“Of course I picked the Harem-Master subclass. …Yeah. I know how that sounds.”

We finish breakfast in our room, and somewhere between the last bite and the empty mugs it turns into a full‑blown budget debate—less strategy meeting, more arguing over how badly we’re about to hurt our own coin. We all agree on the important parts fast enough: armor, speed, staying alive. That part’s easy. Everything after that starts to fall apart.

“Armor first. Then weapons.” I say, keeping it simple.

Kit hums like she’s weighing it, then tilts her head, eyes glinting. “Armor that looks good,” she corrects. “If I’m risking my life, I want to do it looking good.”

“That’s not the priority.”

“It is to me.”

Raka snorts into her drink. “Armor first,” she repeats, backing me without hesitation.

Kit points at her with a piece of bread. “You’re biased.”

“I like you alive,” Raka replies, tearing into another bite.

“That’s fair,” Kit admits—then immediately pivots back. “Still. It can be both.”

I smirk—we’ve been down this road before. “Both is expensive,” I say. “We don’t have coin for ‘both.’ Not for everything. Not with what’s coming.”

That slows things—just a little. The healer hangs there between us, unspoken for a moment before it settles in properly. Not just finding her. Buying her freedom. Outfitting her after.

Kit exhales softly, then leans back, her smirk sliding into place, refusing to let the mood sink. “Then we’re efficient,” she says. “We get what we need… and we make it work.”

Raka lets out a low, incredulous sound—half growl, half laugh. “Right,” she rumbles. “You’ll be efficient.”

“Meaning you’ll still try to sneak something extra in,” I mutter.

“Meaning,” Kit replies sweetly, “you won’t notice until I’m already wearing it.”

Raka huffs a quiet laugh. “He’ll notice.”

“I might allow it,” I admit, smiling as I catch Kit biting her lip at me, already imagining what she might try to sneak in.

Kit’s grin sharpens. “There it is.”

Raka grins, shaking her head. “You’re terrible at holding the line, Master.”

I snicker, a low chuckle slipping out. “Only because I’m keeping an eye on you two… from behind.”

That lands. Then laughter breaks through, easy and unguarded, the kind that settles into the room and lingers a moment longer than it should.

We go back and forth like that—trimming here, adding there, arguing over what counts as necessary and what counts as worth it—until something resembling a plan finally takes shape. Not perfect. Not clean. But good enough. Good enough to keep us alive… and maybe look a little better doing it.

With that, we get moving—out the door and into the streets of Marrowpine, pockets about to get a lot lighter.

Threads of Fortune

The shop comes into view exactly where it’s always been—same sign, same window display, same promise of gear that actually fits the way you fight. We’ve been here more than a few times now—Kit’s first real outfit, Raka’s fittings, repairs after bad days—and stepping inside feels less like visiting a shop and more like returning to something familiar.

The door chimes as we step in… and we’re not alone.

A human man—the Haggling Fighter—is leaning halfway over the counter, one hand planted, the other waving a worn leather greave like it’s evidence in a trial. “I’m telling you, it’s barely used,” he insists. “Look at the stitching—still good. That’s got to be worth more than that.”

The Leather Merchant doesn’t even blink. “The stitching is holding because you didn’t get hit,” she replies calmly. “That’s not craftsmanship. That’s luck.”

The Witty Bard—a red-haired dwarven woman lounging off to the side—snorts into her drink, despite the no food or drink sign hanging clearly at the entrance. “Careful,” she says, grinning. “You keep arguing like that, she’s going to start charging you for optimism.”

“I’m just saying,” the Haggling Fighter presses, undeterred, “there’s value here.”

“There was,” the Leather Merchant corrects. “Before you wore it, sweated in it, and brought it back hoping I’d feel sentimental.”

The Witty Bard lifts a finger. “Ah, the classic strategy—appeal to her heart.” She glances at the merchant. “Shame she sold that years ago.”

Kit shifts beside me, tail flicking, barely holding back a smile.

“Fine,” the Haggling Fighter mutters, trying a different angle. “What if I bundle it? Boots too.”

The Leather Merchant finally leans forward just a fraction. “Then I give you slightly more coin for two things I still don’t need. It’s a set of starting leather armor you’re trying to sell piece by piece.”

The Witty Bard laughs outright at that, a bright, easy sound. “He’s negotiating himself into a worse deal. It’s impressive, really.”

I feel it through the bond—Kit’s amusement, light and familiar, edged with memory. Counting coin. Stretching value. Trying to make something work that barely did.

Yeah. We remember this part.

The Leather Merchant sees us—and the promise of real coin—and breaks away smoothly. “Place all the pieces of the single set you want to part with on the counter,” she says, already stepping out of the exchange.

Concerned and calculating, I watch the Haggling Fighter hesitate, then start weighing the defensive value of each piece individually—deciding, piece by piece, what he’s actually willing to part with.

“Don’t sell the pauldrons,” the Witty Bard chimes in helpfully. “Those do the most work.”

He pauses. Looks down at them.

“…seriously?”

She nods, completely straight-faced. “Absolutely.”

He immediately sets them aside. “Yeah, no, those are staying.”

The Leather Merchant doesn’t even break stride as she neatly dodges the entire mess and turns to us with a warm, familiar smile.

“Well now,” she says... eyes flicking over me with quiet recognition. “Master Locke. Back again.”

I incline my head slightly, returning the tone. “Couldn’t stay away.”

Her gaze drifts to Kit, then Raka, already taking stock. “And this time?”

I gesture lightly between them, then to myself. “Armor upgrades,” I say. Then, after the briefest pause, “And… under… padding—”

Kit’s eyes snap to me—sharp, immediate, and playful.

I clear my throat. “…practical considerations.”

The Leather Merchant’s smile deepens just a fraction. “Of course.”

She looks us over again, more discerning this time—not just faces, but gear. Fit. Wear. Damage. Her eyes linger on Kit’s leathers first, slide to me, then settle on Raka. She hums softly, thoughtful, stepping closer as her fingers brush a seam on Kit’s armor, then tap once against my chain. “You’ve been busy.”

“Something like that,” I reply.

Her gaze sharpens just a fraction. “Where?”

There’s a pause—not hesitation, just the weight of the memory catching. “Bushman Forest,” I say. “Deeper. Near the ruins.”

The bond tightens at that. She doesn’t know the story—but she doesn’t need to. Her eyes flick between us again, reassessing, measuring.

“Mm.” A beat. Then, dryly: “Raka’s armor isn’t bad.” Another glance—Kit, then me. “It’s honestly impressive the two of you are still alive.”

Kit makes a sheepish face. I nearly grimace. “Working on fixing that.”

“Good,” she replies without missing a beat, straightening. “Stay here.”

She disappears into the back with purpose.

When she returns, it’s with an armful that makes it immediately clear—this isn’t the rack stuff. This is hers. She lays each piece out with deliberate care. “Now… this is my work.”

There’s pride in it. Quiet. Certain.

“Mastercrafted. Cut to move, reinforced where it matters. You won’t find better in Marrowpine—and I’d put it up against most enchanted rares.”

Kit’s already reaching for hers before she’s finished. Of course she is.

The Leather Merchant lays the pieces out one by one, deliberate and unhurried—letting the quality speak first. I take one look at the tag she sets beside them and feel my jaw tighten. “…that’s steep,” I mutter, already sounding uncomfortably close to the Haggling Fighter behind us. She doesn’t even look at me. “Mm,” she says—like she’s heard that exact tone a thousand times.

Kit leans in, eyes locked on the leather, fingers hovering just above it like touching it might make it vanish. The Leather Merchant notices immediately. “Come with me,” she says, already gathering Kit’s set, and Kit doesn’t even pretend to resist as they slip behind the partition, soft rustles of leather and low voices drifting through. “…he’ll say no,” Kit murmurs. “He’ll say it’s too expensive.”

The Leather Merchant replies, calm, certain—and just conspiratorial enough to carry. “And then you’ll show him how it moves.” I can almost feel Kit’s smirk through the bond. “…that’ll work.”

A quiet chuckle from the Leather Merchant follows. “Every time.”

I snort under my breath, side-eyeing Raka as she gives a slow, knowing nod. I’m not that predictable.

…am I?

The curtain shifts. Kit steps out.

And just like that—I know I’ve already lost.

Kit steps out knowing exactly what she’s doing. The armor fits close, almost indecently so, sleek black leather shaped in smooth, sculpted panels that hug her torso without a hint of bulk. The cuirass tapers cleanly through her waist and hips, every line built to move with her instead of against her. A high, sharp neckline frames her without weighing her down, while the fitted chest piece keeps everything streamlined—agile, precise, made for motion. Dark, segmented shoulder plates cap her frame with just enough protection to matter, and long black gloves run nearly to her elbows, tightening the whole look into something clean, dangerous… deliberate.

She shifts her weight once, and the armor follows, a second skin. Her hip rolls slightly as she turns, the leather flexing with her, catching the light across the curve before settling back into place like it belongs there. No pull. No stiffness. Just motion. A step. A slow turn. Her tail sweeps behind her in a lazy arc, the line from her lower back through her hips flowing into it so naturally it feels like part of the design. The armor doesn’t interrupt it—it frames it. Enhances it.

She glances back over her shoulder after a wiggle of her hips that was entirely directed, just enough to catch me watching.

I am.

She steps closer, slower now, letting the movement carry—hips, shoulders, a soft sway that isn’t exaggerated, just controlled. The leather moves with her, stretching and shaping around her without ever getting in the way.

“Feels right,” she says quietly. Not asking. Showing. Her fingers trace along her hip, testing the fit—or making sure I see exactly where it sits.

I do.

Behind me, Raka lets out a low, amused rumble. “Oh, she’s good.” There’s approval in it. Respect. Recognition. Kit’s smile sharpens at that confidence building as she holds my gaze a second longer than she needs to.

That’s the moment. Not the armor. Not the craftsmanship. Her. In it. Owning it.

I exhale slowly, already feeling the decision lock in before I can stop it. “…yeah,” I mutter. The Leather Merchant doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t need to.

I lost this one the second she stepped out.

Raka goes next—no hesitation. Just a steady step forward as the Leather Merchant brings her set around. The hide and fur go on first, thick and worn‑soft, settling across her shoulders and chest like something meant to be carried. Then the plate follows—dark steel locking in piece by piece, each section finding its place with a quiet, final weight. It doesn’t sit on her. It anchors.

She adjusts once, a slow pull at the shoulder, a shift through her stance as the balance locks in. The fur beneath softens the contact, the plate above taking the shape of her movement instead of resisting it. Built to take impact. Built to stay standing. She rolls her shoulders, and the metal moves with her. A measured step forward—then she plants. Solid. Immovable. Her weight settles through her frame, the armor taking it, spreading it, grounding it. She leans forward just slightly—not enough to move, just enough to test it, like she’s inviting something to hit her.

Her lips pull back into a faint, satisfied grin. “Good,” she rumbles. High praise.

Kit watches her with open appreciation, head tilting. “You look like a wall,” she says, impressed. Raka glances down at herself once, then back up—calm, certain. “I feel like one.”

And that’s when Kit’s ears flick, her gaze quizzical, just a touch, at the chest plate—subtle shaping there, not exaggerated, but… clearly cupped and visible. Raka notices, looks down, her brow furrowing slightly. “…why is that part shaped?” she asks, completely serious.

The Leather Merchant doesn’t even blink. “Structural integrity.”

Kit snorts. I cough into my hand.

“…and?” Kit adds, unable to help herself.

The Merchant’s mouth curves just slightly. “Aesthetics.”

Kit and I look, eyes clearly lingering just a second longer than necessary. “Very solid design.” I nod once, equally serious. “Important reinforcement.”

Raka looks between us—slowly. Her tail gives a single, deliberate thump. “…you’re both idiots.” But there’s no bite to it. She rolls her shoulders again, settling back into the armor, and whatever doubt was there fades under the weight of it—the certainty, the strength.

“If it protects, I don’t care,” she says.

The bond betrays her anyway—a flicker of warmth, quickly swallowed by something steadier. Grounded. Unshaken. This version of her doesn’t fall. This version holds. I feel it settle through me, solid and reassuring, easing something in my chest I hadn’t realized was still tight.

Yeah. That’s what we needed.

By the time I step forward, I already know how this ends. The chain shirt slides on close, fitted through the chest and shoulders, the pauldrons shifting without pulling my balance. Lighter than it looks. Cleaner. Controlled. I move once—no drag, no noise. Just… there. Like it belongs.

The Leather Merchant circles me once, slow and appraising. “Better,” she says, matter‑of‑fact. “More functional for casting than that loose chain you were wearing before. Won’t fight your movement.” I nod, rolling a shoulder, testing it again. She’s right.

I glance up—and catch all three of them looking. Not at the armor. At me. Kit’s expression sharpens, openly appreciative. The Leather Merchant gives a small, knowing hum. Raka’s gaze lingers a second longer than usual, steady and approving.

I shift, turning slightly—just enough to settle the fit—and feel it. The looks don’t drop. If anything, they follow. I track their attention down just enough to realize it’s not the chain they’re looking at. My leather pants fit a little too well.

I turn a bit more, testing the movement through my hips—mistake.

Kit’s smile deepens.

The Leather Merchant hums again, quieter this time.

Raka’s tail gives a slow, deliberate sweep.

I clear my throat, straightening. “…functional,” I say.

Kit smiles dangerously. “Very.”

I exhale, already reaching for my coin before I can stop myself.

Yeah.

I lost this one.

The Leather Merchant is already moving, gathering our old armor as trade—no pause, no haggling, not even waiting for confirmation.

“You were always going to buy it,” she says, not looking back.

“I just let you arrive there on your own.”