“Hiii-YAH!”
I leap from the boulder with all the grace of a drunk goat and land in what I’m pretty sure is a heroic stance—legs apart, one foot slightly forward, stick raised behind my shoulder like a mighty war goddess about to smite a thousand foes. Or at least poke one in the eye.
My stick—seven glorious feet of whittled sapling, slightly crooked, bark still clinging to the bottom end like it’s ashad to be part of this—is heavy as hell. But I’ve been carrying it around all morning like it’s a legendary glaive blessed by moon priestesses. It’s got vibes.
I twirl it.
I imdiately lose balance and have to hop twice to avoid faceplanting into a bush.
Behind , the Dragon groans. “By the Blessed Bowel of Vaelthryx, again?”
“It’s practice!” I declare, striking another pose, this ti with my arms stretched out and the stick across my back like I’m showing off so dramatic, ancient kata I definitely didn’t make up five seconds ago. “All the great warriors practiced with sticks.”
He eyes flatly. “They also knew how to hold them.”
“Details.”
“You look like a temple dancer having a stroke.”
“I was trained by temple dancers, thank you very much.”
“You were kicked out for trying to hump a pilgrim mid-ritual.”
“Still counts as training!”
I jab the stick forward in a mock thrust. My bangles jingle wildly, ankle to wrist, like a deranged tambourine parade. The hem of my tunic flips up with the motion, flashing far more thigh than intended. Not that I mind. I never mind.
I spin. I flourish. I smack a branch. The stick ricochets off a rock and clocks on the shin.
I hiss and hop in place. “Battle damage.”
The Dragon looks skyward. “Is there a reason you’re pretending that oversized toothpick is a weapon?”
“It is a weapon.”
“It’s a stick.”
“It’s a heroic sapling of vengeance!”
“It’s a soggy twig with delusions of grandeur.”
I swing again—this ti two-handed. The stick slices through empty air and sends a cloud of dandelion fluff spinning into the wind.
I hold the final pose like I just cleaved through an orc battalion.
“You’re impressed,” I say smugly.
“I’m terrified,” he replies. “You could put an eye out. Probably your own.”
“I’ll have you know, in the right hands, a staff like this is a noble tool of war.”
“Yes,” he says. “In soone else’s hands.”
I raise my chin. “You’re just bitter because you can’t wield one. No opposable thumbs.”
He inhales slowly through his nostrils, smoke curling. “You’re just jealous because your stick is compensating.”
“You try looking intimidating in a tunic that barely covers your cooch and no shoes.”
He squints. “I have wings. And claws. I don’t need accessories.”
I grin. “Yeah, well, I have bangles.”
They jingle as I strike another dramatic stance.
He sighs and curls up under a nearby tree, tucking his tail over his snout.
“Wake up when you accidentally impale yourself,” he mumbles.
“You’ll miss my victory dance.”
“I’m counting on it.”
I spin the stick again.
And promptly hit myself in the ankle.
“You can mock all you want,” I say, rubbing my ankle and hoisting the stick over my shoulder like a wandering martial saint. “But this baby’s not just for poking bushes and looking dramatic.”
The Dragon snorts. “It excels at both.”
“Oh ye of little faith.” I turn and march toward the little stream trickling through the glade ahead, its banks mossy and just muddy enough to ruin my day if I slip.
He watches , one eye cracked open. “You’re not going to—”
“Watch. And. Learn.”
I back up a few paces, line myself up with the little log we call a ‘bridge’ (hah—amateurs), grip the stick, and run full tilt. Bare feet slapping dirt, braid bouncing behind , bangles clattering like I’m wearing ceremonial wind chis.
At the last mont, I plant the pole in the mud and launch.
For one glorious second, I’m airborne. Tunic flaring, legs tucked, heart pounding, teeth bared in a grin. I soar.
Land clean on the other side, in a crouch.
No splash.
“HA!” I leap up and throw both hands in the air, the stick wobbling dangerously in one. “Victory!”
The Dragon slowly lifts his head. “You actually made it.”
“Told you. This thing’s more than a branch. It’s my urban acrobatic extension tool.”
He blinks. “That’s not a thing.”
“It is now.”
I spin it once more for show and jab it into the mud like a flag of conquest.
“I used to run rooftops in Seebulba, rember? Ducking guards, dodging lechers, leaping canal to canal. Every alley had a chase. Every rooftop a shortcut. I survived on speed and luck and legs.”
The Dragon huffs. “And here I thought you survived on tits and theft.”
“Also those,” I say proudly. “But when I was with the Sisterhood, guess who cleared the obstacle course first day of training?”
“Soone else?”
“!” I jab the stick at him. “They expected to crumple in a pile of bangles and bratty attitude. But when they saw leap that spike pit and scramble that wall like a horny squirrel? Their jaws dropped.”
“Or perhaps their standards had.”
“Oh, they hated it,” I say, practically glowing. “You could see it in their grim little faces. All that discipline and rage and shaved-head solidarity—and here cos Saya, barefoot and scandalously clothed, bouncing over barricades like I was born for it.”
He rolls onto his side, tail twitching. “And still, they expelled you.”
“Yes,” I say, “but fashionably.”
I pose again with the stick, one foot on a rock, hand on hip, chin up, like a poster for a play called Brat of War: The Musical.
“You’re going to hurt yourself,” he mutters.
“Maybe. But I’ll look amazing doing it.”
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