Bearn Tuham

The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the practice yard of Fortress Ithos. Bearn Tuham, dressed in leather tooled with elvish designs, gripped his sword tightly in his left hand, the only hand he had left. Opposite him stood Baishum Judocus, a monk known for his swift, panther-like movements. The monk's bare feet made no sound as he paced in a slow, deliberate circle around Bearn, eyes locked on his opponent.

Bearn lunged, but Baishum easily sidestepped the attack, his calm demeanor never wavering. Frustration gnawed at Bearn as he tried to press the attack, his sword cutting through the air only to find nothing but empty space. Each miss left him more unbalanced, more exposed. Baishum moved like a shadow, always just out of reach.

"Lower your stance," Baishum advised, his voice smooth as silk. "Use your sword as a shield, not just a weapon."

Bearn gritted his teeth and adjusted his posture, lowering his center of gravity. He brought his sword up defensively, trying to follow Baishum's instruction. But it was hard—harder than he'd imagined, adapting to fighting with one arm. Every swing felt heavy, every movement awkward.

From the edge of the yard, Bearn caught sight of Splinter Hawthorne, her sharp eyes observing their practice. Embarrassment surged through him. He cursed under his breath, his focus wavering as he thought of how clumsy he must look in front of her.

"I'm sorry, Splinter," Bearn called out, a flush creeping up his neck. "My form’s sloppy—I’m still getting used to this."

Splinter crossed her arms and smirked, tilting her head slightly. "Cute ears, though," she teased, her voice carrying across the yard.

Bearn’s flustered reaction was immediate. His grip tightened on the sword, and he glanced down at the ground, trying to hide the redness creeping up to his cheeks. It was enough of a distraction for Baishum, who slipped past his defenses and landed a sharp punch to Bearn’s face. Stars exploded in his vision, and he stumbled back, struggling to regain his footing.

Splinter’s laugh was soft but clear. "I hope that’s not the arm you used to protect the king," she said, her tone playful.

Bearn growled in frustration, forcing himself to focus. He blocked a rapid series of blows from Baishum with the flat of his sword, using it as a shield just as the monk had instructed. "Watch it," he warned Splinter, his voice strained. "Or you can spar with me next."

Splinter arched an eyebrow, her smirk widening. "Alright. How about drinks tonight at The Elephant's Embrace?"

The question caught Bearn off guard, and before he could respond, Baishum's foot connected with his stomach in a swift, decisive kick. The impact drove the breath from his lungs, and Bearn crumpled to the ground, gasping for air.

Splinter chuckled, walking toward the fortress. "See you at eight then."

Bearn managed to raise a hand, trying to speak, but all that came out was a wheeze. Splinter glanced over her shoulder, taking his gesture as a sign of agreement.

Bearn groaned, still clutching his stomach as he lay on the ground. Baishum, towering above him, offered a hand to help him up.

"You’ll get there," the monk said with a small smile. "But maybe next time, keep your focus on the fight."

Bearn accepted the help, pulling himself to his feet with a wince. He couldn't help but shake his head, a rueful smile playing on his lips.

"Next time," he agreed, already dreading—and oddly anticipating—the evening ahead.

Asbera Walraven had promised to stop by later that day to adjust the fitting. But even the idea of her tinkering with it again didn’t bring him much comfort.

“I hate it,” came a voice from behind him, snapping Bearn out of his thoughts.

Splinter Hawthorne sat up in his bed, the covers sliding down her body, revealing the muscles of her abdomen, her taut breasts, and the numerous scars that marked her skin like battle trophies. Bearn drew in a deep breath at the sight of her, the perfect blend of strength and femininity. Each scar was a story, a chapter in her life that he wished he could have been a part of. He wondered if he would be there for the battles yet to come, and if he should even hope to be.

“You seemed to like it last night,” Bearn replied, attempting to lighten the mood. “But remember, I am half-elf.”

Splinter's eyes roamed over him, taking in every detail of his form, from his mechanical arm to his muscular legs, and everything in between. She had come to terms with his missing arm long before he had. After all, she had been the one responsible for the Talon mercenaries on that fateful mission. The mission where everything had gone wrong. She still wondered what she could have done differently—perhaps increased the ranks, brought in a spellcaster to counter their shaman, or even recruited a druid to keep the crocodiles at bay, especially the one that had made off with Bearn’s arm. The search for it had lasted an entire day, but the arm was gone, lost to the swamp.

But pity was not what had brought her to his bed. She was falling for this man of contradictions. Bearn was strong enough to serve with honor in the Thunderwardens (King's Guard), guarding the king, yet smart enough to walk away when they failed to recognize his talent or his humanity. He was resilient enough to keep fighting after losing his arm, and charismatic enough to secure a position protecting a powerful captain of industry. It took a small fortune for House Hendriks to afford the magical arm crafted by The Walraven Consortium to make him whole again—or as close to whole as he could be.

“I’m not sure which half showed up last night,” Splinter said with a smirk, her tone teasing, “but you make sure he keeps coming.”

Bearn chuckled, shaking his head. He couldn’t tell if she was joking to distract him from his self-doubt or if she truly didn’t care about the arm. Either way, her words lightened his heart. He turned to face her fully, feeling a surge of affection and admiration for the warrior woman before him.

“Splinter,” he began, his voice softer now, “I don’t know what the future holds, but I do know I want to be there for it. With you.”

Splinter’s expression softened for just a moment, a rare glimpse of vulnerability in the hardened mercenary. She reached out, her hand resting on his arm—his real arm—and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

“We’ll face it together,” she replied, her voice firm and unwavering. “And I’ll make sure that arm of yours never slows you down.”

Bearn nodded, feeling a warmth spread through him that had nothing to do with the morning sun. In Splinter, he had found someone who accepted him as he was, mechanical arm and all. And perhaps, with her by his side, he could finally learn to accept himself.