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

I step out of the Municipal Aid Registry—converted barn, old hay, bureaucratic optimism—into bright morning sun. Pleasant warmth for Mudbrook-on-the-Bend. My instrument case rides familiar weight against my back, dual blades settled at my hips.

Two people are approaching down the street. I recognize Bertram from earlier, and beside him—

Mrow. Interesting.

The woman beside him looks carved from scar tissue and sword practice. Longsword at her back, carried with enough casual competence to be part of her body. Threadscar, if Bertram’s earlier mention was accurate.

“Hey, what did I tell you,” Bertram says, addressing his companion but pitching it loud enough for me to hear. “A cat folk in the flesh. Isn’t she the darnest thing. Look at those whiskers.” He gestures in my direction like I’m a particularly fascinating market oddity. “Anyway, she’s got herself a mess with Aldous’ devilish chickens.”

My tail swishes once. Performing has its uses.

Threadscar’s gaze tracks over me—methodical, not curious. Weapons, instrument case, stance. Reading me like a contract with fine print. No wasted movement, no hurry. Just measuring.

When she finally speaks, her voice is controlled.

“You’re the one who took the chicken job.”

They have closed the distance now. Combat scars catch the light on her skin, small tells in how she holds herself. Someone who’s survived things that kill most people.

I smooth my whiskers briefly. Should I feel annoyed? I didn’t ask for help. But mostly I’m interested. That kind of survival leaves stories, and I collect those. Tactically speaking, if the “possessed poultry” turns out to be something wearing feathers ironically, having someone competent with a blade isn’t the worst idea.

And if things do get interesting, if there’s actual danger instead of just aggressive birds—

I shut down that thread before it can finish. Professional courtesy first.

“Mrow, that’s me. Vespera Nightwhisper, at your service.” I gesture vaguely toward the Registry behind me. “Seventeen birds, one allegedly possessed by a vengeful mother-in-law. Could be demonic poultry, could be grief and roosters. Either way, should be…” My heterochromatic eyes—amber and ice-blue—fix on her with genuine curiosity. “Educational.”

I tilt my head slightly, ears swiveling forward. “Bertram mentioned you. ‘Threadscar,’ right? He thought I might need backup.” Whiskers twitch. “What do you think? Do I look like I need saving from poultry, or are you just bored enough to see where this goes?”

Bertram produces a pipe from somewhere under his apron, tamping tobacco with practiced fingers. He lights it with a match, the narrow end settling at the corner of his mouth as smoke curls up. His eyes move between us like he’s watching theater.

“A way with words on this one, huh? That’s a bard for you, I guess.”

My attention is on Threadscar, because she’s the one who matters here.

She meets my mismatched eyes without blinking. No flinch, no fascination. Her voice comes out flat, professional.

“You don’t look like you need saving. You look like you haven’t worked this region before and don’t know what ‘possessed’ means out here yet. Could be theater. Could be something that bites back harder than you’re expecting.”

Her gaze flicks to my weapons—brief, cataloging—then back to my face. Filing information. Like she’s building a dossier in real-time.

“I’m not bored,” Threadscar adds. “I’m between contracts and Bertram thought the job might be more than one person should handle alone. If you want backup, I’ll assess the situation and act accordingly. If you don’t, I’ll find other work. Your call.”

Your call. No posturing, no pretense of saving the exotic newcomer. Just capability offered without strings. I respect that. More than respect it—I like it. This is someone who thinks in terms of practical outcomes, not spectacle. Someone who’s survived by being useful, not by being loud.

I pull the posted notice from my belt pouch and extend it toward her.

“Here. Read it yourself and decide if it’s worth your time.” My heterochromatic eyes fix on her, genuine curiosity sharpening the usual performance. “Bertram’s not wrong. I don’t know this region yet, and ‘possessed’ is vague enough to mean anything from grief-hallucinations to something that shouldn’t have a beak. If you’re between contracts and this sounds interesting, I’ll take the backup. If it sounds like a waste of your time, no hard feelings.” My whiskers twitch. “But either way, mrow, I’d rather know what I’m walking into before I knock on Aldous’ door.”

She takes it. Reads it like she’s checking for loopholes. Her eyes track across the text with the kind of precision that says she’s survived by catching the details other people miss. No commentary, no reaction visible on her face. Just information intake.

Bertram puffs his pipe, watching us. Taking his time. Then he gestures with the pipe stem, adding to his earlier introduction.

“To contribute to this meeting of warriors,” he says, voice carrying that folksy charm he wears like armor, “let me add some information that may or may not improve the quality of your trade: I know Aldous to be an honest tradesman. He’s been talking uneasily about those chickens for a good while now. Weeks, really.”

Bertram pauses, letting smoke curl. “He mentions that one of them looks… like he knows what he’s looking at. And he’s corrupted some of his other chickens too. Corrupted—that’s the word Aldous used.”

Mrow. That word lands differently than “possessed.” Corrupted implies spread. Deliberate influence. Not just one problem bird, but infection. Behavior changing, patterns shifting. That’s either the most elaborate case of anthropomorphization I’ve ever encountered, or there’s something at Kiln Lane that’s wearing chickens like masks and teaching the others to do the same.

My tail swishes once. Not performance—genuine unease, threaded with that dangerous curiosity that gets people like me into trouble.

Bertram continues.

“Could be, though, that Aldous really hated his mother-in-law and she happened to have some hen-like qualities. Never had a mother-in-law myself. Anna was orphaned young.”

Threadscar is still reading, unmoved by Bertram’s commentary. Filing it somewhere, probably, but not letting it interrupt her process. She doesn’t get pulled off-task by color or charm. Data first, texture later.

Bertram shifts his attention to me, lowering his pipe for a moment.

“I’m curious, miss cat. Do you waltz into battle with that instrument case at your back? That’s the tool of your trade, isn’t it?” His eyes crinkle with genuine interest. “Aren’t you worried that some counterattack may destroy your means to get money off taverns? I have a hard time picturing you putting down the case and shoving it back before you wield those sharp weapons of yours.”

Threadscar finishes reading, then hands the notice back to me. Her eyes find mine, holding my mismatched gaze without hesitation.

“I’ll go with you. If it’s just chickens, we’ll handle it fast and split the pay. If it’s something else, you’ll want someone who’s cleared pastoral weird before. We leave now, assess the site, execute the contract, done.”

The instrument case rides heavy on my back. Fair question. Most people don’t think past the weapons—they see the blades and assume that’s the whole story. But the lute-viol isn’t just a tool. It’s the only thing I actually care about without complication, without performance, without—

No. I’m not explaining that vulnerability to a tanner I met twenty minutes ago, no matter how earnest his pipe-smoke charm is.

Whiskers twitch. I offer him a slight smile.

“You’re not wrong to worry, Bertram. But I’ve been carrying her into fights for years now, and she’s survived everything I have.” I tap the leather with one clawed finger—the reinforcement shows in the thickness, the way the case holds its shape even when I move. Custom work, expensive, worth it. “The case is reinforced. Not just decorative. And honestly? Leaving her behind would be worse. I don’t perform well when I’m wondering if someone’s rifling through my things.” My tail swishes once. “This way, she stays with me. Always.”

I turn my mismatched eyes to Threadscar. She made her decision clean and professional. Just read the posting, assessed, committed. I want to see how she works when things get complicated.

“Right. You’re in. Good.” I nod toward the path that leads toward the old millrace. “We leave now, assess the site at 12 Kiln Lane, and see what ‘demonic poultry’ actually looks like before we decide how to handle it.” I glance back at Bertram. “Thanks for the backup—and the context about Aldous. ‘Corrupted chickens’ is delightfully vague. Let’s go see what that means, mrow.”

Bertram taps ashes off his pipe, eyebrows lifting.

“‘Bertram, thanks for the backup,’ as in stay behind while we head off to battle?” He says it lightly, but there’s genuine curiosity underneath. “I’m asking in case you wouldn’t mind an old tanner witnessing something intriguing in this lovely morning. If things get nasty, maybe I could knock some poultry unconscious with a well-aimed throw of my pipe.”

Threadscar’s expression doesn’t shift, but she takes a breath before she speaks. Running the calculation: civilian, noncombatant, knows Aldous personally, decent accuracy with small objects maybe. Liability in real combat. Potential asset for client context.

When she answers, her voice is controlled but final.

“You can come if you stay behind us, don’t touch anything that moves, and leave the moment I tell you to. No argument, no delay.” She looks at him flatly, then glances at the pipe in his hand. “If something goes wrong, you’re not my priority—keeping the threat contained is.”

She shifts her gaze back to me. Mission focus. “We move now. North road, Kiln Lane.”

My tail swishes once without permission. Right. Follow her lead. She knows the region. I don’t. Let her set the pace, watch how she navigates, learn the terrain through her rhythm.

But something else threads through my thoughts, something dangerous I need to strangle before it takes root. If this job turns into actual danger—if there’s something at 12 Kiln Lane with teeth where beaks shouldn’t have them—I’ll get to see how Threadscar works under pressure. Whether she freezes or gets clearer when the violence starts. Everyone tells a story when the stakes climb. I want hers.

I adjust the strap of my instrument case across my back, settling the familiar weight, then glance at Bertram. He’s still watching us, pipe smoke curling upward, expecting… something. Dismissal? Another round of banter?

My whiskers twitch. Quick smile.

“Thanks for the backup and the context. We’ll handle it.”

I turn toward Threadscar, fall into step beside her. My tail swishes with anticipation I’m not entirely proud of. “Let’s see what’s waiting for us, mrow.”

Behind us, Bertram’s voice carries confusion.

“I’m… receiving conflicting information.” A pause. The sound of him adjusting his grip on the pipe. “But that’s okay, I’ll follow from a safe distance. Maybe I could get Aldous to blabber something important about these demonic chickens of his.”

THE END

Some of the “short stories” of this fantasy cycle will read more like simple scenes. I’m okay with that. I’m gearing toward making them self-contained. You could check out any in whatever order you prefer, then seek possible other shorts leading to them, or from them. That fits how I’ve felt when rereading my Re:Zero fanfiction from years ago.

The rural streets of Mudbrook-on-the-Bend are mostly deserted at this hour—folks either at work or gathered at the Municipal Aid Registry, I’d been told. The air sits pleasantly warm on my fur, though the sun beats bright enough to make me squint. Small town. Tightly packed houses along a blue-green canal. Aging timber frames, steep tiled roofs. The kind of place where someone like me probably looks like she wandered out of a fairy tale.

There. An older man standing near the main path, pipe smoke curling up from weathered hands. I clock him immediately: tradesman’s apron, genuine smile-lines, the relaxed posture of someone who belongs exactly where he’s standing. No performance.

“Oh. Morning, ma’am.” His voice carries that easy rural cadence. “Nice weather we’re having, ain’t it? Never seen you around these parts. I hope that our quaint little town won’t disappoint a member of the cat folk too much.”

That slight wonder in his tone—he’s probably never met one of us before. My whiskers twitch. Part of me immediately starts calculating angles. He knows everyone here. All the local gossip, who’s hiring, what’s dangerous. I could purr, play up the cute factor, harvest whatever stories he’s got tucked away in that weathered brain. Easy material. But gods, I just got here and I’m already doing it. Already cataloging vulnerabilities, mapping the performance.

I close the distance between us, letting myself catch the full scent of him: leather oils, curing agents, pipe tobacco.

“Morning to you too, meow.” I let my whiskers twitch with genuine amusement. “And don’t worry—I’ve played worse venues than ‘quaint.'” Something about his unpretentious energy makes it easy to drop the armor, just a fraction. “There’s something charming about a place that still smells like honest work instead of… performance. You’re a tanner, yeah? I can smell the curing agents from here.”

He takes a couple of steps back without thinking—not fear, just automatic adjustment to proximity. Most people either lean in with curiosity about the exotic cat-girl, or retreat because they’re threatened. This is different. Unconscious. Natural boundary-setting. The smile on his face stays honest.

“I’m a simple tanner, alright, miss.” He gestures down at his hands. “Probably could tell too by the stains in my skin that never quite go away. Name’s Bertram. Seems like I’ve spent a lifetime crafting saddles, belts, boots and the likes with these two hands of mine. A good life, not complaining.”

He takes a long drag of his pipe, exhales slowly. His gaze shifts to my back, my hips.

“As for you, my goodness… That instrument case slung across your back and those… peculiar weapons at your hip. You must have had quite the adventures. Well, if you’re looking for work or to perform, look no further than our humble gathering spot, the Municipal Aid Registry. Posted a request myself for reciprocal services.”

Reciprocal services. The phrase catches in my mind like a claw on silk. What does that even mean in a place like this? Barter system? Trade work? Could be dangerous, could be hauling leather, could be absolutely anything. But he’s local, established, comfortable. If I’m going to find real work here—the kind that strips away performance and leaves only survival—I need someone who knows where the bodies are buried. Metaphorically. Or literally, mrow, depending on what kind of town this actually is beneath the quaint surface.

I need to test this again. Feel out his boundaries properly.

“Reciprocal services, mmh?” I let my curiosity show in the forward tilt of my whiskers. “That sounds intriguing. What kind of work are we talking about? Something dangerous, or just the usual hauling and heavy lifting?” I step closer, closing the distance he created. “I’m always interested in… collaborative arrangements. Especially with someone who knows the area.”

His wide, simple smile doesn’t change, but I catch a small frown creasing his brow as he registers how close I’ve gotten.

“Oh, my request? Just the usual thing, keep it posted there at the Municipal Aid Registry’s bulletin board when I can spare the fee. You see, my Anna…” Something softens in his voice. “Ah, what a dear she was. My great love. Thirty years we had together until the winter fevers took her. I’m grateful for that time, but I’m not looking to replace her. I appreciate my quiet too much these days, and I’m not getting any younger.”

He takes another drag of his pipe, perfectly comfortable.

“So, the posting. I request a handjob, and offer one in return. Fair exchange, no romantic complications. You see, a good handjob is like good craftsmanship. You need to understand what you’re working with, adjust to feedback, take pride in the result.”

Oh gods. He’s… he’s talking about actual handjobs. Not hauling work or tanning work or some tradesman metaphor I misunderstood. Reciprocal handjobs. Posted at the Municipal Aid Registry like it’s… carpentry services.

Mrow… this is… I mean, I’ve played a lot of towns, seen a lot of arrangements, but posting for mutual masturbation services at the town bulletin board with the same casual energy as requesting roof repair? The complete lack of shame in his delivery—”a good handjob is like good craftsmanship”—he genuinely believes that. He’s explaining his sexual barter system the way he’d explain leather-working techniques.

I keep my expression neutral, let my whiskers stay still. Don’t react. Don’t give away whatever the hell I’m feeling right now, because I’m genuinely not sure. Surprise? Amusement? Professional curiosity about small-town sexual economics? This is material, definitely material, but I need a second to process.

Bertram takes my silence in stride, another casual drag of his pipe as he looks into my eyes with that same untroubled calm.

“Hmmm… Maybe this is a human matter. Don’t know if cat folk engage in handjobs. I’ve lived in Mudbrook all my life. People know me, knew my Anna. They know my work is good and I’m honest in my dealings.”

He gestures with his pipe-hand toward the street.

“That said, a traveling bard like yourself will maybe want to check out the other work. Us locals can get fed easily on our produce, so we can do with reciprocal handjobs, but you have to… carry provisions and such for the trip, right? Anyway.” He points at a building that looks like a converted grain barn, larger than the surrounding structures. “There’s Mudbrook’s Municipal Aid Registry. Copperplate’s in charge. Good fellow. Been here before any of us showed up. Just be patient with him, he operates at… his speed.”

He’s genuinely waiting for my response. And the thing is… mrow… I’m not actually offended or shocked. I’ve done stranger things for worse reasons. But this is information. This tells me something about Mudbrook that I didn’t expect—there’s a whole sexual economy here that operates with the same casual pragmatism as trading eggs for flour. That’s information I file away.

“Are you alright, miss? Cat-folk’s faces aren’t that easy to read, not for a Mudbrook leatherworker anyway.” He tilts his head slightly. “You have quite the peculiar eyes, I must say. One ice-blue, the other amber. Is that something that happens to your kind?”

He’s asking about my heterochromia because my face isn’t giving him the information he wants. Fair enough. Cat faces are harder to read for humans.

I let my tail swish slowly, thoughtfully.

“I’m fine, don’t worry. Just thinking, mrow.” My whiskers relax a fraction, showing him I’m not offended or disturbed. “And yeah, the eyes—heterochromia’s not super common among cat folk, but it happens. My mother had it too, though hers were both shades of green. Mine decided to be dramatic about it. As for your arrangement—refreshingly pragmatic, but I need provisions more than handjobs at the moment, mrow.” My whiskers twitch. “Does everyone in Mudbrook operate on this kind of system, or just certain folks?”

Bertram steps back to let a young man pass, planks of wood balanced on his shoulder. The kid nods at the older leatherworker without breaking stride. Bertram nods back, takes another drag of his pipe, taps the ashes out against his boot.

“System… can be called that, I guess. Folk used to offer deals over ale, but then they’d forget the finer points and there’d be fights.” He grimaces. “Good old Copperplate fixes all that. The man… or whatever it is… keeps records like it’s his religion. Keeps us grounded and sane.” His voice softens. “Ever since my Anna died, I’ve gotten plenty of answers thanks to those proper proceedings. Mudbrook-on-the-Bend is a simple town. Fair dealings. Well-crafted tools and materials. Straightforward, honest people. That’s how we like it.”

I should move. The Registry’s where the real work is—dangerous contracts that pay in coin, not sexual services. Combat work. That’s what I came here for.

“I appreciate the explanation. Thanks for the local orientation, Bertram. If I survive whatever job I pick up, maybe I’ll come back and you can tell me more about Anna over a drink. She sounds like she was worth those thirty years.”

The converted grain warehouse sits open-sided toward a patch of grass and trees, timber construction weathered but solid. The bulletin board dominates one wall—crowded chaos of notices, some full sheets, others torn scraps, layered and pinned unevenly like sedimentary history. A service counter suggests this used to be a loading bay. Mixed crowd of locals scattered around tables with tankards. Civic business conducted in warehouse setting. The air smells of old wood, spilled ale, and something else—ink and parchment, sharply chemical.

That’s coming from the tortoise-person behind the counter. Copperplate. Has to be. Short and stocky, ancient-looking, dark-olive scaled limbs extending from a bronze domed shell. Cream plastron visible at the chest. Charcoal-gray hooked beak, amber round eyes behind reading spectacles. He’s wearing formal sleeve cuffs and a fitted waistcoat that somehow dignify the whole turtle-in-a-warehouse aesthetic. The smell of ink and old parchment emanates from him like a profession made manifest.

He’s currently handing a posted notice to a woman who… mrow. She’s built like violence made flesh. Muscular, heavily scarred, the kind of body that tells stories about surviving things that should have killed her. She takes the notice from Copperplate’s clawed hand with careful precision, stares at it for a moment. Her expression goes distant. Then she turns and heads for the streets without a word.

The board’s chaos hits me immediately—a cluster of stained parchment and competing desperation layered over each other like archaeological evidence of small-town needs. An alibi notice at eye level, hastily scrawled with crossed-out attempts: WANTED: Someone to tell my wife I’ve been working late (I’ve actually been at the pub). 2 copper. Convincing liars only. A man rewrote this multiple times before posting. Performance stacked on performance. I move on.

Behind me, someone enters—pipe tobacco, leather oils, curing agents. Bertram. He heads to the tables where locals are gathered with their tankards.

I let my attention drift back to the board. Let me check the birthday musician notice next, see if there’s actual danger on offer or if Mudbrook only provides low-stakes human misery.

“Good morning, Mr. Copperplate.” Bertram’s voice carries from the counter, that same easy rural cadence. “Hope you haven’t been getting any trouble other than the usual. By chance, do you know if anyone has taken interest in my request? I’ve been building up some pressure lately, with this saddle commission for the merchant’s daughter and all.”

The birthday musician notice sits just below the alibi request. I scan the text:

MUSICIAN NEEDED: Play at my daughter’s birthday. She’s 7. You will be required to perform “The Happy Donkey Song” seventeen times minimum. 3 copper, earplugs not provided.

Behind me, the tortoise-person’s voice emerges—slow, deliberate, each word separated by noticeable pauses like he’s processing language at a different speed than mammals.

“One moment… Bertram. I must… complete… the current… notation… before responding… to your inquiry.”

Bertram’s voice carries easily.

“Take all the time you need, old friend. Have you noticed, by the way, our newcomer? A cat folk, no less, in our little Mudbrook. Must be a musician unless she’s carrying loot in that instrument case of hers.”

I’m hyper-aware of the weight of attention from the tables—multiple sets of eyes tracking the exotic cat-woman. I’m the circus that wandered into town.

Seventeen times. Minimum. The words sit on the notice like a threat. I read it again, making sure I’m not hallucinating from road exhaustion. A seven-year-old who’s learned to weaponize repetition. Old enough to understand cause and effect, young enough to have zero mercy. And the parent who posted this knows exactly what they’re asking for. They wrote “minimum.” They know their child. They’re desperate enough to pay a stranger three copper to endure what they can’t face themselves.

“Oh, if Anna, poor Anna would have been here today.” Bertram’s voice softens with memory. “She often talked about seeing some exotic folks. Couldn’t go anywhere, of course, on account of her weaving… And all my leather work. And I don’t think she ever heard music played live, did she? Hmm, maybe that one time a young merchant came by with a flute… Or was it drums?”

I hear him drink, the hollow sound of a tankard being emptied.

My attention drifts back to the notice. Seventeen repetitions would strip away every bit of performance, every shred of artifice. By repetition twelve I’d be completely raw—just muscle memory and survival instinct, the song reduced to pure acoustic reflex. That’s the kind of clarity I chase, just… from a different angle than combat. Not violence-clarity, but repetition-clarity. Mrow… but three copper. That’s insulting compensation for that level of psychological endurance.

“Mr. Copperplate, do you still remember what I asked?” His voice carries confusion now. “Wait, what did I ask again? Was it something about Anna? I swear all the leather dyes are seeping into my brain. I come across a fellow Mudbrooker along the street and they greet me nice and I can’t tell if a handjob was involved.”

The weight of attention presses against my fur like humidity. I don’t need to turn around to know exactly what’s happening at those tables—the locals, mainly men from the scent signatures, chatting with that animated energy that comes from having something exotic to admire. I catch fragments of conversation, none of it subtle:

“—never seen a tail that fluffy—”

“—the way she moves, gods—”

“—bet she’s got claws under that—”

I’m the entertainment of the week. Maybe the month. Provincial setting, limited exposure to non-humans, and here I am in my road-worn leathers with weapons at my hip and an instrument case across my back.

I keep my focus on the bulletin board, let them stare. My tail does its own thing—slow, thoughtful movements that have nothing to do with their entertainment and everything to do with processing what I’m reading. The birthday musician notice still sits there with its seventeen-repetition threat. The alibi service with its suburban deception. Neither offering real danger. Neither stripping me down to anything honest. But there are other notices layered across this board like archaeological strata.

A water-stained notice near the bottom, tear-marked: URGENT: Recover my dignity from the bottom of the well. Also maybe a bucket. Dignity preferred but bucket acceptable. I blink. Move on.

“Hey…” Bertram’s voice cuts across the converted grain barn. “Damn, I don’t know your name. Cat folk. With those weapons at your waist, the chickens request may be more up your alley. Or my request about reciprocal services. That’s been up for a good while. I always respond in kind, on a leatherworker’s honor.”

Mrow. He’s being helpful. The scratch of Copperplate’s quill continues behind me. Future historians will read about Bertram publicly recommending his reciprocal handjob services to the exotic cat-folk stranger, rendered in perfect archival notation.

Bertram’s voice carries again, this time directed at Copperplate:

“I guess there’s much to record with a newcomer in town, ain’t there? My goodness, you’re going to run out of ink this morning.”

Movement catches my peripheral vision. Bertram’s stepping away from the counter, boots scuffing across the warehouse floor. He circles around a couple of tables—the ones with the men who’ve been cataloging my existence like I’m the most interesting thing to happen to Mudbrook since the last time someone fell into a well—and heads for the bulletin board. Not toward me exactly, but toward his own posting. The reciprocal services one.

He stops with his hands on his hips, looking up at his notice. I’m standing close enough that I catch his muttered words.

“Hmmm…” He’s reading his own posting, lips moving slightly. “‘Hygiene acceptable, all digits functional’… Could have worded that better, maybe. It’s just these damn dyes, the stains are so hard to get out.”

He examines his nails, holding his hands up to catch the warehouse light.

“And these dark crescents, don’t even know how I could begin to scrub them out unless I cut my nails.”

I’m stalling. The chickens notice is still there. Bertram’s reciprocal services posting sits higher up where he can review his own nail-hygiene marketing. I should just pick one and move on. Let me see what passes for possessed poultry in Mudbrook-on-the-Bend.

HELP WANTED: My chickens are possessed by the vengeful spirit of my dead mother-in-law. Or they’re just mean chickens. Either way, I need them gone. 1 silver, or take the chickens.

One silver or take the chickens. That’s… actually decent pay for livestock removal, possessed or otherwise.

“That’s more up the alley of a proper adventurer like you, miss cat,” Bertram says. “I know the guy, he makes most of the local pottery, and also has quite a collection of chickens. Demonic hen, I’ve heard him repeat. Veritably devilish.”

The scratching finally stops. Copperplate lifts his claw, ink still wet, and fixes his amber eyes on Bertram through his spectacles.

“Bertram. To answer… your original inquiry… no one has… registered interest… in your reciprocal… services posting. The record shows… no approaches.”

Bertram looks back at Copperplate across the converted grain barn, his expression cycling through confusion—like he’s forgotten they were even having a conversation—then recognition, then something brighter for just a moment. Finally, it sours into disappointment.

“Oh, damn it. Nobody?” His voice carries genuine hurt beneath the frustration. “It seems that after the novelty wears off, Mudbrookers don’t want to be repeat customers. Fair transactions and mutual benefit aren’t what they used to be, are they? Maybe it’s the tannery staining, and that smell of newly-worked leather.”

I watch as Copperplate’s claw hovers over the ledger for a long moment. Then it descends, scratching across parchment with religious devotion.

I let my attention drift back to the bulletin board. The chickens notice sits there with its straightforward desperation. Could be genuine combat danger. Could be difficult livestock removal with homicidal poultry.

“Demonic mother-in-law spirit sounds more promising than seventeen performances of ‘The Happy Donkey Song,’ mrow.”

“I don’t think you’re getting any more juice out of the request, miss cat. What you see is what you got.” Bertram pauses. “If you’re gearing up to take that chicken contract, we could find our local veteran. She’s one tough broad, that one. Scarred from head to toe it seems. Always carrying around that longsword of hers. I reckon you two together could handle chicken demons.”

The woman I saw earlier. The one who took a notice from Copperplate with that focused intensity, then left without a word. Heavily scarred, built like violence made flesh. That tracks with “local veteran” perfectly.

Partnering up. I came here to strip away performance, to find that crystalline clarity that only comes when survival is the only option. Adding another person complicates that. Means witnessing. Means someone else’s assessment of how I handle danger, what that reveals about me.

Stop procrastinating. Take the fucking notice. Commit to something instead of endlessly circling like my tail’s chasing itself. If the chickens turn out to be genuinely possessed or magically corrupted, I get the violence-induced composition clarity I’m chasing. If they’re just mean livestock, well—at least I’ll have moved forward instead of standing here being entertainment for gawking locals.

“You’re right, Bertram. I’m overthinking this, mrow.” My claws grip the edge of the parchment. “Let me just take the chicken notice and we can figure out if we’re dealing with actual demons or just aggressive poultry.”

The notice pulls free from its pin with satisfying resistance. I hold the parchment, feeling the weight of commitment settle across my shoulders like the instrument case.

Bertram’s already moving, boots scuffing across the warehouse floor as he follows me toward the counter. His voice carries that encouraging energy people get when they’ve successfully convinced someone to stop overthinking.

“Good, good. If I see Threadscar around, I should tell her you’re gunning to take care of our local chicken problem once and for all. Two fierce women in a poultry battlefield sounds better than one.”

I close the distance to the counter. The tortoise-person’s amber eyes track my approach through those reading spectacles, though his claw never stops moving across the ledger. Up close, the scent of ink and old parchment emanates from him much stronger.

“Mr. Copperplate, I’d like to register this contract.” I set the notice on the counter between us. “The chickens. Need the address and any additional details you have on file about the situation.”

The scratching stops. Copperplate’s clawed hand lifts the chickens notice with a glacial deliberation that suggests he’s moving through a denser medium than air. He holds it at reading distance behind those silver spectacles.

“I will now… review the documentation. This ensures… archival accuracy.” His claw descends to the ledger. “Before proceeding… I require the contractor’s… full name… for the permanent record.”

Oh. Right. I haven’t actually introduced myself. Just walked in, grabbed a notice, and demanded registration like I assumed bureaucratic telepathy was part of the service. Mrow.

“Vespera Nightwhisper.”

Copperplate’s amber eyes lift to meet mine through those spectacles.

“The record… will reflect… your registration.”

His claw descends. More scratching. This is going to take a while.

Behind me, I catch movement—Bertram heading toward the converted grain barn’s exit. His voice carries over his shoulder.

“Alright, I’ll look for Threadscar. That old warrior is always up for some action, and gods know we don’t get much of it here. Of any kind, these days.”

His boots scuff across the threshold and he’s gone, pipe-tobacco scent fading as he hits the streets of Mudbrook-on-the-Bend.

Bertram will find that veteran, which means I’m committed to whatever violence or embarrassment this job offers. Can’t back out now without looking like a coward who fled from poultry.

Finally, Copperplate’s claw lifts from the ledger. His amber eyes fix on me.

“I have verified… the notice contents. This contract was filed… by Aldous the potter. His workshop… is located at… twelve Kiln Lane… eastern district… near the old millrace.” He pauses. “The supplementary… documentation… indicates seventeen chickens… on the property. The specific… problematic hen… is described as ‘the large speckled one… with the malevolent stare.'”

His eyes blink—a full five seconds, like his eyelids operate on their own timeline.

“Payment is one silver… upon resolution… or you may claim… the chickens… as compensation. Both options… are legally binding. Do you… accept these terms?”

“I accept the terms, mrow.” My tail swishes once. “Twelve Kiln Lane. I’ll handle the demonic poultry situation.”

THE END

I generated the following video about this story. Some genuinely hilarious images.

This short is a direct continuation of Songs for Our Duchess.

Stone walls rise to a ribbed, vaulted ceiling. A narrow arched window with leaded panes admits a pale shaft of moonlight. Lit torches in iron sconces burn on either side of the window, their flames casting restless shadows across the flagstones. Dark-wood bookcases line the walls, packed with leather-spined volumes. One cabinet has glass doors and stores scrolls bound with cords. Red banners bearing a heraldic beast hang between shelves. At the center, a heavy oak table stands on a worn patterned rug. On the tabletop lie open folios, stacked books, loose parchment, a quill in an inkwell, a small knife, rolled maps, and a single burning candle. A brass astrolabe sits near the edge of the table. To the right of the window, a full suit of plate armor stands on a wooden base. A rack beside it holds polearms and a shield.

Bogdana Avalune’s gigantic frame moves through the library. Her black silk robe with kimono sleeves whispers against the floor. Gold chain necklaces, layered and embellished with metal, catch the torchlight. She pauses near the bookcases, her eyes scanning the room, then moves to a luxury armchair positioned among her collection of knowledge.

She lowers herself into the seat. Her gaze moves to the door of the adjacent room, head tilting slightly as if listening.

The sound of footsteps approaches. A door closes. The footsteps grow nearer.

Bogdana straightens, chin lifting. She reaches for a porcelain teacup on the small table beside her, holding it without drinking, eyes fixed on the entrance.

Joel Overberus appears in the doorway—young, fresh-faced, wearing a traveler’s tunic, soft brown shoes, a plain leather belt. He stops, taking in the Duchess framed by ancient texts, the teacup delicate in her scarred hand.

Bogdana’s lips curve slightly. Not quite a smile.

“Welcome, Joel Overberus. You’re punctual. I appreciate that.”

Joel steps forward, then bows—an elaborate gesture, his torso folding, one arm sweeping outward. When he straightens, his eyes meet hers.

“I’m so honored to witness this side of our duchess.” His voice is steady, though his hands clasp behind his back. “If you would allow me a bit of impertinence, I will say that the black silk robe looks… striking on you, Night Sovereign.” He glances at the second armchair positioned across from hers. “Should I sit down, or is it more proper for a lowly musician like me to merely stand?”

Bogdana’s fingers tighten fractionally on the teacup handle.

“Sit, Joel.” The words carry no question. “This isn’t a throne room audience—we’re in my library now. Among my treasures, my knowledge, my rare texts. The ones you so perceptively mentioned in your third verse. Here, you’re a guest, not a supplicant.” A pause. “Though do remember whose guest you are.”

She drinks.

“The black silk suits my mood tonight—less armor, more… contemplation.” Her free hand gestures toward the empty armchair. “You’ve earned a conversation, musician. Your performance was exceptional. Now, let’s discuss the songs you’ll create to immortalize the Duchess of the Dark Motherland.”

Joel sits, spine straight. His gaze sweeps the towering bookcases, taking in the volumes, the leather bindings, the scrolls.

“That is… the Compendium of Sigmoidal Paedology.” His voice carries certainty. “It maps childhood, apprenticeship, and courtly indoctrination onto the same mathematical curve, insisting rulers can accelerate or stall citizens at chosen plateaus.”

He shifts in the chair, angling toward Bogdana.

“Truly, duchess… The citizens are afraid of you, as they rightfully should be, but they see you as an… unthinking force, which you clearly aren’t. I bet you could outsmart most dedicated scholars in the Forgotten Kingdoms.”

“You’ve done your research beyond the songs, haven’t you?” Her voice drops lower, each word deliberate. “Convenient for them—easier to fear a monster than comprehend a mind. But you… You see the Compendium and understand what it means. That citizens are variables in an equation, to be accelerated or stalled at my discretion. That’s precisely what governance is, Joel—applied mathematics with flesh and fear as the medium.” Her chin lifts. “The citizens think I’m an unthinking force because thinking forces are harder to predict, harder to resist. Let them believe the fiction. But you’re right—I could debate most scholars into the ground and enjoy doing it. Knowledge is power, and I hoard both obsessively.”

She sets down the cup.

“Tell me, musician—what else do you see in my collection that others miss?”

Joel drinks his tea.

“Oh, it tastes real good, not the flavored water one gets outside of… well, a royal castle.”

His eyes return to the bookcases, narrowing slightly.

“The Manual On How to Get a Real Job…” His eyebrows rise. “I’m surprised to see that one. Part satire, part survival guide for overeducated nobles who find themselves suddenly destitute. Most nobles would find it… offensive.”

His eyes move again. Stop. He leans forward.

“Oh, and that one is…” He clears his throat. “The Anonymous Dictionary on How to Use the Penis Like an Instrument of Human Pleasure.” His eyes cut to Bogdana. “A subject you surely know all there is to know about, if the rumors are anything to go by…”

“You’ve excellent taste in selections, musician. The Manual—most nobles would rather starve than acknowledge that book’s existence in their libraries, let alone actually read it. But I find it instructive. A reminder that power without foundation crumbles quickly. Those overeducated fools thought their bloodlines exempted them from consequence. They learned otherwise when their estates burned.”

She gestures toward the shelves.

“And The Anonymous Dictionary…” Her lips curve—slow, deliberate, predatory. “Yes, the rumors are accurate. I’ve mastered every technique in that Renaissance text and invented several the original author never conceived. The human body is an instrument, Joel—strings to pluck, keys to press, rhythms to establish and then shatter.” Her eyes narrow. “You understand instruments better than most. Tell me—when you play your lute, do you think of it as conquest? As domination? Or merely… art?”

Joel’s spine straightens.

“I see it as a communion with the subconscious, duchess. I believe that this thinking part we’re exercising, the one that believes itself in charge, is actually inferior to the vast force below it, the one that actually commands us. Playing the lute, for me, is a dance with that subconscious. A joining of the self in a way that dissolves the duality we’re forced to endure as civilized animals. While playing, we return to… the proper state of affairs.”

“The thinking self as inferior to the vast force beneath—you’re describing what most people spend their entire lives fleeing from, musician. That dissolution of duality, that surrender to the primal self.” She leans forward, black silk whispering. “They fear it. They build walls of propriety and reason and morality to keep it caged. But you seek it out. You call it communion, call it dance. I call it truth. The civilized mind is a lie we tell ourselves to pretend we’re not animals driven by hunger and desire. When you play your lute and dissolve that duality, you’re doing what I do with my body, with my cock, with violence and pleasure. We’re both artists of the same fundamental act—stripping away the pretense. The subconscious you worship? I embody it. I don’t separate myself from it like your ‘civilized animals.’ I am the force beneath. Unfiltered. Unashamed. Absolute.”

She settles back.

“Tell me, Joel—when you achieve that communion, do you feel power? Or surrender? Because I suspect for you it’s both. The paradox of the artist—wielding control by relinquishing it, finding freedom in submission to something greater than your thinking self.”

Joel’s eyebrows rise. His mouth opens, then closes.

“I was going to add something along those lines, duchess, but yes, I…” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I recognize that, when I look at you. You are the subconscious force of humanity embodied. The unrestrained animality that desires every pleasure and all power. The energy of nature itself, that doesn’t…” His head turns. His eyes shift to the bookcases, scanning titles he’s not truly seeing. “That doesn’t apologize with rationalizations or arguments. You take it because you want it. Excuses and arguments belong to the weak. Might is right. That is the law of reality.”

He clasps his hands.

“As for your question… in my case, playing the lute is a surrender. A surrender from my mundane state of being a thinking person, to be saved momentarily by the madness below… which I wish I could always embody.”

Bogdana rises from the armchair, silk flowing. The gold chains catch firelight, throwing brief glints across the stone walls. She moves toward the bookcases, bare feet silent on flagstones, then muffled on the rug. She scans the upper shelves, fingers tracing along spines until stopping on one tome. She pulls.

The Compendium of Sigmoidal Paedology slides free—heavy, bound in dark leather with brass corners. She cradles it, then turns to face Joel.

“You wish you could always embody that madness, Joel? That subconscious force unrestrained by the thinking self’s pathetic moral framework?” She steps toward him. “Let me show you something.” She lifts the tome. “This text you recognized—it’s not just about governing citizens. It maps how consciousness itself develops, how the thinking self emerges and subjugates the primal force beneath. The Egyptians understood this when they created cockstanding. They knew the body could bypass the mind’s control, that certain acts—sexual, violent, ecstatic—could short-circuit the civilized overlay.”

She extends one arm, gesturing between them.

“Your lute-playing is one path. My cock is another. Both instruments playing the same fundamental truth. You surrender to the subconscious through music. I never separated from it to begin with. I am that force walking upright, speaking, ruling, fucking, destroying. No duality to dissolve because I never constructed the false hierarchy in the first place.”

She angles the book toward him, brass corners gleaming.

“And you see that. You named it in your third verse—the scholar beneath the tyrant, the library behind the violence. Most people can’t hold both truths simultaneously. They see the monster or the mind, never the fusion. But you understand that they’re not separate, that knowledge and hunger are the same appetite expressed through different orifices.” Her voice drops. “Tell me, musician—if you could truly embody that force without the surrender, without the temporary communion that ends when the song does… would you still be you? Or would you become something else entirely? Because I can tell you from experience: there’s a price for living as pure subconscious. The loneliness you named. The dark beyond darknesses. When you are the force itself, there’s nothing left to surrender to. No communion, only… existence. Unfiltered. Unrelenting. Absolute. Is that what you truly want? Or do you love the surrender precisely because it’s temporary, because you can return to the thinking self afterwards and remember what it felt like to be free?”

Joel’s lips curve upward—boyish, admiring, reverent.

“You’re absolutely right, Mother Goddess. I love the surrender partially because it’s temporary. Sadly, my subconscious is not the self that now communicates with you. There is a disconnect between my self and that ancient, far more powerful being in the deeper layers of my brain. In your case… I see you never had a choice. You were born, if the legends are true, through demonic influence, to live as the raw power of nature. I only get a tiny taste of surrendering to that power through playing my instrument.” He pauses. “And… if I somehow ended up locked in that pure state, I would surely die soon. Someone would kill me. Or I would starve. But you were born as perfection: too strong to be defeated, and yet too smart to be outsmarted. You can do it all. Surely you’re the only one in history who has been able.”

“You’re absolutely right that I never had a choice, Joel. I was born this—whether through demonic rape conception or some other cosmic accident, I emerged already fused with the force you seek through your lute. No duality to dissolve because there never was separation.” Bogdana adjusts her grip on the leather binding. “And yes, I can do it all. Military conquest, scholarly debate, sexual domination, political maneuvering—I’m the apex predator in every arena simultaneously. The only one in history who’s managed it at this scale, this completely. But you’ve also named the cost more accurately than anyone else ever has. That loneliness. That dark beyond darknesses. When you’re permanently the force itself, there’s nothing left to surrender to. No communion, only existence.”

She turns, walking toward the bookcases. She stops before the shelves, arms lifting. When her hands release the tome, it tilts. Falls. Leather and brass strike the flagstones with a heavy thud that echoes through the chamber.

Bogdana looks down at the fallen Compendium, then pivots to face Joel, leaving the ancient text where it fell.

“You get to return to your thinking self after the music ends. I never return from anything. This is just… what I am. Forever.”

She steps back toward center.

“But enough philosophy for tonight. We’ve established what we both are—the artist who seeks temporary transcendence and the sovereign who embodies it permanently.” She stops near her armchair. “Now let’s discuss the practical purpose. The songs you’ll compose to immortalize the Duchess of the Dark Motherland. I want verses that capture both aspects—the violence and the library, the monster and the mind. Can you do that, musician? Can you hold both truths simultaneously in melody and lyric?”

“I believe I can, my duchess. I will endeavor in my free time to draft art out of the notes and memories of our meetings. This brief exchange has already illuminated so much.” Joel’s head tilts forward. “Yet, I have a question to ask, if I may be so bold, to understand you more. The world sees you as the unbeatable, terrifying tyrant. Now you also want it to see you as a scholar. Does that represent a shift in your aspirations? Has the Dark Sovereign conquered everything she could want from the physical world, and now she’ll focus on exploring the breadths of knowledge? Or perhaps you intend to balance both, conquering new lands while expanding your intellectual domains?”

Bogdana raises her palm toward Joel, fingers splaying, then curling and opening again. 

“The world sees what I allow them to see, Joel. For years, I’ve let them focus on the violence, the screams from my dungeons. Pure terror is effective governance—keeps the rebellions manageable.” She sweeps her arm toward the bookcases. “But the library? This has always been here. The Compendium you recognized, The Anonymous Dictionary, all of it—I’ve been collecting since before I took the throne. Knowledge and violence aren’t sequential conquests for me. They’re parallel expressions of the same appetite. I don’t shift from one to the other like your mundane nobles changing fashions. I am both, simultaneously, constantly.”

She grips the chair back.

“What’s changed is strategic revelation, not motivation. Your third verse named the scholar beneath the tyrant, and you were right to do so. The songs you’ll compose need to capture that duality, not one replacing the other. Because that’s what immortalizes. Pure violence gets forgotten as soon as someone stronger comes along. But violence fused with intellect, terror married to scholarship, the cock and the Compendium as equal instruments of power? That’s a legacy that echoes through centuries.”

She releases the chair.

“So to answer your question directly: No, this doesn’t represent a shift. The physical world still requires conquest—there are lands beyond Cosmographica’s spiral coasts that will bow to Bogdana eventually. But I’ve never stopped exploring intellectual domains either. I read, I study, I master texts the way I master bodies. The difference now is that I’m allowing you to witness and immortalize the full scope. Most artists only see half and create incomplete myths. You see both. That’s why you’re here at midnight, drinking my tea, asking these questions.”

Joel reaches for his teacup, drinks, then sets it back with a soft clink. He settles into the armchair. 

“I assume that the terror of most citizens, certainly foreigners, to come face to face with Your Highness, must have limited significantly your access to volumes of knowledge. I’m sure you have lots of ways to get people to bring volumes for your library. Yet, if my songs cement in the populace’s brains that you’re also hungry for knowledge, perhaps scholars will come bringing obscure treatises that as of yet remain unknown. I can envision it: scholars from all lands, many of them conquered, fighting among themselves for a spot at your court to breathe from the atmosphere of intellectual progress. You can defeat armies by yourself; that’s mostly pure physical might. But a worldwide recognition of your intellectual mind? That… legitimizes your power beyond pure strength. It lets people know you were meant to be. Of course you’re far more than a duchess, although I know you prefer that title. But you would be the empress. Of the greatest empire the world has known.”

Bogdana’s spine straightens. Her chin lifts.

“You’ve just articulated the vision better than I could have myself, musician. Yes. Exactly that. Scholars from conquered and unconquered lands alike, fighting for positions at my court, bringing obscure treatises I haven’t yet acquired. The atmosphere of intellectual progress alongside the demonstrations of absolute physical dominance.” She opens her palm, encompassing the library—the bookcases, the scrolls, the fallen Compendium still lying on the flagstones. “That’s the legacy. That’s what transforms a duchess into an empress—not just the territory conquered, but the civilization created. The minds bent not just through terror but through genuine recognition that I represent something beyond mere strength.”

Her hand curls into a fist, then opens before lowering.

“You’re right that I can defeat armies by myself—that’s mostly pure physical might, superhuman durability, the huge royal cock swinging as I mow them down. But worldwide recognition of my intellectual mind? That legitimizes everything. Makes it clear I wasn’t just strong enough to seize power, I was meant to hold it. Destined for it. The scholar and the tyrant as one indivisible force. That’s what your songs need to capture, Joel. Not flattery—accuracy. The duality that makes Bogdana Avalune not just unbeatable but inevitable.” Her lips curve. “Create that, and you’ll have earned every reward I can bestow.”

Joel’s expression shifts. The admiration fades. Something else surfaces—a tightening around his eyes.

“Duchess, if I may… Do you believe you will end? I mean the end of your flesh. As I told you in the throne room, I have a hard time believing that you can actually die. The gods have blessed you with everything else above mankind, so it wouldn’t surprise me if even death couldn’t defeat you. But if the end is in the horizon… Is the legacy you want to leave behind the self that songs and stories and your intellectual work immortalize, or do you also intend to leave your kingdom to physical heirs?”

The torches flicker in their iron sconces. The shadows deepen between the bookcases.

Bogdana reaches for the teacup. She lifts it halfway to her lips, then stops. The cup descends. She sets it down with deliberate care.

“That’s the question, isn’t it? The one I’ve been avoiding for years while I conquer and collect and commission. Do I believe I will end?” She pauses. Her tongue touches her lower lip. “Truthfully, Joel… I don’t know. Everything about my existence suggests I shouldn’t—the superhuman durability, the impossibility of what I am, the demonic conception rumors. Perhaps I’m genuinely immortal. Perhaps death itself will bow before Bogdana like everything else eventually does. But what if I’m wrong? What if this magnificent flesh fails despite all evidence to the contrary? Then legacy becomes everything. The songs you’ll create. The library that will outlast empires. Bogdanatown standing as testament. The intellectual atmosphere we discussed—scholars bringing treatises for centuries after I’m gone.”

Her voice shifts—quieter, more measured.

“Physical heirs are… complicated. They represent vulnerability I rarely permit myself. Caring about something beyond my own appetites. The risk of successors who might disgrace or eclipse the name I’ve built. But strategically planted seed in the right noble houses could bind my bloodline to power for generations. Create an empire of descendants who carry forward what I began. I haven’t decided which path serves immortality better—legacy through works and memory, or literal continuation through heirs who embody some fraction of what I am. Perhaps both. Perhaps I’m arrogant enough to believe Bogdana deserves both forms of transcendence.” She locks eyes with Joel. “What do you think, musician? You who see clearly—should the Duchess of the Dark Motherland be remembered, or should she persist through bloodline? Or are they the same appetite expressed through different orifices, like everything else I pursue?”

Joel’s gaze drops to the small table. His eyebrows draw together. His lips press into a thin line, then relax. His gaze lifts to meet hers again.

“You wouldn’t have an issue choosing any womb-bearer of your choice, clearly. The best genes at your disposal. But when in your mind you picture a young child, male or female, looking up at you, recognizing you as their mother, a smile on their lips, those vulnerable creatures loving you unconditionally, knowing they owe their entire existence to you… What does that make you feel?”

The candle on the distant oak table flickers. The torchlight plays across Bogdana’s scarred features as she sits in her armchair, surrounded by centuries of collected knowledge.

“You ask dangerous questions, musician. Most wouldn’t dare. But you’ve earned the right tonight, so I’ll answer honestly.” Bogdana’s voice emerges lower, stripped of the commanding edge. Her gaze drops to the teacup, then lifts. “When I picture that child—small, vulnerable, looking up at me with unconditional love, recognizing me as their mother—I feel hunger. Not the sexual appetite or the violence you’ve heard about. Something worse. A desperate, aching need for that acceptance. For someone who sees Bogdana and doesn’t calculate survival strategies, doesn’t measure escape routes, just… loves. Without fear. Without strategy. Pure connection to the force I am. That child would see their mother, not the Duchess of the Dark Motherland. Not the Sovereign of Night. Just me.”

She pauses.

“But I also feel terror at my own vulnerability. That child would be a weakness, a pressure point. Something that could break me in ways no army, no rebellion, no coalition of desperate kingdoms ever could. Because if I cared about that small creature smiling up at me, if I loved it back… then I’d have something to lose. And loss is the one conquest I’ve never mastered.”

She leans back.

“So to answer your question directly: it makes me feel both desperately hungry and absolutely terrified. The duality again, Joel. The monster and the… whatever’s beneath the monster. The part I don’t let anyone see. The part that drinks alone in the dark and wonders if there’s more than conquest and collection and commissioned works.” She points at him. “You’re the first person I’ve admitted that to. Don’t make me regret the honesty.”

Joel’s expression transforms—boyish warmth spreading to his eyes.

“Well, that is good news: a whole frontier you have left to conquer. Virgin territory. It could very well be that if you found yourself holding in your arms a loving child, their eyes wide and glazed in adoration of their mighty mother, you may feel that your myriad conquests had finally found their true purpose.” He leans forward. “You are nature’s raw power personified. And if there’s something that nature wants above all, it’s reproduction. Multiplication. Not in the self, but proliferation. Echoes through reflection and mutation. And truly, doesn’t a future, two or three centuries from now, inhabited by hundreds or thousands of descendants of the Mother Goddess seem magnificent?”

Bogdana straightens slowly. She reaches for the teacup—fingers careful, as if handling something fragile. She lifts it but holds it before her face without drinking, gaze dropping to the liquid inside. The cup descends. She sets it down.

“You paint an exquisite vision, Joel. Hundreds or thousands of descendants carrying forward what I am—the Mother Goddess proliferating through time like nature itself demands. Reproduction, multiplication, echoes through reflection and mutation. Not just remembered but continued, bloodline spreading across the world for centuries.” She traces the gold chains at her throat. “You’re right that it’s a frontier I haven’t conquered. I’ve mastered violence, sexuality, scholarship, governance—broken armies and subjects, collected rare texts, ruled through terror and intellect combined. But creating something that loves me without fear? That sees their mighty mother and feels nothing but adoration and gratitude for existence? That’s virgin territory.”

She brings the cup to her mouth, drinks slow and measured, then lowers it halfway.

“The hunger I admitted to you—that desperate need for unconditional acceptance—maybe that’s not the weakness I feared. Maybe that’s nature itself speaking through me, demanding what you named. Its proliferation. Its continuation through flesh rather than just memory and commissioned songs.”

She sets the cup down.

“Two or three centuries from now, my bloodline sitting on every throne, ruling every domain, carrying forward the fusion of mind and monster that is Bogdana Avalune. The greatest empire the world has known, perpetuated through descendants who all trace back to me. You’ve given me much to consider, musician. This midnight conversation has illuminated territories I hadn’t fully mapped—motherhood as conquest, vulnerability as frontier, creation as the ultimate expression of power. The songs you compose need to capture this too. Not just the duchess of violence and scholarship, but the Mother Goddess whose bloodline will echo through ages. Legacy through both memory and flesh.” Her breathing deepens. “Tell me—when you imagine the ballads you’ll create about Bogdana Avalune, can you hold all these truths simultaneously? The terror and the tenderness, the monster and the mother, the conqueror who might yet create something that loves her purely?”

Joel’s smile widens.

“The more facets I’ve discovered about you, the more magnificent you look to my eyes, duchess. As that multi-faceted vision takes hold in me, it will seep into my subconscious and come out raw and honest in song.” He pauses, gaze shifting as if seeing something only he can perceive. “I see things, as I’m sure you do too. Whole moving pictures in my mind. Can retreat to them at will, and often they feel lovelier than any reality.” His eyes refocus. “And I do see you training with your children, all of them somewhat grown, enough to hold swords anyway, and you proud for the grazes and perhaps bruises that they, in their inherited strength, come to cause you. Perhaps because you also allow them to. And I see you… smiling. Not the smile of a predator. Not of a conqueror about to tear flesh apart. Such vision fills me with a special warmth.” He swallows. “It seems I have come to see you, duchess, as… necessary for my conception of the world.”

Bogdana rises from the armchair, black silk whispering. She doesn’t tower above him. Her bare feet carry her around the chair to stop several paces distant, her frame at an angle where Joel can see her fully.

“You’ve become necessary for my conception of myself, too, Joel. This midnight conversation has mapped territories I’ve refused to acknowledge—motherhood as conquest, vulnerability as frontier, creation as ultimate power rather than weakness. Most see the violence or the library, never both. You see the fusion and call it magnificent. You paint visions of my children sparring with me, of genuine smiles, of descendants ruling for centuries carrying forward what I am. And somehow that doesn’t feel like flattery anymore. It feels like truth I haven’t let myself speak.”

She steps closer.

“The songs you’ll compose—they need to capture all of it. The scholar and the tyrant, the monster and the mother, the force that conquers and the woman who might create something that loves her without fear. Can you do that, musician? Can you hold every facet simultaneously and make the world see what you see when you look at me? Because if you can… if you can make them understand that Bogdana Avalune is both inevitable and tender, both the raw power of nature and the architect of civilization, both the darkness they fear and the brilliance they worship… Then your songs will echo through ages. And perhaps…” One hand rises partway, fingers spreading, curling inward, then lowering. Her jaw tightens. The torchlight catches the movement of muscles beneath scarred skin. “Perhaps they’ll also give me permission to become what you’ve already seen in your visions. The Mother Goddess who trains her children with pride. The sovereign whose legacy lives through flesh as well as memory. The force that finally found its true purpose.”

THE END