Unforseen Trouble

The next seven days blurred together in a cycle of sweat, sore muscles, and the occasional creative swearing. Garrick’s training was brutal but efficient; every session left Morgana drenched and a little less likely to accidentally amputate herself. He drilled her on balance, footwork, and keeping the scythe’s immense reach under control.

“Your weapon’s a bloody guillotine with a personality,” he’d grumbled one morning, forcing her to repeat a sweeping cut thirty times until it was clean.

“Yeah, and I’m trying not to end up as the head in that guillotine,” Morgana shot back, dragging the blade through another arc.

By midweek, she was moving more smoothly, though Garrick’s constant corrections made her want to throttle him. 

“Your front foot’s too far forward. Again.” 

“Your shoulders are too tight. Again.” 

“Your stance is—”

“—wrong. Again. I know,” she’d snapped once, earning only a calm smirk in return.

When she wasn’t in the training yard, she was making the newly purchased house into something that didn’t look like a horror story set. Morgana was throwing gold at her new home like she was trying to bribe it into liking her. 

The cleaning crew did good work, three days later, the floors gleamed, the bloodstains were gone, and even the musty air had been replaced by the faint scent of lemon polish.

After the cleaning crew had cleared the filth, she headed to the furniture district with a long list and zero patience. Beds, sheets, pillows, couches... She wanted— no, she needed the works. 

The first shop she stepped into was stacked with carved wood bed frames and fabric samples hanging from pegs. The shopkeeper, an older woman with silver-threaded hair, tried to guide her toward “economical” options.

“Nope,” Morgana cut her off, pressing down on a display mattress. “If I’m going to sleep here for the rest of my life — or until I get murdered in my sleep — I want something my spine won’t hate me for.”

She settled on a sturdy oak frame and the softest mattress they had, then tossed in sheets so smooth they could have been spun from clouds. 

I miss my pillows back home...

Pillows too, four of them, because screw this single flat pillow nonsense she’d been dealing with all week.

As she tested the plush couch in the next shop, she muttered, “God, I miss my old sofa. And my bedside lamp. And being able to read without squinting like some half-blind crypt keeper.”

The shopkeeper blinked. “Your… what, miss?”

“Lamp. Never mind. Just wrap this one up before I change my mind, and send them to this adress by the end of the day.”

By the time she was done, Morgana had also picked up a low reading chair, a solid dining table, and a thick rug to hide the trapdoor that is going to be added in her living room. 

It cost her more gold than she’d meant to spend, but as she lounged back on her new couch later that evening, she decided it was worth every damn coin.

Then came her pet project: the underground training space.

The cellar was already large, but Morgana wanted more. She borrowed tools from a carpenter in the market after swearing up and down that she wasn’t planning to collapse the neighborhood.

She spent hours digging out and shaping the dirt. It was exhausting work, filthy, and oddly satisfying.

By the fifth night, she had a proper open space with enough room to swing her scythe without risking her furniture. A trapdoor in the living room floor, hidden under a rug, was the only access.

“Perfect for when I want to practice without nosy bastards watching,” she muttered one evening, brushing dust off her arms. She even allowed herself a smug smile at the thought of anyone trying to find it without her knowing.

Exactly a week after she’d placed the order, Morgana stepped into Dorrik Ironbrow’s smithy. The dwarf was polishing a breastplate when she entered, and his apprentice peeked out from behind a rack of spears, offering her a shy smile.

“Yer timing’s perfect, lass,” Dorrik called, hopping down from his workbench. “Got yer armor finished an’ lookin’ sharp as a dragon’s tooth.”

He handed her a neatly folded set of black leather gear. The knee-high boots gleamed, the gloves — one full-length to the shoulder, one short to the wrist — were supple but sturdy. 

The armor itself covered her torso and upper legs with reinforced panels, the back was left open all the way down to her waist to allow for… certain adjustments if she ever revealed her true form.

The apprentice hesitated, then added softly, “I… um… thought the gloves were a nice touch. They, uh, match the design you wanted.”

Morgana grinned. “They’re perfect, thanks. I’ll make sure not to get blood all over them right away.”

Dorrik rolled his eyes. “Aye, an’ try not tae treat the rest o’ the set like disposable rags, eh?”

Morgana took it into the changing room and slipped it on. It fit perfectly, hugging her frame without restricting movement. She twisted left, then right, testing the range. The boots felt light, the leather flexible.

Stepping back out, she struck an exaggerated pose. “Well, if this doesn’t scream ‘don’t fuck with me,’ I don’t know what does.”

Dorrik snorted. “If they’re dumb enough tae try after seein’ ye in that, they deserve what’s comin’.”

“Good,” Morgana said with a grin. “Thanks, Dorrik. You might be grumpy as shit, but you do good work.”

He muttered something about “damn humans and their backhanded compliments,” but he looked pleased enough.

She slung her cloak over her shoulders and waved on her way out. “Try not to miss me too much.”

The city’s streets were busier than usual as Morgana made her way toward the Adventurers Guild. Stalls selling roasted meat skewers competed with jewelers, tanners, and smiths. Children darted between carts, chasing each other while vendors shouted over the din. 

She was halfway across the main thoroughfare, eyeing a stall selling candied fruit, when someone bumped hard into her shoulder.

She stopped, ready to snap, but the man turned immediately, hands up in apology.

“Ah— sorry, miss,” he said, his voice warm but edged with exhaustion. He was shorter than her by maybe two centimeters, his blonde hair shining even under the overcast sky. 

His plate armor was scuffed and smeared with dirt and dried blood, and a massive sword hung across his back like it weighed nothing. His green eyes were bright but tired, the kind of gaze that had seen too much and still carried on.

Morgana stared for half a second, her inner voice groaning. If he’s not a goody-two-shoes hero type, then my name’s not Morgana.

And then he proved her right.

“I’m Avric Greycastle,” he said, offering a gloved hand as if they hadn’t just slammed into each other. “Paladin under the service of the Everlight’s Radiance, sworn blade of Lady Alvara’s holy order. I hold the rank of High Guardian within her blessed company.”

Morgana’s mouth twitched. On the outside, she managed a polite-enough expression. On the inside, one single word rang through her head like a church bell.

Fuck.