Sir Bucket
The sergeant of the guard led a long, clanking line of recruits up and down the castle's endless stone stairways, barking orders and throwing a hand out to indicate their guard post for the day.
"Sir Bucket," he said. "You're here." He indicated an overlook tower facing an open field and the Dwarven Hills beyond.
Bucles cringed at the snickers from the other recruits left in line. "Sir Bucket" was a label slapped on by the heartless sergeant as soon as they had met.
"Alright, which one is," he had checked his scroll, "Buckells?" he had called out during morning formation.
"It's pronounced 'boo-clays', sergeant," Bucles had added helpfully. It was the wrong move.
The sergeant had stared at the recruit wearing a helmet that had seen better days - probably a family heirloom - and barked, "Well, since I'm too stupid to say it right, you'll just be Sir Bucket. Problem solved."
Bucles watched the recruits vanish down the torchlit corridor. Good. It was sweltering inside the helmet, and no one was around...
Marion du Bucles pulled off her helmet, feeling the instant relief of cool air on the back of her neck. She was still getting used to her close-cropped hair, but her grandfather's great helm was no place for the long, golden hair of her youth.
Marion knew they would discover she was a she one day, but she hoped to prove valuable enough to stay in the guard. They would never need to know she was a princess.
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