Three people. A middle-aged man, probably a local, looks like a tanner from the stains on his hands. Some kind of feline woman, exotic, dangerous-looking in a way that makes my spine straighten. And Melissa. “Threadscar” Melissa. Right here.

The tanner watches me approach. I can feel his eyes tracking me, probably taking in the sweat, the stick, the way my grip tightens when I get within speaking distance of Melissa.

“Who’s this kid?” he says. “I don’t recall seeing her in town. A girl friend of yours, Threadscar?”

The words hang there. Girl friend. Like I’m here for tea and gossip.

Melissa’s voice comes flat.

“She’s the girl from the north road. Watches me train. Not a friend. She follows.”

The words hit clean. Not harsh, just… factual. She isn’t telling me to leave, but she isn’t claiming me either. She follows. Like I’m a stray that keeps showing up at her door.

Movement to my left. The feline approaches with casual grace, tail swishing behind her. Her eyes are different colors, and they flick between me and Melissa like she’s cataloging something.

“Well well, meow. A girl who follows a warrior. What’s your name, kitten? And what’s with the stick?”

Great. Now I’m being patronized by someone who looks like she walked out of a story I couldn’t afford to hear the end of. But the question’s direct enough, so I answer it the same way.

“Rill. My name’s Rill. The stick’s a broom handle—wrapped so I don’t splinter my hands to hell. It’s what I’ve got, so it’s what I use.”

The tanner taps ash off his pipe, amusement pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“Do you make a habit of sweeping the outskirts of town with a headless broom handle?” His gaze shifts to Melissa. “You have a curious admirer, Threadscar.”

Threadscar. The name clicks into place.

She doesn’t step in. Doesn’t tell them I’m wasting time. Just stands there, expression flat, like she’s watching something unfold that she hasn’t decided matters yet.

The feline woman moves closer. Her hand reaches out before I can decide whether to pull back, and she pats me on the head—light, almost playful. A gesture you’d give a stray that showed up on your doorstep.

“You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that,” she says. “Most kids your age would’ve stayed home with a broom that still had bristles.” Her mismatched eyes study me. “Mrow, so what are you hoping to learn from our friend here? How to turn household objects into weapons, or something more… mmh… specific?”

I want to shove her hand off. Want to snarl. But that would prove I’m exactly what she thinks I am—a kid who can’t take a light touch without losing my shit. So I don’t.

She asked what I’m hoping to learn. That’s real. That’s a question with weight.

“Something specific. I’ve been copying from a distance for six months—watching Melissa train, trying to figure out what the hell I’m doing wrong. But I don’t know the basics. Stance, guard, footwork, the stuff you need before anything else makes sense. I want someone to teach me that. Not wave me off or tell me I’m too young or that I should go home and help my family. I want real instruction.” I lift the wrapped broom handle slightly. “The kind that turns this into something that works.”

The tanner exhales slowly, shaking his head.

“Can’t help but admire your determination, kid, but that stick looks like it’d break the moment you whacked a wolf’s head.” He glances at Threadscar, who’s been silent, just watching. “Local guard’ll give you training. Threadscar’s not the sociable type.”

Like I’m here begging for scraps.

The feline moves before I can respond. She slings an arm casually around Melissa’s shoulders, pulling her close with the kind of ease that says they know each other—or at least that the feline woman doesn’t give a damn if they don’t. Her tail curls lazily behind her.

“Months of watching from a distance with a headless broom, mrow?” Her mismatched eyes lock onto me, studying. “That’s not importuning, Bertram—that’s commitment. Most people give up after a week when nobody hands them what they want. You’ve been grinding alone for half a year.” She tilts her head, and I feel like she’s reading lines I didn’t know I’d written. “So here’s my question, kitten—what made you start? What happened six months ago that made you pick up that stick and decide you needed to learn how to hurt things?”

I meet the feline woman’s eyes.

“Six months ago, I saw her.” I nod toward Melissa without looking away from the exotic animal-person. “I was on a supply run to Mudbrook—dawn, cold, nobody around—and I saw her training by herself. No audience. No performance. No wasted motion. And she had scars—real ones, the kind that say ‘I have done things and survived them.’ I looked at her and I thought: that’s what freedom looks like. Not hoping someone notices you. Not waiting for permission. Just capability so undeniable that the world has to make room.”

I pause. Breathe. Don’t flinch.

“I went home that day and realized I didn’t have that. I was just… tasks. Endless tasks. Fifth priority for food, first priority for ‘Rill, do this.’ I could see my whole future: marry local, help run the waystation, disappear into the wallpaper. So I wrapped a broom handle in cloth because I didn’t have anything else, and I started showing up where she trains. Copying. Guessing. Probably doing it all wrong. But at least I was doing something. At least I wasn’t standing still.”

Bertram puffs on his pipe, something like appreciation in the slow exhale.

“Your folks run the waystation from the north road?” His voice comes careful. “You may be ditching a stable life for the opportunity to die bloody and broken in a ditch somewhere. That’s assuming nobody stole your dignity first. This world is more cruel than you’d think at your age… and it takes from you whatever it pleases, whenever it pleases.”

Melissa’s been still this whole time—watching, flat expression, giving nothing. But now she moves—shrugs off the feline woman’s arm and pulls me close against her side. Solid and real. My pulse kicks up.

Something flickers across that exotic woman’s face, too fast to catch. Then she steps back, tail swishing as she creates space.

“Mmh. I think you two have something to discuss without me hanging off your shoulder, meow.” Her mismatched eyes flick between us. “I’ll be right here. Watching. Learning. You know. Bard things.”

I step out from under Melissa’s arm and drop to my knees.

Hard ground. The broom handle rests across my thighs. Back straight, gaze level.

Bertram’s pipe lowers slowly.

“This kid seems to be made of stern stuff,” he says. His gaze shifts to Threadscar. “Too bad about her slim frame and the broom handle—but if you’d consider a disciple at any point, you could do much worse than this dedicated admirer.” He pauses. “That said, we all think we can take anything with the right attitude… until you get a mace to the face.”

Melissa’s expression stays flat. The silence stretches—that feline woman watching, the millrace rushing steady.

I stand. Not backing off—just refusing to stay collapsed at her feet like I’ve already given up on being her equal someday. I knelt to show respect. I stand to show I mean to become something worth teaching.

That silence—it’s doing something. Either making a decision or unmaking one.

Bertram’s eyebrows pull together. His gaze shifts from the feline woman to Melissa, to me, then back.

“Has… anything been resolved? I feel like something important has passed over my head.”

The feline woman’s eyes flick to him, then settle back on Melissa and me. Her tail curls lazily.

“Mmh, Bertram…” A slight smirk touches her mouth. “I think something important just happened. But whether it’s been resolved?” She glances at Melissa. “Not my story to tell.”

Standing here empty-handed feels incomplete. I extend the wrapped broom handle toward Melissa, holding it out with both hands.

“This is what I’ve had,” I say. “Six months of guessing with this thing. If you’re willing to teach me—actually teach me—then I want to start with real fundamentals. Not copying advanced forms I don’t understand. Not pretending I know what I’m doing. Just… the basics. Stance. Guard. Footwork. The stuff that makes everything else possible.”

I keep the broom handle extended. Voice steady. No begging.

“Take it. Look at it. See what I’ve been trying to learn from. And if you think I’m worth teaching, then show me how to do it right.”

Bertram lights his pipe, the flame briefly illuminating his face.

“This kid’s got heart,” he says around the stem, “but a poor sense of timing.” He exhales smoke. “We weren’t in the vicinity just for a stroll. Our fluffy cat-folk bard here—” He nods toward the feline woman. “—had taken a request to deal with some demonic poultry, and Threadscar, as our local veteran, had decided to act as backup. I’m just along for the ride.”

Demonic poultry.

Melissa takes the wrapped broom handle from my hands. Her grip shifts it through small, controlled motions—testing weight distribution, checking the balance point, examining how the cloth sits, whether the wrapping will hold or slip under pressure. Like she’s reading something I didn’t know I’d written.

“Six months with this.” Melissa’s voice comes flat. “The wrapping’s competent. You understood the problem—splinters, grip failure—and solved it functionally. Weight’s forward-heavy. That’s the handle design, not your mistake. Balance point’s here.”

She taps a spot roughly two-thirds down the shaft.

“You’ve been training with a weapon that fights you on every swing. That builds bad habits fast, but it also means you’re strong enough to compensate without knowing you’re doing it.”

She flexes the handle slightly, testing for structural integrity.

“It’ll snap if you block anything metal with commitment. You know that already or you wouldn’t be here asking for real instruction.”

First time anyone’s acknowledged it as real. My throat tightens. I don’t let it show.

Melissa turns the wrapped handle over one more time, flexes it slightly, then stops. Her gaze shifts from the broom handle to me, flat and assessing. Then she extends her longsword toward me, hilt-first, blade angled safely to the side.

“Here.” Her voice stays flat. “Hold this. Feel the difference. Weight, balance, how it sits in your hand. That’s what you’ve been trying to learn with a stick that fights you.”

I stare at the hilt. Battle-scarred leather wrapping, crossguard showing wear at the edges, the kind of weapon that’s seen actual use. She’s handing it to me.

“If you’re serious about real instruction,” Melissa continues, “you need to understand what you’re aiming for.” Her eyes lock onto mine. “Don’t swing it. Don’t test it. Just hold it and tell me what you notice.”

I take the longsword. Both hands wrap around the hilt. The weight settles—balanced. Centered. My hands are shaking.

I look up to meet Melissa’s flat gaze.

“It doesn’t fight me. The balance is clean. Centered. The broom handle pulls forward every swing—I have to compensate just to keep it under control. This?” I flex my grip slightly. “This feels like it’s waiting for instruction instead of dragging me around. The weight’s real, but distributed so I can use it instead of wrestle it.”

Bertram’s voice comes out more serious than usual.

“The tool of a trade few are prepared for, kid.” He taps his pipe, gaze steady on the longsword. “You’re holding in your hand metal that’s drunk the blood of many.”

Melissa extends her hand. I give the longsword back hilt-first, controlled, the way she handed it to me. She takes it with the same efficiency, then reaches for the wrapped broom handle still resting against her side.

“You’ve felt the difference now.” She extends the broom handle toward me, matter-of-fact. “This is yours.”

I take it. My work. Six months wrapped in cloth.

“You want real instruction. Stance, guard, footwork. Fine. But I don’t teach in a vacuum.” Her gaze shifts briefly to Bertram, then back to me. “We’ve got a job. Possessed chickens, north road. Vespera’s contract. I’m backup.”

A pause. She continues.

“Come along. Watch. See how movement works when stakes are real. You stay back. Don’t interfere. You observe—but this time you see the whole picture, not just me alone in a field. After the job, if you still want formal training, we’ll start with basics. That’s the offer. Decide if you’re coming.”

The feline woman—Vespera—adjusts the case slung across her back, tail swishing decisively. She starts walking without waiting for an answer.

“Well then. Melissa made her offer, Rill’s got her decision to make, and we’ve got possessed poultry waiting for us at 12 Kiln Lane. Meow, I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’d rather not keep a vengeful mother-in-law’s malevolent chicken waiting too long.” She throws a look back over her shoulder, mismatched eyes sharp. “Coming, or are we going to stand around the millrace discussing pedagogical philosophy until the damn birds organize a coup?”

“I’m coming.”

THE END