Chapter 30 – Handled Properly
We end up back at the Feisty Dwarf for lunch, armor newly fitted and already drawing looks, coin freshly spent, and the conversation picking right back up where it left off—only now it’s weapons on the table instead of armor. And apparently… that’s a very different kind of argument.
Kit lounges back with one boot hooked under the bench. “Armor’s easy,” she says. “You wear it. You adjust.” Her fingers brush her daggers almost absently. “Weapons are different.”
Raka grunts agreement around a mouthful of something roasted. “You learn a weapon,” she says. “You trust it.”
“Which is exactly why we should be thinking about upgrades,” I counter.
That earns me two unimpressed looks.
The Busty Barmaid appears without invitation, sliding drinks onto the table with a grin that says she’s been listening for a while. “Careful,” she warns. “A girl gets very particular about what she’s used to handling.”
Kit snorts. Raka huffs. I sigh. “That’s not—”
“Oh, it absolutely is,” the barmaid cuts in smoothly. “You don’t just swap something like that out and expect it to feel right the first time.”
“That’s what I’m saying,” Kit agrees, giving me a pointed look. “These?” She taps her daggers. “I know exactly how they move. How they respond. Where they land.”
“You’re right,” I admit, holding up a hand before she can gloat. “I’m not saying replace them blindly. But if the right pair shows up…” I let it hang just long enough. “I think you could handle more.”
Kit’s ears flick—suspicious, but interested. “…handle more, you say?”
Raka rests a hand on her axe, casual but firm. “Mine’s fine. Hits hard. Holds.”
“And it will,” I say. “Unless we find something rare, that’ll carry you into Tier 2 easily.”
She nods once. Settled. No debate.
Then all three of them look at me.
I exhale. “…mine needs work.”
The barmaid perks up instantly. “Oh?”
I glance at my spear. “It’s… not working like it used to. Not a solid weapon—harder to focus with.”
“A bit in between?” she asks, amused. “…soft in the stats?”
“Exactly—no, that’s not…”
Kit’s smile starts to curl. “So what are you thinking?” She knows exactly where this is going.
I hesitate—just long enough to regret opening my mouth. “A long spear… something two-handed.”
That does it.
Kit’s grin sharpens immediately. Raka’s ears tilt forward. The barmaid actually laughs. “Oh, that’s a commitment.”
“Bigger can be better,” Kit adds sweetly. “More control.”
Raka smirks. “Harder to manage if you don’t know what you’re doing.”
“I can manage it,” I mutter.
“Mm,” Kit hums, slow and unconvinced. “You say that now.”
The barmaid leans in just a little, voice dropping like she’s letting me in on a secret. “If you’re upgrading, you might as well pick something that really fits your grip.”
I turn to the uninvited barmaid. “This is a serious discussion.”
“It is,” she agrees immediately. “Very serious.”
Kit is absolutely not helping, her tail flicking lazily as she watches me squirm. “Longer might suit you,” she says, far too innocent. “Or something thicker. More weight behind it.”
Raka snorts into her drink. “Thicker shaft… heavier head.”
“For thrusting,” the barmaid adds with a bright, satisfied smile.
I glare at all of them. They are having entirely too much fun with this.
“…I’m upgrading it,” I say finally, cutting through it.
“Of course you are,” Kit replies, still smiling.
The barmaid stands, satisfied with the chaos she’s caused, giving my shoulder a light pat as she slips away. “Just make sure you pick something you’ll actually enjoy handling,” she calls over her shoulder—letting her stride, and the sway of her bust, do the rest of the talking.
Kit watches her go, then looks back at me, eyes glinting. “Same rule applies to us, Master.”
I shake my head, but I’m smiling despite myself.
Honed Edge.
After lunch, we make our way to the weapon shop. The Weapon Vendor is already busy—weekend traffic, adventurers crowding the space, all of them working through their first real upgrades. A female halfling—a Bright-eyed Priest—stands near the counter, practically bouncing as she talks. A beastkin Burly Warrior looms beside her, arms crossed, weighing options. The Witty Bard and the Haggling Fighter are there too, still mid-debate, and rounding them out is a human mage in a wide-brim black hat. They argue like they’re a party on a mission.
We respect that, so we hang back and wait our turn.
Raka drifts first, naturally pulled toward the heavier racks. Her hand settles on a dwarven battleaxe—solid, well-made. She lifts it, testing the weight with easy familiarity. I pull up the HUD, letting it overlay the weapon. As expected, the upgrade in damage is negligible over her current war axe. We didn’t skimp when we bought it.
“Good,” she mutters anyway, giving it one more swing before setting it back.
The Weapon Vendor finishes with the group, wrapping up a final exchange before looking at the one still lingering. “Enora,” he calls to the female mage, “did you want to upgrade your starting staff like the rest of your party?”
She pauses.
We pass each other just then, her purple eyes lifting briefly beneath the brim of her hat. It’s just a moment as she tucks a loose strand of white hair behind her ear. Then it’s gone, the hat tipping forward as she lowers her gaze again, her face vanishing into its shadow.
“No,” she says. “I’ll stick with this one… for now. I’m sure I’ll find something new eventually.”
There’s something in the way she says it. Soft. Certain.
I watch them file out, the group moving together with that early-party energy—unpolished, a little loud, figuring themselves out as they go. Familiar.
My gaze lingers a moment longer than it should—mostly on the sway of the black mage as she goes.
Then I turn back, refocusing. Weapon Vendor. My girls. And the next upgrade.
We step up to the counter as the last of the other party clears out, the Weapon Vendor already turning his attention to us. His eyes move quick—hands, stance, gear—reading what we are before we say a word.
“Upgrades,” I say simply. “Daggers for her. Spear for me. Something better suited for casting.”
He nods once, already looking past me to Kit. “Let me see what you’ve got.”
Kit draws one of her daggers, flipping it once before offering it hilt‑first. He takes it, weighing it in his hand, thumb brushing the edge, checking balance more than sharpness. Then he glances at the second one still at her hip.
“…good pair. I remember those.” he says after a moment.
Kit’s ears perk immediately.
He sets it down carefully. “I’ll be honest with you,” he continues, voice even. “I sold you these.”
That lands. Kit blinks. I narrow my eyes slightly. He doesn’t flinch.
“They’re mid‑tier,” he goes on. “Good steel. Clean balance. For standard dual‑wield daggers?” He gives a small shrug. “You’re already near the top end of what that bracket offers.”
Kit looks down at them, then back up. “…so upgrading?”
“Marginal,” he says plainly. “You’d spend coin for very little return. Different style, maybe. Not better. Not enough to matter.”
There’s no pitch in it. No angle. Just fact.
Kit’s tail flicks once—then twice—before her expression shifts. Relief.
“…so I keep these,” she says, a little too pleased to hide it.
He nods. “If they fit your hand? You keep them.”
She grins outright at that.
I watch him a second longer. He up‑sold us last time. Now he’s… not.
“Unusual sales strategy,” I note.
He snorts once. “Poorly geared adventurers don’t come back. Good ones stay alive long enough to buy again.”
Fair.
He turns to me next. “Spear.”
I nod. “Longer. Two‑handed. And I need it to carry spell flow better than what I’ve got.” That gets a different look from the Weapon Vendor—one he expected. More focused. He studies me for a moment—really studies—then nods once and turns toward the back.
Kit leans in immediately, voice low and already too pleased. “Longer, hm?” Her tail flicks once. “More reach. More to handle…” rekindling the joke, just enough to let it land. “…I can’t wait to see how big it is.” Raka chimes in. “Hope you can lift it.”
The Vendor stops mid‑stride, turns, and fixes both of them with a stare so flat it could sand wood. “Misses,” he says—correcting himself without softening. His tone drops—sharp, controlled, and completely humorless. “Weapons aren’t jokes. They’re for killing things before they kill you. If you want to flirt, take it outside. If you want to survive…” A slight pause, his gaze steady on both of them. “…stay focused.”
The shift is instant. Kit’s mouth snaps shut, ears dipping just a fraction—more scolded than offended. Raka straightens, shoulders squaring, ears angling back—set straight, no argument. And me—
I feel it hit wrong first. A flicker of defensiveness rising before I can stop it. Then it settles. Because he’s not wrong. Not even a little.
The Vendor holds the moment just long enough to make sure it lands, then turns again and disappears into the back.
Kit exhales slowly, ears flicking once as she tries to shake it off. “…Mister obvious,” she mutters under her breath, just loud enough for us to hear. “Seems very friendly.” A reluctant smile. “…I like him,” she adds, quieter now.
Raka grunts. “Straight… and a point well made.”
“Efficient,” I add.
And for a moment, none of us push the joke.
Because he’s right. The memory of the ruins—of fighting for our lives—bleeds back in, fresh and unwelcome.
This part isn’t a game.
A moment later, he returns. What he carries… is not standard stock. The spear is longer than mine—noticeably so—with a darker shaft, polished but worn in the way good weapons are. The head is clean, narrow, built for thrusting, but there’s something else to it—subtle etching along the metal, faint lines that catch the light like distant lightning.
He sets it across the counter with care. “Stormcast long spear,” he says. “Rare.” That word lands differently. “Came through here a while back,” he continues. “Party outgrew it.” A small pause. “Or didn’t.”
I reach for it. The moment my hand closes around the grip—yeah. That’s different.
I pull up the HUD without thinking, letting it settle over the weapon as I test the balance.
[Stormcast Long Spear — Tier 1 (Rare)]
[Affinity: Lightning — Enhanced conductivity for spellcasting and mana flow]
There it is. The missing piece.
The balance shifts naturally into a two-handed hold, the length giving reach without feeling unwieldy. There’s a responsiveness to it—not alive, not loud—but receptive.
Thunder rumbles beneath the wood.
Steel and lightning. Finally aligned.
My magic.
I give it a small test movement. Clean. Controlled. Right.
Kit’s watching me now, reading the reaction before I say anything. “…that’s the one, isn’t it?” she asks. I don’t answer right away. Don’t need to.
I look back at the Vendor. “How bad?”
He meets my eyes evenly. “Rare,” he repeats.
Of course it is.
I exhale slowly… already knowing exactly how this ends.
Pretty sure… I won this one.
My coin purse definitely didn’t.
Despite all the purchases, we still have a bit of coin left—petty, but enough. The rest of the early evening is spent in the market—smaller battles now. Accessories. Bangles. Ribbon. Healing herbs. Mana potions. The easy kind of decisions. The kind that don’t feel like life or death. We move through it together, banter returning, light and familiar. The flirting comes back too, easy and unforced, like we’re trying to remind ourselves what normal feels like.
But it never fully settles.
Because it’s all happening under the shadow of that tent at the edge of the market.
I catch myself staring at it more than once.
Kit notices. Of course she does. “She’s in there…” she says softly, stepping a little closer. “…our healer.”
Raka adjusts beside us, voice low and certain, her hunters’ gaze burning into the tent of The Greasy Slave Trader. “Our pack‑sister.”
That lands. Something steadier moves through the bond—quiet reassurance, shared and reinforced.
“She’s strong,” I say, feeling it settle between us. “She can hold out one more night.”
I believe it.
They believe it.
Tomorrow…
Tomorrow comes with a brighter fate for all of us.