Knightly skills

Jon stepped back. The chamber’s dim light stretched thin shadows across the stone floor, and in that muted glow Della seemed newly forged—her posture steadier, her gaze sharp with a vitality that hadn’t been there before.

A familiar **** pressed upward inside him, unasked for yet insistent, tightening beneath his ribs like air he’d forgotten to release.

He held himself still as memories of a hedge knight’s life threaded through his thoughts: the weary miles between nameless villages, the constant scrape for coin, the reliance on a single blade to sway a skirmish gone wrong or earn a modest purse at some dusty tourney ground.

As she stood now, Della needed enough skill to survive without the shelter of any banner—competent, capable, and dangerous to the degree that no one would wonder why some lord hadn’t claimed her for his hall or his bed. Strong enough to be taken seriously, but not so exceptional she drew unwanted eyes. And above all, able to serve Jon when the need arose.

“You’ll handle a blade on your own as if it’s grown familiar over years you don’t remember,” Jon said, watching the way her shoulders aligned. “Each strike flows into the next—measured, controlled, leaving little room for an opponent to slip inside your guard.” He shifted slightly, picturing the weight of a shield braced against her forearm. “With a shield, you keep your footing. You drive back through it, turning an enemy’s momentum into your advantage.”

Jon’s attention dropped to her fingers, as if the memory of old steel still lingered there. “A bastard sword settles into your grip as if shaped for it,” he said, letting the thought settle before continuing. “The longsword still serves you, though it never quite finds the rhythm of your stride. A greatsword asks more of your strength than the others, yet you keep it steady even when its weight threatens to pull you off your line.”

Drawing an arc through the air with two fingers, he pictured the haft of a spear. “A spear follows your aim without protest, and the great spear gives you reach enough to shape the fight before anyone gets close.” Only then did his gaze lift to meet hers. “And in the saddle, lance lowered… your charge lands with a **** that sends a rider tumbling before he realizes the ground is rushing up to meet him.”

Della’s breathing quickened, her fingers curling and uncurling as though the memory of each weapon were already waking in her grip.

“Your horsemanship comes first,” Jon said, studying the way she carried her weight. “You handle a mount through storm or chaos as if you and the animal share the same pulse.” The faint hum of power threaded through his voice as he continued. “And when wounds open—yours or another’s—you move with a healer’s steadiness, binding and patching without hesitation.”

He drifted a half-step to the side, eyeing her posture. “In the wild, you track cleanly. You don’t waste effort or shot. As for heraldry… you recall banners and colours with the ease of someone who’s spent years watching them ride past on campaign.” He rolled one shoulder as if weighing how much to say. “The broader shape of battle sits with you too—not enough to command an army, but enough to understand where the tide is pulling and to lead those around you.”

The knife at Della's belt now attracted Jon's gaze. “A dagger works quick in your grip—close, efficient. A mace hits solid when you need blunt ****. An axe falls true under your swing, and the great axe—heavy as it is—lands with real ruin when you commit to it.”

Bootsteps rasped softly as he circled her. “Your strength runs deeper than most expect or that your size and slender body would imply, carrying you through hits that stagger ordinary fighters. You move with sharp, economical precision, and you hold your ground with a stubbornness that keeps you standing long past reason.”

Now Jon's voice lowered. “Whispers and schemes don’t slip past you easily; you read people, and their lies, before they finish speaking. And your eyes… they catch things others miss, small movements at the edge of a room or a shift in the dark.”

When his words faded, Della straightened, a faint shimmer stirring around her—as though each skill he named had woken inside her, spreading through her limbs like heat returning after a long chill.

“Is there any way I can be of assistance to you M’lord?” she questioned