The tea on the table had long since turned cold.
Violet sat motionless, hands folded in her lap, violet eyes fixed on her mother's face.
She'd barely breathed through the entire story—afraid that any sound might break the spell, might stop the words from coming.
Now, in the silence that followed, she saw them clearly.
Tears.
Clinging to the edges of Maria's eyes like morning dew. Not falling. Just... present. Evidence of pain carried for years, of choices made and sacrifices endured.
But the smile.
Gods, the smile on Maria's face was brighter than anything Violet had ever seen. Brighter than sunlight on fresh snow. Brighter than stars against winter darkness.
Even through all the pain. All the scars. All the loss and grief and broken dreams.
There wasn't a trace of regret.
Just... love. Pure and absolute and unshakeable.
Maria reached out. Her hand—rough from years of labor, marked with small burns from cooking fires, still bearing the faint scar where the cursed arrow had struck—cupped Violet's cheek with infinite gentleness.
"I may not have given birth to you," she said softly. "But there is nothing in this world I wouldn't give for you."
The words broke something inside Violet.
Not painfully. More like... releasing pressure she hadn't known she'd been carrying. Like a dam cracking to let trapped water finally flow free.
She surged forward. Threw her arms around Maria with enough force to nearly knock them both over.
No words. She couldn't have spoken if she'd tried.
Just emotions—too vast, too complex, too overwhelming for language.
Gratitude and love and fierce protectiveness and grief for the mother who'd given her up and joy for the mother who'd claimed her.
All of it tangled together. Impossible to separate.
Maria's arms came around her. Held her tight. One hand stroking her hair in that particular way she'd done since Violet was small.
"My daughter," Maria whispered. "My precious daughter."
They stayed like that for a long time.
Outside the cottage, unnoticed by either of them, Garrett sat with his back against the door.
He'd heard everything. Every word of Maria's story, told at last to the daughter who deserved to know the truth.
A smile crossed his weathered face—small but genuine.
He stood quietly. Moved through the darkness toward their bedroom with steps that made no sound.
Some moments belonged to Maria and Violet alone.
He'd have his own conversation with their daughter later. When she was ready. When she asked.
But for now...
For now, he'd let them have this.
***
Morning came cold and clear.
Violet woke before dawn as she always did now—training had built the habit into her bones. She dressed quickly, wrapped herself in her warmest cloak, and slipped out of the cottage while her parents still slept.
The walk to the training ground felt different this time.
Lighter somehow. Like something heavy she'd been carrying without realizing had been set down.
The knowledge settled into her chest like a warm stone. Grounding. Certain.
Kari was already waiting when Violet arrived. The snow leopard sat on a fallen log, cleaning her claws with casual efficiency.
She looked up as Violet approached. Yellow eyes narrowed slightly.
"You look different," Kari observed. "Confident."
Violet met her gaze steadily. "Let's continue where we left off, master."
Kari's eyebrows rose. Then a smug smile crossed her scarred face—the kind that promised pain but also respect.
"Master, is it?" She stood, stretching with feline grace. "Well then, student. Let's see if that confidence is earned or just bravado."
She moved to the center of the clearing. Drew her claws in one fluid motion.
"We're past basic forms now," Kari said. "Today, you learn to fight for real. No holds barred. No stopping when it hurts."
Her smile widened. "If you're not bleeding by the end, I'm not doing my job right."
Violet dropped into the neutral stance Kari had drilled into her. Weight balanced. Knees bent. Ready to move in any direction.
Her heart hammered. Not with fear.
With anticipation.
"Let's do this," she said.
Kari moved.
Fast. Impossibly fast. The kind of speed that came from decades of training, from muscles that knew their purpose and performed it without thought.
Her claes came at Violet's throat—not to kill, but to test. To see how the girl would react when death came calling.
Violet twisted. Not gracefully. Not perfectly. But fast enough.
The blade missed by inches. Violet's own hand came up—not attacking, just deflecting—and Kari's follow-up strike glanced off her forearm.
Pain bloomed. First blood drawn.
But Violet didn't flinch. Didn't retreat.
She pressed forward instead. Grabbed for Kari's wrist the way they'd practiced. Tried to execute the disarm she'd learned.
Kari slipped free like water. Punished the attempt with a kick to Violet's ribs that drove the air from her lungs.
Violet gasped. Stumbled. Caught herself before falling.
I can do this, harder no lighter!
She dove low. Went for Kari's legs. If she couldn't match speed, she'd change the terrain.
Kari leaped over the attempt. But it forced her to adjust. To defend instead of attack.
For just a second, Violet saw an opening. A gap in Kari's guard where a strike might actually land.
She took it.
Her fist drove toward Kari's ribs—channeling all her weight, all her momentum, all her newfound determination.
Kari's hand caught her wrist. Stopped the blow dead.
But the snow leopard's smile was approving. "There. That's what I wanted to see."
She released Violet's wrist. Stepped back. "Again. Faster this time."
They fought.
Not like a training exercise. Not like student and teacher going through motions.
Like warriors. Like people who understood that survival meant pushing past limits, that strength came from refusing to quit even when everything hurt.
Violet took hits. Her lip split. Her knuckles bled. Bruises bloomed across her arms and ribs.
But she kept coming. Kept learning. Kept getting better with each exchange.
And for the first time since beginning her training—truly, genuinely—she felt powerful.
Not because she was winning. She wasn't. Kari could have ended the fight whenever she wanted.
But because she was fighting. Really fighting.
Not running. Not hiding. Not waiting for others to protect her.
"I'll protect you mama, papa" she thought as she ducked under a strike and countered with one of her own.
Kari's claws stopped an inch from Violet's throat. "Enough."
Violet froze. Breathing hard. Covered in sweat and blood and dirt.
Kari studied her for a long moment. Then nodded—sharp, decisive, final.
"You'll do," she said simply.
The words were the highest praise Violet had ever received from her.
"Tomorrow," she retracted her claws, "we'll take a step forward."