant expression of minor irritation didn’t help either.

“During today’s trials, your family’s nobility status is meaningless. War is the great equalizer, and if a knight chooses to accept you as a squire, you will serve that knight regardless of whichever noble house you came from. You will each draw a number by which you’ll be referred to. If you inform anyone of your real name, or loudly announce that your father is the Earl of such and such, you will be disqualified. We don’t need any whiny brats here.” He sent a glare towards the crowd of noble children in particular as he held up a coarse bag. “Line up and take your numbers.”

To my surprise, none of the noble children put up a fuss at this. It seemed they had been warned beforehand how the trials would work. The commoners however, had excited expressions on their faces. Perhaps they thought this system would give them a fair chance against the nobles, but I knew better; this did nothing to make up for the difference in training the noble children would have already received at home. 

Once we had all finished pulling, the soldier pulled out a list and cleared his throat. 

“Now that you all have your numbers, please pay close attention. Numbers one to four, proceed to the stables for the horseback trials. Five to eight, you are to head to the obstacle course on the training ground. Numbers nine to thirteen are to head to the shooting range, while thirteen to seventeen are to go to the barracks for the written exam.”

I glanced at the slip of paper in my hand and read the number twelve. It looked like the shooting trial was my first challenge. 

The soldier continued. 

“At each trial you will be given a score out of one hundred by the judges. Once your trial is complete, you will be rotated to the next one. Arguing over your score will get you nowhere: the judges have the final say. At the end of the day, only the top two scorers of each group will advance to the swordsmanship tournament, however they must have at least two hundred points total. Then, depending on your performance in the tournament, you may be considered for squireship. Is that clear?”

A chorus of 'yes' came from all the participants as the Sergeant continued.

“Each trial has its own set of rules, but you will be immediately disqualified if you are caught fighting with, sabotaging or otherwise causing harm to your fellow contestants. You are only here to prove your own abilities, nothing else. Now, compete with honor and good luck to all of you.”

With that he gestured us out of the tent, sending us to each of our respective destinations.

The shooting range was a wide open field, with targets set up at different distances. There were tables set up next to the shooting positions, with boxes of ammunition and supplies. There were five stations set up in total, but a surprise awaited us when we arrived; there were no guns; instead only a pile of metal parts, with some tools and cleaning supplies. The guns had been completely disassembled, and the tiny old man with prickly white fuzz on his chin and a tweed cap seemed to relish in our shocked expressions. He gestured us over. 

“Ah’m Ser Callaghan, retire’d knight an’ in charge o’ the armoury. Here we’ll be testin’ yer familiarity with rifles.”

He paused, taking in our confused stares at the disassembled guns. 

“Ah squire’s gotta look afta their knight’s guns! Ye cannae shoot if yah don’t know how a rifle werks! Y’ell be timed on how quick ye can put the rifle tagether an’ hit the target. Ye get ten points if yer the first. If yer not, ye lose a point for every minute ye take after someones hit the first shot. So ye best be quick!”

He turned and pointed down the range at the targets. They were about thirty yards out; a difficult shot for an amateur, but not impossible. I had hit shots like that before.  

“The targets got three rings; Outer one is werth five point, the next ten, then twelve an’ lastly the bull’s eye is twenty. Y’start when I fire off a shot. Now, git t’ yer tables!”

To my delight, the beet red barbie (as I had taken to calling her) was part of my group, as well as one of the commoners and two other noble children. We all hurried ahead, slightly intimidated by the man’s aggressive tone. I took the second to last table, then breathed a sigh of relief: the gun was a standard issue bolt action rifle, just like the one my father had. I had spent dozens of hours taking his apart, cleaning it and putting it back together again; I would have no trouble with the first part of the test. Looking to my right, I saw Beet Barbie staring at her table with an expression of confused worry. It seems she was not as lucky as me; if I had to guess, she was more familiar with high end classy rifles than a low quality gun common guards used. 

“Hi Beet! Good luck; I’m sure you have no trouble with putting yours together!” I said with a cheeky sneer. I knew I was being an ass, but the more flustered she was, the better my chances were. Plus it was fun. 

She gave me a dagger filled glare in response, then sniffed and tossed her hair. “Of course. Just wait and watch; I’m sure I’ll have the highest score out of everyone. I bet you don’t even know the right way to hold a gun.”

I grinned, but before I could respond a loud gunshot went off, starting the competition. 

My hands flew to the table, shifting through the different components of the rifle. They moved with practice ease; it was just like the one my father practiced me on. I started with the barrel, slotting the recoil lug onto its end and screwing the receiver in place behind it. The sights were already attached to the barrel, so I moved to the trigger mechanism next; securing it to the receiver with a pair of pins. 

I couldn’t stop myself from glancing over towards my competition as I worked. Beet Barbie was having a tough time; she clearly had never taking a gun apart before, likely relying on her servants to clean it for her. But she was not as hopeless as the commoner boy just past her: he clearly had never even held a gun before. It looked rather pitiful, as his table was next to the other two noble boys, who were having no trouble at all; it looked like I needed to hurry up. 

With the trigger in place and its spring attached, I reached for the bolt before a sudden thought struck me. Wait… why did they include cleaning supplies? It seemed weirdly suspicious that they would provide materials that weren’t needed, unless…

Acting purely on a hunch, I knocked out the pins I had just installed and inspected the trigger a little more closely. Sure enough, it was filled with enough gunk that it was practically begging to break. If I didn’t clean it, it could potentially seize during my shooting but if I did, I’d likely lose a chance at the first shot. 

Shit… what do I do?!

As I debated my choice, I remembered the old man’s words: a squire must look after their knight's guns… that’s right. I wasn’t in a competition to be a knight, I was competing to be a squire. Trusting my instincts, I began to take apart the trigger mechanism and clean it as well. 

A shot rang out as I worked, accompanied by a shout of excitement. One of the noble boys had managed to hit his target first, scoring him the first ten points. But for the rest of us, it meant the clock was on; from now one every minute we kept working on our guns was a point deducted. 

“If yer on the battlefield, sumtimes yah got tah be ready at any moment. Werk faster if ye don’t want to fall behind!” shouted the old man as he paced between our stations. 

Another shot rang out as the second noble boy fired his first shot. Their eager cries spurned my fingers to only work faster, as the knot of worry in me grew. What if I failed- no. I couldn’t let myself sink into such thoughts on the first trial. I knew taking my time to clean the trigger mechanism would pay off. 

It took another minute before I managed to piece it back together and reattach it to the receiver. I was already two points down and was about to lose a third, but I made sure to double check the parts as I went; they needed to be clean to work properly. 

The firing pin and the spring also needed to be cleaned, and nearly seven minutes total passed before I finally could attach the stock and finish assembling the thing. It was perfect timing as well; just as I ran over to the firing line, I heard a click and a loud curse from the boys at the end of the line. One of their rifles had jammed, and I knew it was only a matter of time before the other one did as well. 

I couldn’t help but let slip a satisfied smirk as I raised my rifle and aimed through the stock sights. 

*BANG*

My first shot went wide, clipping the edge of the target. I adjusted and fired again, but this time I over compensated, sending the bullet sailing right past the target on the other side. It was frustrating; I knew my hands weren’t steady enough for this. 

Hang on a sec… he didn’t say we had to do it standing

I glanced at the supervisor, then slowly got down on my hands and knees. He raised an eyebrow at me but showed no reaction, which I took as tacit permission.

Now lying on my belly, I had a far easier time holding the gun steady. It showed too; my first shot hit the ten mark, immediately making up for my lost points.

“Number twelve, ye hit yer target! With a reduction o’ 8 minutes, ye now got a total o’ two points!”

Grinning, I reloaded and aimed again; I could do this.

Miss Beet Barbie, on the other hand, was not having a good time. After the boys jammed their rifles she noticed that the parts needed to be cleaned. Her expression was filled with disgust as she got oil and dirt all over her manicured hands but she eventually pulled through, finally managing to finish her rifle half an hour after the first shot was fired. She was thirty seven points down, but she showed no fear; instead, an expression of excitement overcame her. Standing proud and tall, she fired off her first shot. 

“Bullseye for number ten! Well done missy, but ye still got plenty o’ points to make up fer!”

But make up for it she did. Her next shot scored her another twelve, and before long her points were quickly back into positive numbers. 

The trial took an hour long in total, after which the old man gathered us together for our scores.

“Number nine, ye scored a zero since ye couldn’t finish assemblin’ yer gun. Number eleven, ye got the first shot but yew only scored a nineteen, cause yah dinnea check if yer shooter need’n cleanin’. Same to yew, number thirteen, only ye only scored a thirteen. Seems fittin’ no?”

He turned to me, a mischievous grin on his white stubble face. “But it seems like the two missus ‘ere did best, cause number twelve scored a thirty-six. BUT, she cleaned ‘er rifle, which gets ‘er an extra ten points, for a total o’ forty six.”

One of the noble boys sputtered. “That wasn’t mentioned in the rules! How was I supposed to know I had to clean them as well?!”

“By payin’ attention,” roared the old man. “Ah squire’s gotta look afta their masta’s gun, dinnea Ah say that? Are ye’ arguing wid me boy?”

The boy swallowed. “N-no sir.”

“Gud! Cause none o youse were half as gud as number ten! She scored a fifty two in shootin’ alone, and that was afta a thirty seven point deduction! Plus, she cleaned ‘er gun, so she gets sixty two points total. Well done missy, but youse gotta learn tah be quicker in fixin’ yer gun!”

Beet Barbie tossed her hair again and gave me a smug grin. I had to admit, I was impressed; one wouldn’t have expected this short little girl to be such a crack shot. Still, it meant I’d have to work a lot harder.

Niame

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