The shining streets of Leoburh, marble illuminated in mage-light. The city of Magic and History, capital of the revered kingdom Bocastreon and home to the greatest scholars on the continent.

Heron thought it was a shit hole. The young man glared into the irritating glow of the fancy mage-lamp behind the bar counter, eyes shrunken to black beads, then knocked back his drink.  Thin shoulders hunched over the empty glass, he ruminated on his misfortunes alone.

Besides the weary barkeep, as hairy and portly as his position demanded, only a handful of tired souls hung around in back tables and poorly lit corners. A few eyes stuck on the heavy pouch hanging from Heron’s waist, the same pouch from which he drew another coin for the barkeep. Those eyes drifted almost mournfully to the sword at his waist, and resigned themselves to their own cups.

The door opened so gently almost no one inside noticed. The barkeep spared the two new faces a glance as he poured Heron a murky drink. One didn’t see many young girls in Rinky’s Drink.

“Excuse me,” said one, the taller of the two. She stepped forward, coming to just a respectful distance behind Heron.

He sighed explosively, followed by a put-upon rolling of his head and slackening of his shoulders, before he turned in his seat.

She was a pretty thing, he supposed. Tall and visibly slender, but not too slender, even under her cloak. Her hood down, he could make out red hair and pale skin. Definitely an aristocrat, homely cloak or no. Her expression was tranquil and composed, but Heron told himself he might have made a pass on a better day. Assuming that better day came without the mousy black-haired one in her shadow giving him a dirty look.

It wasn’t that better day. “What?” he said.

“You are Heron, from the Edge. I saw your performance in the melee,” she said. “It was a splendid victory.”

“Neat,” Heron replied through a scowl. Besting three knights at once, which had NOT been as easy as he had made it look, should have been his ticket into a nice rank in any platoon or mercenary band in the kingdom. He had entered the tourney as one of about six ‘black knights’; contestants who covered themselves so the better bred members of the crowd wouldn’t have to look at their peasant features. He was the only one that made it to the final round, and his unmasking at the end was met with more tart looks than applause.

He had had two assassination attempts, the latter ending messily and publicly just outside this very establishment. The tournament was yesterday. The only good thing that had come out of the week straight hike to make it in time was the pouch of award money at his side. The scowl flinched into a smile, but just for a second.

The young woman was silent for a moment, seeming to weigh his apparent mood. Heron hoped she would get the message and leave him be.

“I would like to learn swordsmanship from you.”

Or not.

“Excuse me?”  Heron said. He might have sounded more incredulous, but frankly he was a little too tired and drunk to care too much.

“I would like to hire you to teach me how to fight with a sword,” she tried again.

“I see,” Heron replied, and then turned back in his seat toward the bar. “With all due respect, m’lady, piss off.” He grabbed his drink and downed it. He didn’t imagine that would be enough to dissuade her, but statistically speaking something would have to go his way today.

“Does ‘due respect’ include your reason for dismissing me?” Her voice was calm, even patient. Heron briefly wondered how long she was used to keeping it up before inevitably getting what she wanted.

“Swordsmanship isn’t a game for nobles’ girls,” he said without turning around. Given her dress and company, the young woman was likely trying to be inconspicuous. Some little rebellion against daddy, perhaps, or just the thrill of doing what you shouldn’t. Maybe a reminder that she was doing a bad job of it would shoo her off. The angry hiss of air from behind him, probably from the short one by ear, seemed like a good sign.

“I did not come for games,” she said. Heron waved for another drink. “I…” she hesitated. For the first time since her arrival, Heron noted vaguely. Most of his attention was on catching the barkeep’s eye, who was studiously ignoring all of them at the other side of the bar. “I need to know how to fight,” she said at last. “A few weeks from now…at least as well as a soldier.”

At that, Heron set his glass back down. It appeared he may have put her in the wrong mold; more a brash lordling than a bored lady-in-waiting. Very well, Heron had plenty of spite for both.

“Do you think because I’m young, I’m new at this?” Heron finally faced her again as he spoke.  “That I have some secret shortcut?” He leaned forward, face intent.  “Lady, I have been practicing how to hit people with a pointy metal stick ever since I was old enough to hold a dull wooden stick.” Even Heron was a little surprised as he increasingly bit out each word. “Killing a man is a much more complicated business than you seem to think.” He might have felt bad, but the woman was only the latest little blow to his dignity as a swordsman.

For her part, the aristocrat seemed unfazed by his venom. In fact, he might have sworn she was smiling. “I am not looking for secret techniques. I am only after some fragment of the experience of one of the greatest swordsman in the realm.” And there was the flattery. “Please, Master Heron. I am willing to sweat and bleed till I can no more, but I must learn.”

At some point, Heron realized he was leaning back again. The woman had not stepped forward to meet him, but her eyes, intense amber things in the bar’s dreary mage-light, had driven him to the other edge of his seat. He did not immediately shift back into place, but raised his elbows to rest on the counter behind him as if that were his intention from the start.

“Yes, yes, fine, you have convinced me your spirit is strong and your words are pretty,” he drawled with a touch more sarcasm than strictly necessary. “Now convince me what could possibly make staying in this ash-pit any longer than I have to, worth my while?” Her sudden, beaming smile made his own face sour. “And not money! I have plenty of that at the moment, thank-you.” That didn’t seem to dim her spirits. Instead, still smiling, she stepped toward him.

She reached out and grasped his left arm by the hand, too fast for him to react with dignity but too slow to realistically be an attack. He almost wished it was, just so he would know what to do with the strange girl bringing up his hand to-

Soft. After the space of four heartbeats-Heron counted each one-she drew his hand back out from the folds of her cloak. “There,” she said, looking unruffled and tranquil as ever. “That should be worth at least another week, right?”

Heron distantly heard a strange keening that sounded almost like, “Millie, what the hell was that!?”

The woman apparently didn’t. “It has been a pleasure making your acquaintance, Master Heron.” She curtsied with her cloak. “My name is Mildred. I look forward to learning from you.”

Red coursed its way up from Heron’s cheeks to his ears. “I-what-!” he choked out.

“Ah, please come to the building on here,” Mildred said, and plucked a folded piece of parchment from her sleeves. She held it out to Heron, who grabbed it with a reflexive jerk. “It’s very close, and has a suitably large yard to practice in. I will see you tomorrow at noon, Master Heron.”

She curtsied deeply one more time, then rose and walked out the door with a flourish of cloth, followed by the small one. Heron barely noticed the significantly unladylike hand gestures the companion whipped through, walking backward almost the entire way. He blinked for the first time as the bar’s door swung shut.

“Hey! Wait-” The other patrons, silent the entire exchange, exploded into applaud and laughter. He stood up, red-faced, and made for the door. The cheering and jeering crowd had also stood up, and several impeded his path to slap him on the back. “Shut up, dammit, I am trying to-I will end all of you!” His cry was drowned out in the cacophony.

Outside, Mildred strode down the dirty uneven road with careful grace. Her friend walked, back arched like an angry cat. “Seriously, what were you thinking?!”

“Hm, did I do something wrong Nero?” she asked. Mildred did not stop walking but her smile became a little hesitant in the face of her friend’s incredulity.

“Don’t give me ‘what did I do wrong Nero?'” Nero walked as she spoke, letting her voice go high and her eyes wide. Her eyelashes fluttered in some parody of innocence. Then her face snapped back into a furious expression. “You’re not that naive, just letting some random vagrant grab wherever he wants!”

Mildred sighed, but it was a sound of relief. “Oh good, I thought you meant I had botched negotiations.”

“Negoti-!!” Dark eyes bulging, jaw trembling, Nero bit her lip as if to restrain a literal flood of indignation. A strangled cry still made its way through.

“I really do not see what concerns you so,” Mildred replied. “It is not as though I actually lost anything. And a man would do almost anything to touch a woman’s chest, right?”

“Well, he got his touch, so why should he show up anyway? The guy was a total ass,” Nero said, shoulders slumped. She eyed her friend warily. “And if he does show up expecting anything else, I’ll cut his-”

“Thank-you, Nero,” Mildred cut her off, smiling primly. “But he will come, and he will teach me. He is not, I think, a man to ignore a debt of any kind.” Nero made a face, her tongue sticking out.

“Sure, sure, but what about after? You aren’t going to drop this after a week, are you?” The poor girl almost seemed hopeful.

“I have a feeling Master Heron will stay, for one reason or another.”

“A ‘feeling, ‘huh?” Nero said. After a beat, sharp eyes looked up to Mildred’s face. “The same sort of ‘feeling’ that put this idea in your head in the first place?”

“The very same,” Mildred replied, a sad smile softening the words. Nero said nothing, but she could feel her stomach drop.

…

He was going to pay her back for that. Heron had spent much of the night furiously cutting through sword forms in the farthest corner room on the upper floor of the inn. It was one indignity after another with this place. He would be in absolutely tip top shape for tomorrow, he promised himself.

A dark figure on darker business hung outside his door for hours, on and off, waiting for the swordsman to sleep off his drink. Sunrise came before the hired blade slunk off unnoticed, unwilling to engage a readied opponent who had so easily cut down his predecessors. Always a professional, he had to admire the man who could combine the guts to stay in a city that wanted him dead and the paranoia to survive it.

Heron finally collapsed five minutes later. He slept near until the appointed time.

But twenty minutes before noon Heron snapped awake. Five minutes to relieve himself and rinse his face, five more to wash away the last of his hangover with water and bread. It was ten minutes to the appointed location, straightening clothes and subtle bits of boiled leather all the way. Best look presentable for such an eager pupil.

A man from the bar the night prior saw him on the way and whistled. It died a slow, be-spittled death at half a red-eyed glance from the swordsman.

The house was clearly abandoned. The walls molded and splintered, cobwebs hung from shuttered windows on the second floor. It could not be more conspicuously saying “Stay away!” if there was an actual sign. He might have appreciated the little lady’s taste for the theatrical another time.

As he rounded the broken-down manse, Heron had to admit the yard was impressive. Spacious, clear of debris and completely shadowed from prying eyes.

“Whelp, he’s not here,” the tiny one’s voice,” Let’s go Millie!”

“Oh, am I late?” Heron called out. Even from across the yard he could practically taste the runt’s face curdling like milk. But the young lady, Mildred, was simply beaming. It would have hurt his eyes if he had had a little more to drink last night.

“Of course not,” she said. “A class can hardly start until the teacher arrives.” She was carrying a wrapped bundle: a pair of wooden training swords if he did not miss his guess. “I took the liberty of procuring these. I assumed you might not know where such things are handled in town yet.”

Heron strolled over with all the grace and poise of a predator. He accepted one of the proffered implements with a calm grip; there was no snatching or jerking. He could keep this perfectly respectful. “You assumed rightly,” he admitted. A quick once-over grudgingly found nothing wrong with her outfit. The cloak was gone in favor of a simple, tough-looking brown tunic and breaches pair. Her long auburn hair was done up in a tail, and he assumed stuck down the back of her tunic. Heron briefly considered complaining about the little girl apparently trying to murder him with black magic from her eyeballs but decided she looked like the type who would find being ignored more irritating.

“Let’s see what we have to work with, then,” Heron said. “Show me what your idea of a stance is.” Mildred carefully ordered her feet should-width apart, her left more or less behind the other to slant her body sideways. She bent slightly at the knee and brought her back hand around to hang loosely on the hilt of her practice sword beneath her right. A fencer trying to figure out how to use both hands, Heron mused. He clucked his tongue loudly, and was a little irritated when she didn’t flinch.

“It looks functional,” he said. Heron took a relaxed stance of his own, similar enough at first glance, but let his practice weapon drift till the ‘blade’ seemed to point at the ground beneath Mildred’s feet. “Let’s start with a practical,” he admired how well he kept the malice out of his voice, “try coming at me.” She seemed to hesitate, and her feet shifted slightly as if checking her balance.

He was a little surprised when her arm snapped out straight and she surged forward, wooden tip pointed straight at his heart. No restraint or fear in the movement at all. Her practice weapon reached ever closer, no sign of slowing down. Heron clucked his tongue again—then his hand shifted, as if separate from the arm. There was a loud crack, and the tip of Mildred’s practice weapon jerked away harmlessly into the air.

“Ah!” At the same time Mildred choked off a cry, staggering to a stop and clutching her sword hand. Her eyes flickered to her hand, then turned and stuck to Heron. He saw the question in them clearly—When did he hit me? Not the emotion he was going for, but a good first step.

“Clumsy,” Heron said. “If you can’t show me anything better than that, I’m not going to waste my time.”

She smiled, and adjusted the grip on her weapon. “Of course,” she replied. Heron twitched. One step forward, two steps back, it seemed.

Mildred lunged again, and again and again on his command-and Heron parried each one. Every single one was followed by a blinding blow to her knuckles, to make her drop her sword. At some point, that became his goal-more than the pain, to make her admit some small defeat. The practice weapon shook fiercely with each blow, yet it never left her hand. Even her yelps were inconsistent, bitten off as often as not.

Dozens of attacks passed and his show of contempt cracked and gave way to frustration again. The girl wasn’t just stubborn, she was also thinking. Each attempt came at a different target or angle. The efforts were clumsy, but eventually he conceded that she was genuinely trying to probe his defenses rather than just flailing about.

“Enough,” he said. Mildred tripped over the start of another attack, but kept to her feet. “I’ve seen about as much of that as I can take. Now I think we’ll see how you defend yourself.” Heron smirked this time.

“Then I await your instruction,” Mildred replied, returning a much more sincere smile. Heron’s own expression wilted into a flat line.

“Take your stance,” he said. In a few moments she seemed to settle into much the same position as before. Heron himself switched feet, starting with his left. He covered the distance in three short steps, so quick the difference between movements was almost imperceptible. His weapon came forward in much the same stab as Mildred’s own attempts. She brought her own weapon to parry with its base at the tip of his own weapon, whether by sense or luck Heron couldn’t be sure yet. Still, the wood never touched; his arm moved somehow and his sword seemed almost to twist around Mildred’s wrist.

“Ragh!” The practice weapon whipped a streak across her upper leg and Mildred cried out. She stumbled from the pain, but steadied herself. Heron was back in position by the time she looked away from the furrow in her breeches.

“Son of a bitch!”

Heron ignored the curse from the sidelines. He was all eyes for the noble girl. It hurt, he knew, like getting whipped. The upper leg and thigh were sensitive, too—sometimes a good blow there could send a wave of nausea up clear through the guts. Mildred looked back, undaunted and ready.

Heron exhaled, and then he was on her again.

Stab, cut, slash, he danced around her blade. Movements were simple and precise. Her weapon only met his when he chose. And each time he struck her around the thighs or knee, to make her buckle, but each time she drew herself up. She sweated, she trembled and hissed in pain. She never glared, she never shouted, never lashed out.

It hadn’t been too long, objectively. But Heron knew that every minute carrying a weapon, and the practice swords had a good heft, was an eternity to someone unused to the weight. He drew back from his latest attack, a slashing feint, on reflex. His frustration, his embarrassment, everything slipped away to the same simple determination he applied to every challenge. She was clearly untrained, but he supposed it was not impossible she had been training with the weight of the practice swords.

His eye ran up and down her arm. Ah, he fingers were starting to come apart in the grip, it would be easy to-Heron blinked. Her knees shifted at different heights, a last ditch move to re-balance herself. A good blow at the back of the calf, unexpected, would finish-Heron blinked. He blinked and stared at this shaking, trembling young girl who had sweated till little faded out lines of red washed through the sleeves of her tunic. This young girl who stared through him, patiently, waiting for whatever came next.

He worked his jaw. “Enough,” was what came out. “At ease, take a seat,” he said, because otherwise he thought he might finally see her fall.

Instead, Mildred let out a breath and eased down to a sitting position. It was stiff, not graceful at all, but Heron was only paying her passing attention now. The abandoned house was suddenly very interesting.

“Thank-you, Master Heron,” Mildred said. She was smiling as she rubbed gently at her injured hand. “I think I could start again if I have just… five minutes.”

The smaller girl hurried to Mildred’s side. Nero, scowling but silent, pushed a flask into her friend’s hand. She produced a mostly clean rag from somewhere, and took to wiping auburn locks from where they were plastered to Mildred’s cheeks and brow. The older girl seemed to fend her off feebly with her good hand, even before she had a chance to drink from the flask. Heron could not hear what she muttered to her self-appointed caretaker, but he could see the blush that broke upon the younger girl’s face.

“Your footwork is terrible,” he found himself saying. “We can work on how you swing that lump of wood around later.”

“Why, so you can stab her a few times in the feet first?” he heard, hissed under the little one’s breath.

“We’ll start with the proper stances,” Heron continued. Finally, he let himself look directly at his would-be student again. Her expression was tired, but beaming.

“Thank-you-”

“Tomorrow.”

Mildred blinked big, amber orbs. “Ah, sir, I can go on. I have to-”

“You might have just enough strength left to fall over,” Heron replied. “Clean the welts and wrap something soft over them. I’ll see you here tomorrow at noon.” He turned rigidly and made his way back from where he came.

What had he been thinking, Heron wondered. He grit his teeth. Getting so upset over a little girl. Now he really did owe her a lesson or two.

Nero kept a slim, calloused hand pressed down on Mildred’s shoulder. “What an incredible jackass,” she said. Mildred laughed, then choked on the dry breath. She finally brought the flask to her lips and drank deeply. Nero glared at her.

“It’s not funny, he was trying to hurt you, nothing learning about it,” she said.

“In any pain there is a lesson,” Mildred said lightly.

“You pulled that straight out of your ass.”

Mildred laughed again. “Perhaps…and I supposed he seemed angry at first, for some reason.” Nero rolled her eyes. “You did not see his fight, my friend. If that man had wanted to, his first attack could have easily broken my hand.”

The younger girl boggled. “And that’s supposed to make it better? He didn’t cripple you for no reason so he’s a nice guy?”

“A gentle teacher is not what I need right now,” Mildred replied. She sighed, a long exhalation that seemed to draw the strength out from her whole body. She let herself slump, just a little. “It would not matter if he was a true sadist or a monster…he is my only option.”

“That’s stupid,” Nero said, voice quiet. “This is stupid. You shouldn’t have to…” Mildred placed a hand on hers.

“Perhaps. But I will.”