Iris had been practicing with a wooden sword, on the seemingly quiet training yard that morning, determined to prove herself to the guards who watched from the walls. She was thirteen, big for her age, and fierce. Her strikes were precise, her footwork careful. She had been training for weeks, ever since arriving at the palace.
Then her foot slipped on a patch of wet grass.
She fell hard, her wrist twisting beneath her. The crack was audible even from a distance.
Lysa was crossing the courtyard when she heard the scream.
She ran.
Iris sat on the ground, cradling her arm, her face pale with pain. The wooden sword lay beside her, forgotten. Tears streamed down her cheeks, though she was trying not to cry.
"Let me see," Lysa said, kneeling beside her.
"I'm fine."
"Your wrist is bent at an angle. You're not fine."
Iris tried to pull away, but Lysa was gentle but firm. She examined the injury; swollen, discolored, clearly broken.
"We need to get you to the healers."
