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The knife’s too big for her hands.
Adaia watches Kallian fumble with it anyway, stubborn little thing, jaw clenched like that’s enough to make her strong.
It ain’t.
Not strong enough when she went charging at three shems last week with a sodding stick.
"Grip’s all wrong," Adaia snaps.
Kallian’s brown eyes shoot up, defiant. Her face is still mottled with the fading bruises from that beating—yellow-green smudges on her cheek, a split lip healing crooked.
"I got it."
Adaia snorts. "Yeah? That why you’re holdin’ it like it owes you coin?"
Kallian scowls, adjusts her grip. The blade wobbles, catching a sliver of late afternoon light—too shiny, too clean.
Not for long.
Adaia steps in, snatches the knife easy as breathing. Familiar weight. Cool metal, warm from Kallian’s grip. She rolls the hilt between her fingers, loose but steady.
"Firm, not stiff. Knife’s gotta be an extension of you, not some bloody stick you’re swingin’ at shems like last time."
That hits. Adaia sees it—the twitch in Kallian’s jaw, the flash of something hot behind her eyes. Shame, maybe. Good. Let it sting. That sting keeps you sharp.
"They were hasslin’ old Dalan," Kallian mutters, voice low. "What was I s’posed to do? Just watch?"
Adaia’s breath hitches. She grinds her molars until the urge to shake the girl fades.
"You’re s’posed to *think*, Kalli." She holds up the knife between them. "This ain’t about bein’ brave. It’s about stayin’ alive."
She flips the knife, presses the hilt back into Kallian’s hand.
"Try again."
Kallian grabs it, sets her feet like Adaia showed her. Too wide. Adaia kicks her ankle, sharp.
"Closer. You ain’t bracing for a cave-in."
Kallian adjusts, face flushed with heat, pride stung raw.
She jabs. Awkward. Slow. Adaia slaps the blade aside with a flat palm, steps in, flicks her daughter’s ear.
"Dead," Adaia says. "Again."
Kallian growls under her breath, resets. Strikes faster. Better, but sloppy. Adaia catches her wrist mid-swing, twists. The knife clatters to the packed dirt.
Kallian jerks back, cradling her hand, eyes blazing.
"That’s not fair!"
"Fair?" Adaia spits the word like it’s sour. “You think those shems played fair when they knocked you into the gutter? Or when they kept kickin’ after you hit the ground?”
Kallian’s breathing hard now, face red, fists clenched. But she doesn’t cry. Not anymore.
Adaia made sure of that.
"You lose your knife, you lose your life. Simple as."
Kallian’s glare could cut steel. “Why’re we even doin’ this? Ain’t like anyone’s comin’ for us.”
Adaia’s chest goes tight.
(They always come.)
But she doesn’t say that. Not yet.
Instead, she steps back, picks up the knife, spins it once, then presses it into Kallian’s hand.
"Cause next time you’re not facin’ drunk shems lookin’ for a fight. You freeze up again, you’re dead. And I ain’t buryin’ you, girl."
She sees the question in Kallian’s eyes. Knows the girl wants to ask who-but she won’t. Not tonight.
Adaia ruffles her hair instead, rough but fond. "You did better today, Kalli."
Kallian glares. "You never say that."
"Don’t want you gettin’ soft."
Kallian rolls her eyes, but her grip on the knife is steadier now. Fingers sure.
Good.
Later, when Kallian’s asleep, curled up under a thin blanket with the knife tucked close, Adaia sits by the door.
She doesn’t reach for her dagger. Not tonight. Instead, her fingers brush over the old hahl resting beside her. The wood is worn smooth, the strings patched and re-patched. It’s the only thing she brought with her when she left Denerim’s Alienage to fight for Loghain’s Night Elves. The only thing left from before.
She plucks a string, testing the sound. It’s out of tune. Of course it is. She hasn’t played in-Maker, how long now?
Her calloused fingers work the pegs, adjusting the pitch. She plays slow at first, letting muscle memory guide her. The melody is old, familiar. A song Kallian hums sometimes without realizing—something from before she was born. Something from them.
The firelight flickers, and for a moment, she sees them as they were—sitting around a dying campfire deep in the Brecilian, soaked to the bone, blood crusted under their nails, but alive.
Miri, laughing as she twirled a stolen Orlesian scarf, dark curls damp with rain.
Jak, broad-shouldered and sharp-tongued, teasing Adaia for always picking sad songs.
Tam, the scrappy one from Amaranthine’s Alienage, perched on a fallen log, fingers quick as lightning as he whittled an arrow shaft.
Nell, freckled and fierce, her accent thick from the South Reach Alienage, quiet until she wasn’t, humming along to the tune.
Hew, the eldest of them, from Gwaren, already battle-scarred at twenty, keeping watch but tapping his foot along with the rhythm.
And Adaia, fingers dancing over the strings of this same hahl, playing a rebel’s tune.
They’d been young. Foolish. Free-though she hadn’t known it then.
She plays through the song, all the way to the end. The last time she played it, Miri was still warm in her arms, her blood soaking into the mud, her lips moving soundlessly. (Run, Adaia. Just run.)
Her fingers still on the final chord.
She wonders if Kallian will hate her one day—for the lessons, for the bruises, for turning love into something sharp-edged and heavy.
Her hand hovers over Kallian’s sleeping form. Almost reaches-
Warm breath against her knuckles, soft curls brushing her fingers.
Then she curls her hand into a fist instead.
Better hated and alive than loved and dead.
She sets the hahl down beside her, fingers ghosting over the strings one last time.
Because they always come.
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