Gwendolyn froze. Her round blue eyes widened, the tiny scales along her neck flaring faintly. She swatted his cheek with her tail, cold frost brushing his skin.
"Cute?!" she hissed. "A primordial ice dragon is not supposed to be ’cute’! Do you have any idea how offensive that is?"
Cecil laughed, raising a hand against another incoming tail-swat, eyes still on her flustered little figure.
"Just saying what I see," he shrugged. "Small, fluffy scales, those two little horns... hard not to think so."
Gwendolyn huffed and twisted away, back turned, tail twitching restlessly against his collar.
"Mark my words," she mumbled. "When I return to my true form, you’ll never dare call me cute again."
"We’ll see about that," Cecil chuckled, walking on, the bronze token tucked safely inside his robe.
His hand drifted to the cloth sack at his waist, fingers brushing the small leather pouch inside — the one his mother had pressed into his hands before he left. He opened it and counted: nineteen copper coins, seven silver. Everything a fallen baron’s widow could scrape together.
"...What are you planning to buy?" Gwendolyn rested her chin on her claws.
"Weapons. Armor. Potions." He tucked the pouch away. "At the very least, a usable dagger."
He remembered her hands as he walked — worn from years of washing other people’s clothes, knuckles thick, skin rough as sandpaper. She hadn’t said a word when she tied the pouch shut. Just pressed it firm, patted his shoulder. Spend what you need once you reach the academy.
The Weapon Center stood west of the city square — a golden limestone building two stories taller than its neighbors, a bronze sword-and-shield emblem over its arched entrance, blue rune-flames burning on either side of the gate. Inside, a three-story vaulted hall spiraled upward, floors marked Armor, Blades, Ranged Weapons, Scrolls, Potions, Spirit-Beast Gear.
Cecil touched the pouch through his robe and sorted his priorities. Weapons cost the most, armor next, potions least — but potions got used up fastest. Armor first, then.
On the second floor, the cheapest hard-leather bracer ran three silver coins, the cheapest chest piece seven. He had four silver left. He was turning to leave when he spotted a clearance basket of second-hand goods — a worn brown leather bracer, edges frayed, buckle gone slightly green. One silver coin.
He tried it on. Not soft, but it fit, and his wrist moved freely once fastened. He bought it.
At the potion counter he picked two vials of cheap healing potion, fifteen copper each, and one stamina elixir for ten — forty copper total. Between the bracer and the potions, he’d spent one silver, forty copper. Three silver, five copper remained.
The weapon counter was last. Gwendolyn stayed quiet on his shoulder, no urging, no sarcasm. Past the polished swords and sheathed daggers, Cecil’s eye caught a dusty rack in the corner — a short, unsheathed blade under a foot long, edge speckled with rust, hilt wrapped in faded cord, clearly forgotten for years.
He picked it up. The weight felt right. The rust was shallow, sharpenable. No price tag.
"...How much for this?" he asked the old man dozing behind the counter.
"That? Scrap I picked up twenty years ago and forgot about. Take it for three copper."
"Three copper coins?"
"You think scrap deserves silver? Take it — it’s just taking up space."
Cecil paid, strapped the blade to his belt, slipped on the bracer, and tucked the potions into his robe.
Outside on the stone steps, he looked down at his new gear — the worn bracer, the rusty three-copper blade — and thought of his mother’s rough palms double-checking the knot on that pouch.
"...Alright," he murmured, not realizing he’d spoken aloud.
Gwendolyn heard it anyway. "Alright what?"
"Nothing." He brushed dust off his robe. "Let’s go back. I need to sharpen this blade."
Twenty paces on, she spoke again. "You spent less than half your money."
"Mhm."
"What are you going to do with the rest?"
"Save it," Cecil said. "In case my mother needs it someday. She’s alone back home."
Gwendolyn went quiet so long he thought she’d fallen asleep.
"She gave you every coin she had," she finally said. "She won’t need much where she is. Even if you save it, she’ll never know."
He didn’t stop walking. "...I know. But saving it eases my mind. It’s not really about the coins."
She fell silent again, longer this time.
"Then keep them," she said at last, softer than usual. "Later I’ll take you to find better gear. No charge."
Cecil glanced at her. She turned her head away, pretending to watch a tabby cat sunning itself by the road — but the tip of her tail brushed gently against his neck.
A quiet smile tugged at his mouth.
"Gwendolyn."
"What?"
"Were you just trying to cheer me up?"
"—No."
"Then why is your tail twitching?"