Aldous’ kitchen sits in warm, dim light. Rough plaster walls, heavy timber beams, stone floor with salt worked into the cracks. Plain table against the left wall, two clay jugs on top. Tall cabinet on the far wall—open shelf with glass bottles.

We file in. Still wearing the chicken fight.

Bertram’s temple is stained with dried blood—chicken peck and self-inflicted pipe strike both. Aldous has tongues of dried blood down his arm. Vespera walks like her ass is on fire. Rill’s work tunic shows a bloom of blood at the chest.

Bertram plods to a stool, one hand over his temple like that’ll help. Sits down heavy.

“I don’t know about you folks, but I’ve had enough of chickens for a lifetime. I don’t even want to eat one for revenge.”

Vespera settles onto another stool with a careful wince, trying to keep weight off the wounded cheek.

“Alright, everyone survived the Great Chicken Apocalypse, but we’re all leaking in various places. Bertram, your temple looks like you lost a fight with your own pipe—which, to be fair, you did. Aldous, that arm needs cleaning. And Rill…” Her ears flick toward the girl. “…that’s a lot of blood soaking through. We should probably handle these wounds before they decide to get interesting in the bad way, meow.”

Can’t treat what’s got chicken shit in it.

“Need to clean these wounds.” I look at Aldous. “You keep vinegar in that cabinet?”

I cross to the cabinet, pull down a stoppered bottle from the shelf.

“Right,” Rill says. “Let’s get this done.”

She strips her work tunic off smooth, no hesitation. The chest wounds are visible now—punctures where the beaks found the soft spots, red and raw.

Aldous reaches for one of the clay jugs on the table, lifts it.

“There’s cider here if anyone wants it. Not much, but it’s clean.”

Bertram reaches for the other jug—the mead. Brings it to his nose. Sniff test. His eyes narrow when he lowers it. Pain flash.

“I’m glad you don’t mind if we help ourselves to your alcohol, friend.” He looks down at the salt worked into the floor cracks, even under the table. “And I must say, I owe you my apologies. I thought you were just eccentric. No harm in it. Gods know men like us who live alone for a long time get that way. But what made those chickens move… wasn’t whatever passes for mind in poultry.”

Vespera winces getting off her stool, approaches the wash basin.

“Melissa’s got the vinegar, but we need to rinse first—blood and gods-know-what needs to come off before disinfectant touches it.” She looks at Rill. “Come here. That chest wound took the worst of it, and you’re not doing anyone favors by pretending it’s fine. Let me clean it before Melissa works her vinegar magic.”

Rill crosses to the basin. Vespera works the cloth, methodical, gets the blood and chicken-shit off. The wounds look cleaner. Raw, but clean.

I move to Bertram with the vinegar jar. Head wounds bleed dramatic but they’re usually shallow. He’s coherent—all good signs.

“This is going to sting. Don’t jerk your head back.”

I tip the jar, let the vinegar soak into the wound. His fist goes white against the table edge. He bites his lip hard enough I can see the pressure, breathing through his nose to keep the expletives down.

I work it clean, watch for deeper damage signs. Pupils look normal. No confusion beyond the pain response. Shallow cut, like I thought.

Rill’s trying to treat her own chest wound now that Vespera rinsed it. Hands steady—adrenaline or stubbornness, hard to tell with her. She may have watched enough patchwork to know the theory. Clean, close, cover. Practice is different than theory. Her hands fumble the angle. Can’t see what she’s doing properly, can’t apply even pressure. The wound edges don’t meet right.

Aldous strips off his quilted jerkin. The bantam got his arm during extraction—shallow, but from a possessed bird. He’s standing there like he forgot he had his own wound until everyone else started getting treated.

Bertram takes a long pull from the mead jug, lowers it slow.

“Maybe I shouldn’t want to know, Aldous, but…” He looks at the potter. “You said whatever got into your chickens came from buried pottery. An ‘entity,’ you called it. What damnable thing did we just fight that found itself in our town?”

Vespera leans forward, ears swiveling toward Aldous.

“You’ve been hosting while bleeding, Aldous. Very hospitable, but let me take a look at that arm while you explain.” She gestures toward his wounded limb. “Sleeve needs to come up.”

Aldous is already moving to the basin. Rolls up the blood-stained sleeve on his left arm.

I move to Rill with the vinegar jar.

“Your turn. This’ll hurt worse than the rinse.”

She doesn’t blink. Just waits.

I tip the jar. Vinegar hits the punctures.

Her jaw locks hard. Fists clench. Breathing goes shallow and controlled, knuckles white against the burn. But she doesn’t jerk back, doesn’t make a sound. Just holds there while the vinegar works through raw tissue.

First serious wound she’s taken. From something that wanted to kill her. She’s not moving. Good.

Aldous starts rinsing his wound at the basin, water over the shallow bite.

“The entity came from something I buried. Eight years ago—piece of pottery from a failed firing. I thought burial would contain it. I was wrong.” His voice stays steady despite the sting. “The shard must have strengthened over time, reached out to the nearest living thing. By the time I dug it up and destroyed it properly, the corruption had already transferred into the hens. Living bodies anchor entities better than ceramic.”

He strips off his work shirt for better access to the wound.

“What you fought was something that shouldn’t exist—a contamination that moved from dead material into living hosts. That’s why extraction was necessary instead of slaughter. The birds weren’t the threat. They were just occupied.”

Bertram sets the mead jug back on the table. Then he looks at Aldous—long, grave stare.

“From a failed firing… eight years ago?” His voice drops. “You can’t mention ‘eight years ago’ and expect me not to know what that implies, my friend.” He rubs his temple where the wound is. Winces. “Did this entity have something to do with that sweet, studious apprentice of yours? What was her name…” Squints like recall’s harder with the head wound. “Mara, wasn’t it? First time you’ve referred to that year. Ever since.”

Vespera’s ears snap forward.

“Aldous, let me take a look at that arm while you tell us about Mara.” Her tone’s careful. “That kind of connection deserves the full story, meow.”

Bertram glances at her.

“I can see the bloodied hole in your breeches over your shapely ass right where that demon buried its beak, miss. Maybe you should let yourself be helped.”

Aldous’ arm needs disinfectant. Rinsed, exposed, accessible. Then closure. The wound’s not trivial—bantam peck, deeper than it looks. Blood loss makes people stupid. Infection risk is real. Vinegar will burn but he’s kept talking through worse today.

“Aldous. Hold still. Your turn.”

I move to him. Tip the vinegar over the wound, let it soak deep.

His jaw locks. Teeth grind—I can see the muscle flex. Fists clench white, breathing sharp through his nose. He holds still.

When I finish, he reaches for linen strips from the cabinet. Starts wrapping the wound himself. Hands steady despite the burn-ache.

“Yes. The entity came from Mara’s death.” First wrap secured. “Eight years ago I tried a ritual from a grimoire fragment I’d bought. Thought I was being careful, thought I understood the variables. I was wrong.” Another wrap. “The firing went catastrophically wrong and she died in the kiln fire. What came out of that kiln, other than burned shards, was my first functional containment vessel, sitting perfect in the ashes while she bled out on my workshop floor.”

He ties off the bandage. Small knot.

“So yes, Bertram—what you just helped me extract from those chickens has everything to do with my apprentice. Most of what I know about craft-based containment, I learned from the night she died.”

Bertram looks down at his lap. Lifts the clay jug to his lips, takes a longer gulp. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“That poor girl.” The edges of his eyes wrinkle. “Maybe I should say that… these things are not to be played around with. Whatever ‘entities’ exist out there that can be brought over through mysterious grimoires. But I guess… it happens. Despite our best intentions, life takes away the ones we care about.” He pauses. “Such a bright smile she had, that one.”

Vespera shifts her weight, ears flicking back.

“Right. Guess it’s my turn.”

She reaches back, works the torn breeches down over her ass. The wound’s exposed now—puncture, red, angry.

Bertram, seated behind her, makes a contemplative sound.

“Oh my. I can’t say I’ve seen many cat-folk butts in my long life, but yours is quite lovely, miss.”

Although Vespera’s tail twitches, she doesn’t turn around.

Last one needing disinfectant. Ass wounds are awkward but not complicated—muscle tissue, decent blood supply, low infection risk if treated properly. Vinegar will sting worse on tender flesh.

I cross to her with the jar.

“Vespera. This is going to burn.”

I tip it over the wound. Her spine goes rigid. Full-body shiver, tail jerking stiff. She sucks air through her teeth, claws flexing against the table edge. Holds still.

Rill’s trying to close her chest wound again. Hands working the angle, trying to bring the edges together. Can’t see what she’s doing. Fumbles the pressure. Won’t hold.

Aldous approaches her, methodical.

“Your wound’s been prepped correctly—rinsed and disinfected. Let me try to close it properly before infection sets in.” His voice stays level. “My medicine skill isn’t excellent, but the rooster got you helping with my problem. I owe you at least the attempt.”

Rill nods. He kneels beside her. Examines the punctures over her heart—copper-backed rooster hit the same spot twice. He reaches for linen strips, works the edges together carefully.

He tries to seat the cloth, then tries again. It slips. He pulls back, jaw tight, strips loose in his hands.

Bertram straightens. Sets the mead jug down on the table—solid thunk. Reaches behind his apron, extracts his pipe. He examines it like he’s checking for damage from the temple strike. Takes a long look at Rill.

“Kid, you did good. You went with us into that ambush. Kept holding tight to those chickens despite the bloom of blood in your chest. Despite the fact that you weren’t strong enough to prevent those feathered devils from escaping your grip. You’ve got grit is what I mean.”

He pauses. The pipe stays unlit in his fingers.

“Still… don’t know if that’s a good thing. There are worse things out there than possessed chickens, if you’re still willing to put your life on the line. Threadscar didn’t get her nickname from mopping floors, I’m guessing.”

Vespera shifts her weight, reaches down for the pooled breeches at her feet.

“Right, well. Can’t have a serious conversation about dead apprentices and entity corruption while my ass is hanging out. Not the aesthetic I was going for.”

She picks them up. Starts working them back over her hips, careful around the treated wound.

Rill’s chest wound is prepped—rinsed, disinfected, exposed. Both Aldous and Rill tried to close it already. Both failed. My turn. Rill’s young. Healthy tissue, good blood supply. Should respond well.

“Stay still. I’m closing this properly.”

I kneel and examine the punctures—rooster hit the same spot twice, over the heart. Worst wound of the group. Edges clean from the vinegar, good blood supply, no compromise visible.

I press the edges together—firm, even—and hold them while I seat the linen strip. Tension right, coverage right. I secure it and test the hold.

The bleeding’s checked, but nobody relaxes.

Aldous moves toward one of the empty wooden stools. Sits down careful, mindful of the arm wound.

“You all came here because I posted at the Registry about possessed chickens, and you stayed through an extraction that turned into a small battle.” His voice stays level. “I owe you more than cider. If anyone needs rest before heading back to town, the space is yours.”

Bertram produces a match, strikes his pipe. Flame catches. He lights the tobacco and takes a slow draw.

Smoke curls up. He’s watching Vespera work the vinegar-treated wound through the tear in her breeches.

“As for you, miss cat, I’m picturing a young life whole with fresh taverns in which to play, adventures to partake in.” Another puff. “Don’t know what brought you to our little nowhere-town, but I hope we didn’t make too bad of an impression on you. Possessed poultry and all.”

Vespera glances back toward the treated area.

“Melissa already handled the vinegar part—which hurt like absolute hell, by the way—so the wound’s disinfected. Let me see first if I can close this rooster wound properly.”

My hands are done. Now I watch.

Bertram’s managing his own pain—mead first, now pipe. Self-administered. Vespera’s struggling to handle her own closure attempt. Rill’s quiet, processing the first real wound she’s taken.

They’re talking about Mara again. Heavy conversation. Not my terrain. I patch bodies. I don’t patch guilt.

Bertram’s good at the social space. He reads people the way I read blood. I’ll watch for delayed shock. Infection signs. Anyone who destabilizes. That’s what I’m trained for.

The rest of it—the sharing, the bonding over tragedy—that’s their work.

THE END