The sun rose early that morning, warm rays of light slowly creeping across the earth. In the town of Eastridge, villagers began their daily routines, throwing open their blinds, opening their shops, and resuming their duties. Torches and lanterns were extinguished, and the gates were opened to the world once more. Up on the hill, overlooking the town and the acres of fields surrounding it, the castle belonging to the local lord began to glow as lights flickered on behind thick glass windows. Eastridge was waking up, but some of its residents had been up for far longer. Dotted around the town, stretching all the way to the horizon, were dozens of farms, all of which had been active for hours prior to the rise of the sun. Fields of barley had been inspected by the light of oil lanterns in the hours before sunrise, farming equipment checked and readied, and farmhands roused from their slumber to begin the arduous task of tending the fields.  

   And in a small barn on the edge of the fiefdom, Arturia Fieldsman awoke face down in a stack of hay as the light filtered through the gaps in the walls. This was not normal. In her half-awake state, however, she quickly stopped concerning herself with why she wasn’t in her bed, and rolled over in the hay, intending to fall back into a world of dreams. Unfortunately for her, other parties had their own plans for her morning, and those plans did not involve sleep. 

   “Arturia!” came a yell from somewhere outside, the sudden noise rousing her for good.. “Dammit girl, I need you here!”

   “Coming, father!” she yelled as she groggily clambered to her feet. Her father only called her by her full name when he was thoroughly jagged off. Looking down to see if she was decent, she realized she was still in her sparring clothes, her wooden training sword lying in the hay beside her. As soon as she had picked it up, the barn door creaked open, letting more light flood into the barn. Her father, Markus, stood at the door, shaking his head.

   “You were up late playing with that damn sword again, weren’t you, Art?” he sighed, shaking his shaven head from side to side. Art stood in silence, resting the tip of the sword on the ground in front of her and sullenly looking towards her father. This was not the first time he had bought this topic up, and she was beginning to tire of it. “I wish I had never allowed your mother to teach you those damn drills. Gods bless her memory, but she was a strange woman.”

   Art gritted her teeth. “I didn’t see you complaining when I beat off those crop thiefs three months back. I’m simply honoring Mother’s memory. You know she would approve, even if you don’t.”

   Markus leaned against the frame of the door and let out a deep breath. He pulled a ball of twine out of the pocket of his coveralls and began fiddling with it, his worn fingers unraveling and twisting the rough string into knotted loops. “Those punks would have just as easily been scared off by a yell or something less…martial. The bailiff gave me no end of trouble over the state in which you left those boys. In any case, you know why I think it’s all useless. Nobles learn swordplay, them and the poor sods they lead into battle in the Savage North. Farmers- especially ones your age- are better served learning how to run a farm, not swing a blade.”

   Art scowled, striding over to a wooden rack against the far wall where another similar training sword already sat, covered in dust. She gently stowed her training sword, and stood there with her back turned, clenching her fists. Her father walked up behind her and rested a hand on her shoulder. 

   “Your mother was a gift from the gods. When she showed up on our doorstep all those years ago, I knew she was the most beautiful woman I had ever met. You look just like her, and you have her stubbornness too. But you’re not her. I think it’s time you stopped-”

   “She died three summers ago, and you’ve already decided that what she was teaching me was pointless?” Art said sharply, pushing his hand off of her and turning to face him. “That I should stop training the way she wanted me to? She told me that it was part of my heritage. That all of the girls in our family learned how to use a sword. That it was part of her heritage. Her pa-“

   Markus cut her off. “Your mother had no past. She made that very clear to me. Whatever she told you? It’s better that you don’t speak of it. Not unless you want to bring down a world of fire on this family. You know as well as I do that your mother had demons in her past. I never asked where she learned to use a sword, or who she was before she showed up on my doorstep all those years ago, or how she got her scars. She made it clear that life, whatever it was, was behind her. That she didn’t want you or I to suffer on her behalf. She may have been damn mysterious, but I damn well loved her.”

   He paused, and his voice softened somewhat. “I could tell she was running from something. Even when she was begging me to take you to those foolish jousts in the town square, she never showed up to any of them. She said she was scared of her past catching up with her. Of it catching up with you.”

  He put both his hands on Art’s shoulders and looked right into her eyes. “I don’t know what it was that she was scared of, or who she was hiding from, but it’s safer that both of us avoid speaking of it. Art…you’re all I have left. Please, let the past stay in the past. For me. And for her.”

Art wiped her nose, and looked directly into her father’s eyes. There was fear and anger there, but she could tell it wasn’t aimed at her. Swallowing, she nodded once, her throat too tight for words.

“Good girl. Now, go get dressed. I need you to help me with the autoplow, you’ve always been better with that damn contraption than me. That drainage ditch won’t dig itself, and you’re the only person around here who can operate that damn metal monster without toppling it.”

   After peeling off her exercise gear, changing into her working clothes, and quickly downing a bowl of barley porridge; Art walked out of the two-story farmhouse that she and her father lived in. Turning around, and running her fingers through her hair, she looked up at her home. It was a good house, at least by her standards. The building was built from nailed-together sections of logs insulated with thatch, and sealed with tar. The windows were covered by wooden shutters, and the roof was made of the same thatch and tar that insulated the walls. A brick chimney stuck up from the roof, a small trail of smoke streaming away on the warm summer breeze. The flag of the kingdom, a crest of an eagle against a background of blue and gold, flapped gently in the breeze from a nearby flagpole.

   Art had lived in this house her entire life, all fifteen summers of it. It had been built by her grandparents when they were given the land by the Lord of Eastridge in return for her grandfather’s loyal service during the First Succession War. Eastridge lay on the southern edge of the Kingdom of Avalan, the most powerful nation on the continent of Europia. Art’s family had tended their barley fields for the Eastmarch family for two generations now, sailing through three famines and the Second Succession War with barely a scratch. Even though it was a good place to live, with a fair and just ruler, and plentiful harvests, Art hated the fief she lived in. Eastridge’s relative isolation and relative security gave her few opportunities for excitement, crop thieves and the odd pack of wolves aside. The last time Eastridge had been attacked was when Art was three, and it had been by a small group of deserters fleeing the ongoing conflict against the Barbarian Kingdoms. They had taken over the town hall, and had taken many hostages. Unfortunately for them, the Lord of Eastridge was one of the Destrier Knights, and had put them to rest with the aid of his faithful mount.

   The Destrier Knights were the most powerful nobles in the land, and Earl Harkness, the ruler of Eastridge, was one of them, piloting the machine known as Glory’s Hammer. Art had only seen him once, when he piloted Glory’s Hammer against another Destrier during one of the jousts that were held in the town square every so often. Her mother had encouraged her father to take her to them as soon as she turned ten, although he had stopped taking her after her mother died, and Art hadn’t had the courage to go by herself. The Destriers were ancient machines, built to fight in a war that ended thousands of years ago. Their original purpose, and the secrets of their construction were unknown, but their maintenance was possible due to the knowledge and expertise of the Smith’s Guild. They were poorly understood technological relics that could only be operated by one of pure noble blood, or so her books had said. 

   From what Art had heard from her mother, not all nobles could operate the Destriers, and only a handful of the ancient machines were still intact. Many had been destroyed in the First Succession War, when the Destrier Knights had fought over the throne. More had been lost during the Second Succession War, still a recent memory, when the Traitor Knights under the Bloodquill family had risen against the rightful king. They were rarely deployed in direct battle nowadays, used only to defend the kingdom against internal threats, and in heavily regulated and controlled tournaments to showcase the skill and might of the Destrier Knights. Art had read of the Succession Wars, and of the war that still raged in the far north of the kingdom against the Frost Tribes. It sounded adventurous and honorable, even if most of the people who went off to the front never came back without their share of scars. She had asked her father if she could join the Royal Army when she came of age, if she could go and become a soldier. He hadn’t taken that well. He never seemed to understand why Art felt so restless in the peaceful backwater he loved so much.

   Art’s mother had been the only person who seemed to understand Art’s restlessness. Until her death from the plague three summers ago, she had been Art’s teacher, her friend, and her confidant. She had taught Art how to read and write- a skill that her father had decreed as useless- and had bought Art a book every time a merchant came through town with books to sell. She taught Art how to use a longsword, training her with wooden swords she had carved by hand. She had told Art stories of the Destrier Knights, the nobles who possessed the innate ability to operate the Destriers, ancient mechanical war machines from a bygone age. She had told Art of the battles fought long ago in the first and second succession wars, the second of which having ended only a couple of years after Art was born. 

   And then she had died, her body ravaged by a plague that had spread through the town a few years back. She had suffered longer than any of the other victims, dying silently in the night as her fellow patients cried out in agony. Art missed her dearly. Her last words to Art had been simple. Art had been crying while her mother lay in the hospital, worried that bandits might attack the farm while her mother wasn’t there to fend them off, or that her mother might die and leave her defenseless. Art’s mother had smiled, raised a trembling hand to cup her cheek, and had said the last words she ever spoke to Art. 

  “My dear, darling girl. If you ever find yourself in danger, go up into the wooded hills down by the river, and you will find salvation."

   Then, she had fallen into a slumber, her forehead beaded with sweat, pustules dotting her temples. Then the local apothecary told Art it was time to leave. She had bid her goodnight, and left the plague hospital, intending to visit the next morning. However, her mother was dead by the time the sun rose, and her body was burned in the town square before the end of the day. Half the town had perished before the plague was quelled. She never got to tell her mother how much she loved her. 

   Back in the present, Art tore herself from her thoughts, and turned away from her home. It was coming up on the fourth year since her mother’s death, and it would be Art’s sixteenth birthday in only four month’s time. There was a lot of work to do before autumn rolled around, and Art had work to do. The war in the north was demanding more and more grain to feed the troops, and Lord Eastmarch had already voiced his disappointment with the faltering production of barley by his people. Art’s father was also worried about the flooding that had happened last autumn swamping their fields again, and ruining another crop. Art may have had a difficult relationship with her father. She may have found life on the farm to be monotonous and boring. She may have wished her mother was still here to guide her and keep her safe. But she was fifteen now, not twelve. And she was her father’s only child. She had a responsibility to help tend the land that her family was responsible for, and there was no time to stand around reminiscing. Maybe her father was right. Maybe it was time to forget about dreams of swords and adventure. 

   Glancing one last time at the barn where she kept her swords, she jogged off towards the shed where the farm’s aging autoplow was housed. Her father was surely going to be annoyed she had been standing around for so long. 

   “What took you so long, girl? I’ve been sitting here so long my beard has grown another inch and a half!”

   Art scowled at her father, who was currently hauling open the rolling shutter at the other end of the barn. Grabbing a hair tie off a nearby table, she gathered up her shoulder-length black hair in a messy bun, and grabbed a pair of goggles from a rack on the wall. 

   “I apologize, father. I was a little slow this morning. Is the autoplow fueled?”

   Her father rolled his eyes. “Yes, and I’ve checked the oil reservoirs. I still think contraptions like this are no replacement for a bull or a mule, but Lord Eastridge’s word is law.”

   He slapped a meaty hand against the side of the machine in question, the autoplow that the farm had been assigned two years prior by the lord to replace their beasts of burden. It was a ugly piece of machinery, standing as tall as two men, and made from riveted iron plates. It stood on two legs, the knees bent backwards like the legs of a chicken, thick hydraulic pistons connecting the foreleg to the upper section like tendons of steel. A pair of three-pronged feet gave it a splayed footing that was as effective on soft earth as it was on hard concrete or packed dirt. The body was angular and unadorned, the nose fitted with a pair of gas lamps for illumination at night. The driver’s saddle was mounted up at the very back, behind the legs, and in front of the massive counterweight that stopped the machine from tipping off its feet. The exhaust manifolds for the engine stuck up from the sides of the forwards section like the horns on a bull. It was a crude mechanical beast of burden that required twice as much care as an animal for thrice as much efficiency. 

   Art loved it. She, being the sole person on the farm able to read the thick instruction manual that came with it, had been tasked with attempting to teach her father to use it by the Guild Smith who had delivered it. Unfortunately, her father had proven stubborn, and despite her best attempts had been unable to grasp the operation of the complicated machine. Similar attempts to teach the farmhands had also proved unsuccessful. So, Art had become the operator of the farm’s brand new Autoplow, a machine she affectionately called Bessie. 

   Clambering up Bessie’s metal leg, and swinging herself into the saddle, she checked the array of gauges that sat just below eye level in front of her. Satisfied that her father had fueled and oiled the machine fully, she quickly fastened the restraint buckle that sat over her lap, pulling it as tight as it would go. Placing her feet on the foot pedals, pulling down her goggles, and resting her hands on the control saunters, she made one last check of the gauges, and thumbed the ignition switch. With a roar, the powerful combustion engine that powered the autoplow burst to life, and smoke began pouring from the exhaust manifolds behind her. 

   Her father locked open the roller door, and hurried outside and off to the side. With the door open and her path clear, Art pushed the right saunter forwards and pulled back on the corresponding pedal. The massive machine raised its right leg; before the limb thudded down gently onto the dirt floor of the shed as she pulled back on the saunter and pushed the pedal back down. Confident that the cold night hadn’t jammed up the hydraulics, Art performed the same action with the left side of the controls, and then began walking at a consistent pace, alternating the controls and piloting Bessie out of the barn. Spotting the digger attachment lying off to the side a couple of dozen meters off to the side, Art shifted her body weight to the side, lifting her foot off the left pedal and pushing down on the right. This caused Bessie to slowly turn to the right, clomping across the dirt of the farmyard with her engine roaring and her hydraulics hissing. 

   Art delicately turned the machine around, and brought it to a halt. She then reached down with one hand and pulled a lever sitting down by her left thigh. A towing rig dropped down with a clunk from the bottom of the counterweight, the bottom of the assembly less than half a meter above the earth. Finally, she killed Bessie’s engine, and pushed the button that released pressure from the knee hydraulics. Bessie slowly sank back into the hunched crouch that she had been sitting in back in the shed. Her father jogged up, and offered her his hand as she unbuckled her restraints. Accepting it, she climbed down, and dropped onto the ground gracefully.

   “Good work, Art. Damn good work,” said her father, smiling and clapping her on the shoulder. “Mikael! Get your ass over here! I need your help with the digger!”

   Her father waved over at one of the farmhands, a boy around Art’s age who was busy working the farm’s thresher over by the plow shed. He waved back, and jogged over, his mousy brown hair tied back in a loose ponytail. As he passed Art, he smiled at her and winked. Art repressed the urge to gag. Her father had been subtly trying to get her and Mikael together for months now, commenting on how Art was reaching the point where she should start considering starting a family, and giving him some grandchildren to run the farm after he was gone. Art knew that he meant well, but she couldn’t imagine ever lying with a man. The thought disgusted her in a way that she couldn’t describe, and which she didn’t really understand. She rarely visited town, and rarely talked with other girls her age. Most of her time was spent on the farm, and there wasn’t much time for chatting nowadays. She wished she could talk about the way she felt though. Maybe another woman might be able to explain why she felt such a pervasive distaste towards romance. Whatever the case, she had a job to do, and whatever she was feeling was probably something that all girls went through before settling down. 

   Shaking her head, she watched as the two men hauled the digger attachment over to the back of Bessie, and began the arduous task of linking the scoop onto the machine. Art occasionally pointed out an error they had made, but it seemed that her father was at least able to hook up the digging tool without major problems nowadays. Eventually, the last few bolts were tightened, and her father and Mikael stepped back, wiping sweat from their brows. 

   “Alright, that’s done, I think.” her father said, uncapping a canteen of water and taking a long swig. He passed the bottle to Mikael who swigged most of the rest before pouring it over his back and shooting a suggestive glance at Art, who tried her best to ignore the urge to explain she was really not interested in him. Art began stepping up onto Bessie’s leg, ready to get back behind the controls. 

“Now, Art,” her father said, wiping his sweat-soaked fingers on his coveralls. “I need you to…to…Gods above.”

   “Father?” Art asked, turning towards her father, one foot already hooked into a crevasse in the autoplow’s leg, the other still planted on the ground. He was staring off at something in the distance, frozen stiff. “Is something wrong?”

   “Art. Get back to the farmhouse, grab anything you can carry, and run for the castle. We need to leave.”

   She turned in the direction her father was facing, and saw the pillar of smoke rising from the far edge of the farm. The barley fields were on fire, and there was movement in the crops. A lot of movement.

“Father, what’s going o-”

   Markus rushed over without warning, and threw himself towards her. She heard a whizz like a pebble flying past her ear, and then she was on the ground, her father on top of her. She dimly noted that there had been a sudden crack, like a bullwhip striking out. Off to the side, mere feet behind where she had stood, Mikael made a gurgling sound, and crumpled to the ground, his white shirt bloody and blood trickling from his mouth. His eyes locked with hers, and then he went still. He had been shot. Art was dimly aware of a figure dressed in some sort of military gear standing near the edge of the barley fields, holding a gun. Before she could fully react to this, her father pulled her to her feet, spun her around, and shoved her towards the farmhouse. 

“ART!” he screamed. “RUN!!!” 

   And she did. 

Art sprinted towards the farmhouse, unsure whether her father was following or not. Behind her, she finally registered the distant sound of the town’s warning bells ringing an alarm. It had to be a raid. She rounded the side of the plow shed, and ran towards the farmhouse. She could hear the sounds of some sort of struggle back where her father was, but she couldn’t bring herself to turn around. If she could make it to the castle, Earl Harkness would be able to save her farm and her father. He was here to protect them, surely he wouldn't fail his people when they needed him most?

   Before she could get close, however, a machine around the size of Bessie smashed through the wall of the barn she had woken up in that morning. It was made from pressed steel, with a roughly humanoid figure, and a boxy torso with a narrow vision slit roughly where the collarbone would be on a human. Smoke poured from an exhaust vent poking up above one shoulder, and each leg terminated in a dual-pronged claw. In one of its hands, it carried a sword as long as Art’s father was tall, and in the other was a rectangular shield the size of a wagon. On one of the shoulders was the defaced symbol of the Royal Armed Forces, smears of black paint violently smeared over it as if it was shameful to bear the flag. The other shoulder bore a faded unit number, a blood-red 77. Numerous battle scars and pockmarks marred the machine’s shell, and there was a smear of a dark liquid that could have been oil or blood down the front of the chest. Art recognised the machine from an image she had seen in a book. It was a Cataphract, a mass-produced war machine inspired by the Destriers, but nowhere near as powerful or advanced. She scrambled back as the vision slit turned towards her. The Cataphract was advancing towards her, sword and shield raised. 

   She turned around, and ran towards the treeline, blindly fleeing towards the river. Behind her, the machine continued stalking towards her as she heard a scream in the distance that sounded chillingly like her father. She ran into the trees, fumbling through the bushes without a clear idea of where she was going. Dimly, she recognised this was roughly where her mother had told her she should go if she was in danger, but her panic overwhelmed that thought before it could fully manifest. She could hear the sound of the cataphract smashing through the trees behind her. 

   “DON’T RUN, LITTLE GIRL!” came an amplified voice from somewhere behind her, presumably the pilot of the cataphract. “ALL I WANT IS A LITTLE FUN! YOU CAN’T RUN FOREVER!”

   She stumbled as she nearly hit her head on a tree branch, but continued on. The foliage became more dense, and she could hear the sounds of more cataphracts joining the hunt off to the sides of the first mechanized horror. She burst through a dense cluster of bushes, and ran out into a clearing in the forest. Art skidded to a halt, and looked around for somewhere to hide. Beyond this clearing were hills she could not possibly scale with her pursuers so close, and she could hear the sounds of her pursuers closing from all sides. On the opposite side of the clearing was a cave, the mouth a gaping chasm that stood four times her height. She sprinted towards it, and skidded to a halt at the entrance.

   Sitting at the back of the cave, half covered by foliage, and partially buried under a pile of rubble, was the hulking figure of a Destrier.