“Battles are ugly when women fight,” Father Christmas had said, and Lucy had chafed at his words then and ever since, determined to become every bit of the warrior her brothers were, practicing with every weapon that found its way into her hands and carving her way through battlefields at her siblings’ sides, until princes and kings of enemy nations feared her name.

But his words were true, she thought, as she looked in triumph at the man staring at her in fright from where he stood at the tip of her sword, if not in the way he intended them. She raised her sword in a glittering arc, her smile fierce and grim as a wild bloodlust sang through her veins; battles were ugly when the Valiant brought her sword, and she wouldn’t have it any other way.