There were already four notches on the hilt of her father’s sword by the time Wyndree had her armor made, custom to her frame. When she passed by — in the armor or not — the town guard nodded with respect, where once they had leered or catcalled. If there was a great stirring in the woods, or cattle went missing, or the caravan from Solderving was inexplicably overdue, it was Wyndree the town elders approached for help, instead of that overcharging hedge magician Milwrab Conset.
A girl can get a reputation, her mother had often cautioned. How right she had been.