Closing Deals and Cutting Edges

The broker’s face tightened the second Morgana walked back into Hearth & Hall.

“I’ll take the haunted house,” she said, leaning on the counter. “But we’re not sticking with that 500g price tag.”

His smile faltered. “The price is already discounted due to—”

“Due to the ghost I just kicked out of it,” Morgana interrupted. “And believe me, it wasn’t just rattling chains. It tried to claw my face off." 

"Your ‘discount’ doesn’t cover combat pay, bloodstains, or the fact the place looks like shit inside. Half the furniture’s broken, walls are stained, and you’re lucky the floorboards upstairs aren’t hosting a family of raccoons.”

The man blinked, clearly not sure if she was serious or exaggerating.

“Oh, and I’m gonna have to hire a cleaning crew,” she added, crossing her arms. “Which is money I shouldn’t have to spend, considering I just risked my ass so you could sell the place without warning buyers they might get murdered in their sleep.”

He cleared his throat. “…What price would you consider fair?”

“Four hundred,” Morgana said flatly. “And you throw in the cleaning for free.”

“That is… highly irregular—”

“Yeah, so’s buying a murder house,” she shot back. “Your call.”

The broker exhaled through his nose like a man realizing resistance was pointless. “Four hundred gold, and I will have a cleaning crew dispatched today. They should have it in livable condition within three to four days.”

“Deal.” Morgana slid the coins across the counter, scooped up the deed, and smirked. “Pleasure doing business. Try not to sell any more homes with homicidal roommates.”

Back on the street, she adjusted her cloak and muttered under her breath. “Four days until the place is clean, a week before my armor’s ready. Guess that means no dangerous missions until then. Just me, my scythe, and a whole lot of training…”

She cut through the market streets toward the Adventurers Guild. “At least I can work on not chopping my own damn head off while swinging this thing.”

The guild hall was buzzing when she stepped inside, the smell of ale, sweat, and parchment mixing in the air. The man who had tested her, broad-shouldered, tan-skinned, with short dark hair and a faint scar down his jaw, looked up from a table stacked with reports. His eyes were sharp, but not unkind.

“Wildrider,” he greeted with a nod. “Perfect timing. I’ve found someone to help with your… unconventional weapon choice.”

He stood and waved someone over as Morgana walked towards his table. The man who approached was built like an oak tree, with cropped ash-blond hair and a neatly trimmed beard. 

His forearms were corded with muscle, and there was an easy, controlled precision to the way he walked. A long spear rested across his back, the metal tip catching the light.

“This is Garrick,” the tester said. “Weapon master, specializes in polearms and curved blades. He’s agreed to help you not slice yourself in half.”

Garrick grinned, his voice deep and steady. “Scythe’s a tricky one. Most people who pick one up either learn control fast or stop having all their limbs. Let’s see where you’re at.”

The training yard out back was quiet except for the sound of distant practice dummies being battered. Garrick handed her a lightly padded guard vest “so we don’t have to scoop you into a bucket if things go wrong.”

Morgana summoned her scythe with a twist of her arm, black mist curling around her hand before solidifying into the weapon. Garrick’s brows rose, but he didn’t comment.

They started slow. Basic swings, stance adjustments, pivoting to use the blade’s curve for maximum reach, that sort of stuff. Garrick stopped her often, stepping in to adjust her grip or foot placement.

“Your follow-through’s too wide,” he said, guiding her hands. “That’ll get you stuck if you miss.”

“Better than not swinging hard enough,” Morgana muttered, readjusting.

“Not if you end up wide open for a counter.”

After twenty minutes of drills, Garrick nodded. “Alright, let’s try a target. Just remember—control first, power second.”

Morgana hooked the scythe’s massive blade into the side of the training dummy, the curve biting deep into the wood. She grinned, bracing her boots, and yanked it free. But there was a slight problem.

She pulled too fast. 

The inner curve of the blade swung back in a lazy arc, the tip dragging across her own side before she could twist away.

“Fuck!” She stumbled back a step, clutching her ribs. An almost animal like hiss escaped from her lips in pain as a thin line of blood soaked through her shirt.

“Damnit! Hold still—” Garrick was already moving toward her, reaching for a pouch at his belt.

“No!” Morgana’s voice was sharper than she meant it to be. She backed up a step, scythe held between them. “Don’t touch it.”

He frowned. “It’s bleeding, you—”

The words died in his throat as he saw the gash knitting together, the torn skin smoothing over as if time itself had sped up. Within seconds, the only sign it had ever been there was the faint smear of drying blood.

Garrick’s eyes narrowed. “…That’s not normal.”

Fuckfuckfuckfuck. FUCK. If people find out that I can heal like this, they’ll start thinking what big things am I hiding. Not that I'm not suspicious enough! Shit, I can't let this information go out. They can't learn about me being a demon!

Morgana’s pulse was still hammering. “Yeah, no shit. But it’s going to stay that way." She narrowed her eyes at him. "No one hears about this. Not your guildmaster, not your drinking buddies, not the gods themselves.”

Garrick’s gaze met hers, serious now. “You want that kept quiet?”

Morgana just gave a silent but serious nod. Please, just shut your mouth. I don't want to kill you over something like this. And I can't be bothered with questions!

He held her gaze for a long moment, then nodded once. “Alright. My lips are sealed.”

She exhaled slowly, lowering her weapon. “Good. Because if someone finds out, they’ll start asking questions I’m not interested in answering.”

Her voice softened slightly, the tension easing just enough for a crooked smile. “Now… let’s finish before I really fuck something up.”

For the next hour, they worked through different forms, short, precise cuts, wide sweeps, using the butt end and the shaft for defense. Garrick’s corrections came quick and to the point, and by the end, Morgana’s movements were sharper, tighter.

When they finally stopped, she leaned on the scythe, sweat beading on her forehead. “Not bad, old man. Might actually keep me alive.”

Garrick smirked. “That’s the idea.”

And with that, they returned to the hall, Morgana already thinking about the next day’s training.