Chapter 8: New Boots

The morning sun climbed over Norvic's walls, melting the frost on the cobblestones into a thin film of water. Vaste pushed open the Guild canteen door and stepped out, followed by Glaze, who was still chewing the last bite of her sausage.

"Where to now?" Glaze's voice came out muffled, cheeks still full.

Vaste didn't answer right away. She stood on the Guild steps, squinting down the street. The market was already coming to life—vegetable vendors shouting at full volume, a donkey cart loaded with ore stuck at an intersection, the dwarf driving it cursing in his own tongue.

"First, we deal with your feet."

Glaze looked down at her bare soles. Dust had settled on the tops of her feet. "My feet are fine," she said—not defiant, just stating what she believed to be a fact.

"They're not." Vaste was already walking down the steps. "No one walks around town barefoot. I don't want to explain you to everyone."

---

The shoemaker's shop sat on the south side of the market, squeezed between a dried-meat stall and a pawnbroker. The storefront was narrow, its sign bearing the faded outline of a boot, the paint long since worn beyond recognition. Vaste pushed the door open—the smell of leather and grease hit them immediately.

The shop was bigger inside than it looked. Boots covered every wall—low-cut, high-cut, fur-lined, iron-toed. A man in his fifties sat at a workbench, a pearwood pipe clamped between his teeth, a hammer in his hand, tapping at an upturned sole. He heard the bell above the door and didn't look up.

"Look around. Call me when you see something."

Vaste walked to the counter and knocked on the wood. The shoemaker finally looked up. His gaze went to Vaste's boots first, and his brow twitched—an expression of genuine interest.

"Those are rare."

"Not here to talk about them."

Vaste stepped aside, revealing Glaze behind her. "Find her something. Something wearable, not decorative."

The shoemaker's eyes shifted from Vaste to Glaze, lingered on her bare feet for two seconds, then back up. He came around from behind the bench, crouched, and measured her foot with his hand. "Small," he muttered. "High arch though. Good shape." He stood, turned to the wall shelves, and ran his fingers along a row of boots—stopped at one, pulled it down, then grabbed two more from below and set them on the counter.

"These three. Try them."

Glaze looked at the boots on the counter without moving. She glanced at Vaste, who nodded toward them. Glaze reached out and picked up a pair of light brown calfskin boots. She turned them over to look at the soles, then slid her foot inside.

"Too big," she said.

"No kidding. You haven't laced them."

Glaze tilted her head, looked down at the laces—two leather strings, each threaded through a row of eyelets. She pulled them tight, and the shaft of the boot cinched around her ankle. Her foot no longer shifted inside. Her eyes brightened, like she'd discovered an interesting mechanism. She loosened the laces and tightened them again. Three times in a row.

The shoemaker gave Vaste a look that said Is something wrong with this child? Vaste didn't acknowledge it.

Glaze looked at her own feet, planted solidly on the wooden floor. She lifted one foot to inspect the sole, set it down, lifted the other. Then she began walking around the shop—about twenty laps, from shelf to shelf, from door to back wall, from back wall to the workbench. She grew faster each time, until she was nearly bounding from corner to corner.

Vaste leaned against the counter, watching Glaze orbit the shop.

"I can't feel the stones anymore," Glaze said, stopping to look at Vaste. Her voice was as flat as ever, but something in her blue eyes was catching the light.

Vaste watched her for a moment—bouncing, glowing, utterly unguarded—then turned to the shoemaker. "This pair. How much."

"High-top, fur trim, reinforced toe. Six silver." A pause. "Those boots of yours—tell me about them?"

"Nothing to tell. Bought them somewhere else on the road."

"They're worth more than you're letting on."

Vaste counted out six silver coins and set them on the counter. Glaze stood behind her, on her toes, craning to watch the coins pass from Vaste's hand to the wood.

"This comes out of my money," Glaze said.

"You don't have money."

"Then it comes out of future money. You're holding it for me."

"Let's go." Vaste pocketed her pouch and headed for the door.

Glaze followed. At the threshold, she stopped, turned back to the shoemaker, and gave him a small nod—not a bow, just a brief dip of her chin, brief but deliberate. The shoemaker, for reasons he couldn't explain, nodded back.

He looked at the silver coins on his counter, re-lit his pipe, and shook his head—but the corner of his mouth curved up.

---

After leaving the shop, Glaze walked differently.

She still stayed two paces beside Vaste, still kept that same near-but-not-too-near distance. But now every step was a step she was feeling—heel first, then rolling the whole foot across the stone, like she was reading a new book with her soles. Every few paces, she'd look down to confirm the brown boots were still there, then look up and keep walking. Then look down again.

Vaste walked ahead without turning. But she heard the change in the footsteps behind her—the light slaps of bare soles replaced by the dull thud of leather. Heavier. But steadier. Something struck her as off—those bare feet had walked so far, yet seemed utterly unharmed.

Vaste stopped. She turned. Glaze stood with one foot lifted, sole up, poking at a pebble stuck in the tread.

"...What are you doing?"

Glaze lowered her foot and looked up. "I can't feel it."

"Feel what."

"Through the sole. I can't feel the shape of the stones. Just that something's there, but I don't know what it is."

"You'll get used to it."

Glaze considered this. The phrase "get used to it" seemed acceptable to her. She hurried to catch up, three quick steps.

The next few hours, they covered the market again—but this time with purpose. Vaste bought potions from the apothecary, whetstones and bandages from the general store. Glaze followed, examining every shelf in every shop. She didn't ask "What's this?"—she picked things up and studied them herself. She unrolled the bandage and rolled it back, crookedly, then unrolled it and re-rolled it again.

---

The Norvic Guild's practice yard was a stretch of packed sand behind the main hall. Straw dummies in rusty armor stood against the wall. Two young fighters sparred in the corner, their blades clashing in a steady rhythm. An archer loosed arrows at a target.

Vaste drew her two blades—one long, one short—and set them in opposite grips. She drew a line in the sand with her toe.

Glaze sat cross-legged on a stone, her new boots leaving shallow prints in the dirt. She watched Vaste move to the center of the yard and begin her practice.

When Vaste trained, she was a different person. In daily life, she was contained—expression contained, voice contained, even her footsteps measured to avoid attention. But with a weapon in her hands, everything held back became released. Every strike carried her full weight, from heel through hip through shoulder through wrist and out through the blade's edge. Her boot soles carved deep and shallow grooves into the sand.

Her movements weren't elegant. But they were fluid—no wasted motion, no decorative flourishes.

She trained for about half an hour, until sweat plastered her bangs to her forehead. She sheathed her blades and turned to Glaze.

Glaze hadn't moved from her rock, posture unchanged from half an hour ago. But her eyes had shifted—the earlier curiosity, the simple wonder of observing something new, was gone. What replaced it was focus.

"Your right-handed strikes," Glaze said. "Every time, you shift your weight to your left foot before you cut. No matter which direction, your left foot moves first."

"...Hm."

"Mm."

Vaste was silent for a moment. She already knew this about herself—her left leg was stronger, so she always pushed off with it. A foundation. And a weakness. Any opponent sharp enough could read her next strike from the motion of her left foot.

"Let's go," she said. "Time to eat."

They left the yard one after the other as the light began to fade.

---

Back in their room, Glaze took off her boots and wiped the dust off with a cloth, then unlaced and re-laced them for good measure. Vaste sat at the head of her bed, eyes closed.

Glaze was quiet for a while. Then she asked a question.

"How do you tell if something is good?"

"What?"

"The things you use. How do you tell if they're good."

"I use a lot of them. I see a lot. I know which ones work."

"...That's not reliable."

"What's not reliable."

"Using 'use a lot' to judge." Glaze set her boots beside the bed. "What if the person who uses them a lot was wrong from the start? What if they just kept doing it wrong, and other people copied them, and then wrong became right?"

Vaste opened her eyes and turned her head.

This wasn't a question a naive girl would ask. And she already knew Glaze wasn't just a naive girl.

"...You're right. Using it a lot isn't reliable." Vaste closed her eyes again. "But some things you can only figure out by trying."

She thought of her childhood—watching street fights, studying how people moved, absorbing every dirty trick that kept her alive. None of it was pretty. None of it was proper. But it worked.

---

Late that night, a commotion broke out outside.

Vaste went downstairs. A few adventurers clustered in the corner, speaking in low voices. A balding man rushed through the front door, pale-faced, a fresh bandage wrapped around his arm—the blood still seeping through. He went straight to the bar and ordered a strong drink in a voice so hoarse it was barely understandable. The barkeep didn't charge him.

Outside, a dull crash echoed from somewhere down the street. Then the sound of breaking glass. People running. People shouting. Dogs barking. Horses screaming.

Vaste moved to the window, lifted the curtain a fraction. In the faint light of the street's magic lamps, figures were scattering—running in different directions, panicked. A woman in her nightgown clutched a child and ran into an alley. The bell tower began to ring—not the hour. The alarm.

Vaste let the curtain drop. Her hand went to her blade. She stood with her back to the wall.

The bells kept ringing. The shouting outside grew distant, then close again, as though the whole town was being stirred by something unseen.

Vaste gripped her hilt and stood at the door.