Day had passed since the humiliating duel, yet the morning sun bright and merciless did nothing to burn away the memory.

  Chickenman lay flat on the narrow cot in the small chamber Tobias had recently give to him, staring up at the rough-hewn ceiling beams. Dust motes drifted in the slanted light like tiny, indifferent witnesses.

  "Rage is never enough." The words looped inside his skull, relentless, mocking. He could still feel the cold steel gauntlet smashing into the bridge of his nose, hear the soldiers' barking laughter rolling across the clearing, taste the hot copper flood of blood in his mouth.

  Every time he closed his eyes, Otto's hounskull visor lifted again, revealing that cool, pitying blue stare patient, almost disappointed, as though Chickenman had failed some unspoken test.

  In the next room, the alchemy workshop smelled of bitter herbs, hot iron, and the faint ozone bite of alchemy at work. Tobias moved between bench and tall shelves with surgical precision, gloved hands steady as a surgeon's. The soft clink of ceramic phials punctuated the quiet like distant bells.

  He tipped a handful of crushed Hucolus mushrooms still faintly glowing blue into a wide-mouthed mortar. The pestle ground them with slow, deliberate circles, each scrape released a cool, mineral scent that drifted through the room like frost settling on stone.

  Without looking up, he reached for the small copper cauldron simmering over a low red flame. The liquid inside bubbled gently, giving off wisps of pale vapor that caught the light like ghost silk.

  He poured the glowing mushroom paste into the pot. A soft hiss answered as the mixture met the heat, tiny sparks of light danced across the surface before sinking into the depths.

  The door creaked open behind him, Tobias didn't turn. "What do you want, Inferna?"

  Inferna froze, shock and confused in the doorway, one hand still on the latch. "How did you–"

  "You never knock," Tobias answered, calm as ever, shaking the newly filled phial gently. Tiny bubbles rose and popped inside the glass like dying stars. "And devils rarely have manners."

  "You don't know how to say thank you, do you?" Tobias finally glanced over his shoulder. The lenses of the plague mask reflected the blue flame like twin cold moons. "He saved your life. You repaid him by hiding in the trees while he in a kettle helmet challenged a tournament knight. If it hadn't been Otto, if it had been any of the others, they wouldn't have laughed and walked away. They'd have left two corpses cooling in the dirt."

  Inferna's crimson eyes narrowed, her fingers flexed at her sides, tiny sparks flickering between them like embers waking. "I was scared, alright? He was a fool to step out against armed mens!"

  Tobias shook his head once, slow and final. "Don't make more excuses." He stoppered the phial with a soft cork, placed it carefully on the shelf among the others, then brushed past her without another word. His coat rustled like dry leaves in autumn wind.

  He stopped outside Chickenman's door and knocked twice sharp, businesslike. The open the door wide, "Get up. Grab your sword and helmet. Backyard. Now." The door closed before Chickenman could answer.

  Chickenman lay there a moment longer, blinking at the ceiling. Then the door opened a second time, just wide enough for the beak to poke through. "Now," Tobias repeated flatly, and shut it again.

  Chickenman sighed, swung his legs off the cot, and sat up. The kettle helmet clanked as he jammed it onto his head almost fell over again. He crossed to the corner, lifted the short sword, drew it halfway. The edge once pitted and dull now gleamed with a fresh, careful polish. Tobias had sharpened it sometime in the night, silent and unasked.

  He sheathed it, rubbed the still-tender bridge of his nose, and opened the door.

  Inferna stood just outside, head bowed, arms wrapped tight around herself like she was holding something fragile together.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  "Inferna?" Chickenman asked, surprised. "What are you doing here?"

  She swallowed, eyes fixed on the floorboards. "I… I'm sorry. About the duel that day. About not–"

  "It's alright," he cut in gently. A small, tired smile curved his mouth. "Honestly? It's probably better you stayed hidden. It would've been worse if you'd jumped in. They'd have had two bodies instead of one idiot."

  He stepped past her while give small oat on her shoulder. As he left the clinic to the backyard of the clinic from the backdoor, the bright morning sun stabbed through the gap in the forest canopy and struck his eyes like a blade. He winced, tipping the kettle helmet forward to shade his face.

  Tobias waited in middle the backyard behind the clinic, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the distant trees as though reading omens in the swaying branches.

  Chickenman quickened his step.

  "You're late," Tobias said without turning. "If this were a siege, your chamber would already buried under rocks under, from trebuchet." He reached to his belt and drew a broad, single-edged hunting sword its blade sturdy, slightly curved toward the tip, with a simple crossguard and a practical stag-horn grip worn smooth by years of use.

  The steel rasped free of its scabbard with a low, earthy whisper. "First lesson, how to actually attack instead of swinging like a drunken woodsman trying to cut down a tree seeds."

  Tobias stepped to a thick stick driven deep into the earth, raised the hunting sword in a single, economical arc, and brought it down. The wood split cleanly with a sharp crack, the top half toppling neatly to the grass. "Still keen," he murmured, almost to himself.

  He turned back to Chickenman. "Slash and parry. Parry and slash. They may sound the same but they are not. Slash and parry is the language of attack. Parry and slash is the desperate poetry of survival counterattack disguised as defense."

  Tobias stepped back, creating perfect distance. He assumed a relaxed guard, hunting sword held low and loose, point drifting like a hound scenting the wind. "Now. Try to attack my lower abdomen."

  "Alright," Chickenman exhaled, drew his short sword, shuffled into his awkward stance, and lunged more stab than slash.

  Tobias's hunting sword rose in a smooth, compact diagonal, catching the short sword and guiding it wide with economical strength.

  In the same heartbeat the broad blade continued its arc, sweeping toward Chickenman's throat. It stopped a finger's breadth from skin, the edge so close it stirred the fine hairs there.

  "See?" Tobias said softly. He withdrew the sword and stepped back. "Parry and slash. Simple. Deadly against the untrained."

  Chickenman swallowed, the nearness of the blade still prickling his throat. "That… was fast."

  "Too fast for you right now," Tobias agreed. He lowered the hunting sword completely, point resting in the dirt. "So we'll go slowly. Very slowly. Watch the movement, not the speed."

  He stepped forward again, raising the hunting sword once more. This time there was no sudden blur. Instead, Tobias moved with deliberate, almost ceremonial slowness, each motion broken down into its component parts.

  He lifted the sword in a languid diagonal line, the broad edge catching sunlight in a steady, continuous gleam. "Here," he said, voice calm, "is the parry." The blade rose to meet an imaginary attack, guiding it aside with the flat of the steel rather than the edge. "You feel the angle. You redirect. You do not fight force with force."

  Then, without pause, the hunting sword continued its arc, slow, graceful, inevitable. It drifted toward Chickenman's neck in a wide, measured crescent. He could have stepped away a dozen times before it reached him. The broad edge hovered, feather-light, just kissing the skin beneath his jaw.

  "Parry," Tobias repeated softly, "and slash. One flows into the other. No hesitation. No waste."

  He lowered the sword again, stepped back, and gestured with the blade. "Now you. Slow. Show me the movement. Let me feel it."

  Chickenman nodded, throat still tingling from the ghost of steel. He raised his short sword, copied the diagonal lift clumsy at first, then smoother as he forced himself to move without hurry. Tobias watched, head tilted slightly, the plague mask unreadable.

  "Better," Tobias said when Chickenman finished the arc. "Now again. Slower still. Until the motion lives in your bones, not just your arms."

  They repeated the exercise three times each pass slower than the last. until Chickenman's shoulders ached from the deliberate restraint and the hunting sword's whisper against his blade felt almost familiar.

  Tobias lowered the hunting sword. "Good. Speed is the last thing you earn. Control comes first."

  He noticed Chickenman's feet still spread too wide. "One leg forward, one back. Never square unless you wield something longer, like a longsword. Back leg gives you power to charge. Balance to retreat."

  Chickenman adjusted, mimicking the stance as best he could.

  "Better. Now parry first. I want to see you defend before I risk a finger." Tobias shifted to a left guard.

  The first swing came fast diagonal from the shoulder. Chickenman managed to knock the hunting sword aside with a clumsy but effective parry. Steel rang, sharp and bright.

  "Good. Again."

  Another cut, this time from the right. Again, Chickenman parried.

  "From above."

  When Chickenman readied for a head guard, Tobias slashed downward. Chickenman's guard was late, the hunting sword stopped an inch from his abdomen, the broad edge gleaming with promise.

  "Not everyone follows rules," Tobias said quietly. "Some play dirty. Even noble knights turn filthy when desperate. Remember that."

  Chickenman let out a heavy breath, sweat beading beneath the helmet. "Alright… I think I'm starting to get it."

  "Good. Now let's try one last time. But on opposite guards. When my blade is low, yours is high." Tobias dropped into a low left guard, hunting sword angled across his body. Chickenman raised his short sword overhead.

  Tobias struck.

  Chickenman parried, steel screeched, then snapped the tip of his blade forward in a quick thrust toward Tobias's midsection. The point halted just shy of cloth.

  Tobias nodded once. "Good. You didn't actually stab me." He stepped back, lowering the sword. "In a real fight against a knight like Otto, stay defensive. Tire him. Armor is heavy. He'll tire faster than you think. When he slows, when he breathes hard, that's when you look for gaps, armpit, groin, neck. Or simply wait until exhaustion… or surrender. Though surrender is very unlikely with a loyal Order knight."

  He sheathed the hunting sword with a decisive snap. "Enough for today. I have work to finish. Train alone if you want. Trees don't hit back." A pause. "Yet. Maybe some if you go far enough."

  Chickenman sheathed his own sword, chest still heaving. "Eh… sure. Maybe later I'll train some more."

  "Suit yourself then." Tobias walked past him back toward the clinic.

  From the window, Inferna watched the entire exchange. Her face remained shadowed with guilt, but a small, reluctant smile curved her lips as she saw Chickenman stand a little straighter, sword now held with something almost like confidence.

  The morning light caught the edge of Tobias's beak as he disappeared inside, leaving only the quiet yard, the scent of pine and crushed grass, and the soft ring of steel still echoing faintly in the air like a promise, or a warning, or both.