“One moment, Kit…”
I call up the HUD with a thought. The party panel flickers open across my vision.
[Party — Current Members]
Vincent Locke — Half-Giant Sorcerer (Harem-Master)
Role: Leader
Kitta — Bonded Companion
Level: 0
Class: Unassigned
A glowing [!] hovers beside her name. I select it, and a list of starter classes blooms into view, each one shaped by her traits, her species, and the newly formed bond.
Behind the glowing UI, Kit cocks her head.
“Vincent…?” Her eyes track the empty air in front of me. “Are you classing me in that weird glowy spell-menu of yours?”
She doesn’t sound frightened. Just curious.
“Whatever you choose, make it something I can grow into,” she says. “I don’t want to be forgettable.”
“You won’t be,” I promise. “Let’s see what it offers.”
I read off the first few options, watching her reaction.
“Rogue, ranger, or fighter. Any preference?”
Kit answers without hesitation.
“Rogue. I’ve survived this long by being faster than whatever wanted me dead.”
[Rogue]
The moment I select it, the bond pulses again. Quieter this time. More focused. Dangerous.
Kit gasps and staggers half a step, then grins, fangs flashing.
“Whoa… I feel it. Something in me just… clicked.”
She flexes her fingers, draws her dagger, and flips it into the air, catching it behind her back without looking.
“Yeah, that’s better. Faster. Meaner. I can work with this.”
Her amber eyes gleam with excitement.
“You chose well, Master Locke. I’ll walk the shadows for you. Stab whatever doesn’t see me coming.” Her grin sharpens.
She steps closer, her shoulder nearly brushing mine, carrying herself with newfound confidence.
“So. Where to next?”
“You’re a rogue now,” I say, closing the HUD. “An actual adventurer. First level, though. Don’t let it go to your head.”
She rolls her shoulders. Her cloak slips back, revealing the dagger’s hilt like a badge.
“Level one, got it,” she says, nudging me. “Still means I’m officially an adventurer now.”
I nod.
“Let’s make sure I don’t get killed before level two, then, Master Locke.”
She pulls up her hood and steps in beside me, eyes sharp.
I look Kit over. Tattered clothes. A rusty dagger tucked close like it means more than steel.
“We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us, but first, food.”
I gesture toward the street.
“There’s a tavern nearby. The Feisty Dwarf.”
She gives me a look halfway between smug and starving, like a stray trying to carry herself like a queen.
“Master Locke, I’ve eaten rats crisped on sewer grates. If you’re buying anything that doesn’t crawl away, I’ll follow you like a temple dog.”
Her stomach growls right on cue.
She straightens, mustering what pride she can and pretending that didn’t just happen. She brushes straw from her cloak and tucks the dagger closer to her side as though it were forged by legends instead of hammered from scrap. She clearly doesn’t want anyone looking at her and seeing the cage she just left.
“Here,” I say, pulling an oversized shirt from my pack. “It’s clean. And it should fit well enough for now.”
Kit eyes it cautiously, rubbing the fabric against her cheek as if testing its softness and scent.
Then she slips it on, quick and quiet.
It hangs past her hips, the sleeves loose around her arms. She adjusts her dagger belt around her waist with practiced flair, turning plain cloth into something practical.
Almost stylish.
“…Thanks,” she murmurs, just for me. “Better than street rags and shame.”
She jerks her chin toward the street. “Lead the way. But if this ‘Feisty Dwarf’ place tries to throw me out for being barefoot or fuzzy, I will rearrange their kitchen.”
She isn’t joking.
Just off the main square, tucked between a candle seller and a weaponsmith’s stall, the Feisty Dwarf squats low and warm. Garlic, pork, and strong ale hang in the air like a spell.
A warped wooden sign swings overhead:
THE FEISTY DWARF
Inside, lanterns glow golden over mismatched chairs and crowded tables. Townsfolk, junior adventurers, and dirt-cloaked farmers fill the room. A bard strums half-asleep in the corner, probably on his fifth watered wine.
Kit sticks close as we enter, drawing glances but no trouble.
A stout dwarven man, The Innkeeper, looks us over like a seasoned war general, his apron stained with flour and dried gravy. I’ve stayed here a few times, but I’ve never walked in with a scruffy beastkin at my side.
He grunts. “That one’s got eyes like trouble.”
Kit grins from behind me, a little too wide.
“Table, booth, or back corner?”
I gesture toward a booth.
I’m light on coin, but I have enough to buy Kit some gear in the morning, cover a few hot meals, and maybe keep a room for a night or two, provided we spend carefully.
We probably won’t.
We slide into a worn booth with decent privacy and a clear view of the room.
Then she arrives.
The barmaid is bright-eyed and soft-featured, her corset doing heroic work beneath bouncing auburn curls. She carries her tray like a warhammer and leans in with polished confidence.
“Well, well. She’s new,” the barmaid says with a wink. “Is the wildcat just passing through, or are you two looking to stir up trouble?”
Kit stiffens, eyes sharp but silent.
The Busty Barmaid grins back, unfazed.
“Tonight’s stew is beef, thick and spicy. Bread’s fresh. We’ve got mead and watered wine.” She taps the tray. “And if you need a room, you already know we’ve got one that fits you, tallboy. With space to spare. Barely.”
Her gaze flicks to Kit.
“And you, kitten? You got claws or just attitude?”
Kit leans forward slightly, her voice quiet but cutting.
“Both. But I’m too hungry to use either. For now.”
The Busty Barmaid chuckles.
“Feisty one. I like her. I’ll bring two bowls and a pitcher. On the cheap.”
She saunters off, her hips doing far too much to ignore.
Kit exhales slowly, then gives me a pointed look.
“Do all your harem girls have to fight off barmaids?”
A faint smirk touches her lips.
“Or is that part of the training?”
“All the girls?” I ask. “Just you, Kit. My First, and currently my only.”
At the word First, the bond gives small, bright pulse. Pride, maybe. Curiosity. Something warmer follows as a new piece of the bond quietly clicks into place.
One of her ears turns toward me.
“Only?”
That word reaches deeper. Surprise flickers through the bond, followed by a softer feeling she tries to tuck away.
Kit leans back and folds her arms, still wearing that alley-cat wariness, but not holding it quite so tightly.
To fill the silence gathering between us, I ask, “Stew, bread, and mead work for you?”
“Stew, bread, and mead?” she says softly. “That’s a feast compared to what I’ve known. You’ll hear no complaints.”
The Busty Barmaid returns, sliding two bowls in front of us like battlefield offerings. Meat, potatoes, onions, and spice. The bread is crusty and warm, and the mead smells of honey and late-summer fruit.
She gives me another lingering look, winks at Kit like a conspirator, then vanishes in a sway of skirts.
Kit eats quietly, her focus sharp. Her glances stay quick and calculating, and one hand remains close to the bowl as if someone might take it from her.
Slowly, that tension eases. Through the bond, I feel the realization settle in. The food is hers. The seat is hers. No one is about to drag her away from either.
Relief.
Not just fed. Included.
“You said… just me,” she murmurs between bites. “You meant it, huh?”
I nod.
“Not just a place at your side,” she adds slowly, “but… a place that matters.”
She clutches her mug as though it might vanish. The shirt I gave her hangs loose around her frame, soft and clean, armor against everything that came before. Her ears still twitch at every sudden sound, but her shoulders no longer sit quite so high.
She takes her first sip of mead. Color blooms across her cheeks as she holds it on her tongue, savoring the taste like it has been years since anyone gave her something meant to be enjoyed.
This time, I let the silence remain. I simply watch her settle into the moment.
Eventually, she dips a piece of bread into her stew and glances up at me.
“So… what’s next for us, Vincent Locke?” she asks. “After food and… I mean, am I really yours now?”
Her voice doesn’t shake.
The question carries no fear through the bond. Only curiosity, and something softer beginning to form beneath it.
I don’t answer right away. A small smile pulls at my mouth. I know what’s coming, and I’d rather let her see it for herself.
Curiosity presses gently through the bond, but Kit lets the question rest.
The booth cushions sigh as we settle back. She finishes the last of her stew, the oversized shirt shifting loosely around her shoulders. After wiping her lips with her napkin, she leans back, less guarded now. More present.
When the Busty Barmaid returns, she sets down two steaming mugs of mulled mead and, at my quiet request, a small plate bearing a delicate slice of honeycake. Spiced syrup glistens across the top beneath a dusting of powdered sugar.
Kit’s eyes widen.
She looks from the plate to me, then back again.
“You ordered this… for me, Master Locke?” she asks softly, as though the idea is difficult to believe.
Her fingers curl around the fork with surprising delicacy. She takes one small bite, then hums in startled pleasure. A real smile spreads across her face.
“Okay,” she says, “this is officially the best day I’ve had in… a long, long time.”
She doesn’t say the rest, but I feel it through the bond: a warm pulse of gratitude, fragile and hesitant, carrying the first edge of trust.
I can taste her joy in the back of my throat, sweet and rich like the cake itself.
It’s intoxicating. Her happiness spills through the bond until I can’t help laughing softly.
“Kit… just ‘Master’ is fine,” I tease, keeping it light. “Enjoy your dessert. I’m glad you like it. I want us to share more moments like this.”
Her cheeks deepen a shade, caught somewhere between fluster and warmth.
She ducks her head, letting her hair slip over one eye, but not far enough to hide the quiet smile forming on her lips.
Through the bond, I feel it more clearly now: her longing for safety. To be seen not as a tool or a stray, but as someone worth cherishing.
Her next bite is slower, savored.
A few bites later, a flicker of embarrassment slips through the bond. The pleasure is still there, but something older rises beneath it: the need to repay every kindness.
“I’ll get stronger,” she says, her voice low but firm. “I’ll learn everything I can. Fight by your side. Earn this. I want to deserve it.”
A determined spark catches behind her eyes as she looks up.
“You don’t have to earn kindness, Kit,” I say gently. “But if you want to become stronger, we’ll do that together.”
She studies me for a moment, then her mouth curls into a smirk.
“But don’t think dessert buys loyalty. Maybe two desserts. Three, tops.”
Her smile is soft. Genuine.
“Worth every coin,” I say. “But we’re running low. I’ve still got enough to gear you up. After that, it’s back to the hunting grounds.”
She licks a bit of cream from her spoon and sighs contentedly. Then her eyebrows rise, mischief glinting behind her eyes.
“So you bought me with a shirt, stew, mead, and one dessert?” she asks. “Sounds like I need to start charging more.”
She winks, then adds more quietly, “I know what you meant. And yeah… worth it. For both of us, I think.”
She leans forward, no longer shrinking inside the oversized shirt.
“All right, Master,” she says with a grin, testing the title like it still tastes new. “Gear me up, give me a blade that isn’t older than me, and point me at something worth stabbing. Let’s earn our next dessert.”
Then, almost shyly, she adds, “And maybe a more fitting shirt…”
The tavern’s warmth wraps around us like a woolen cloak. Across the room, The Half-Drunken Bard finds a softer rhythm on his well-worn lute.