At first, Serena was highly skeptical. Breathing properly to get stronger? It sounded like a cheap mummer's trick from across the Narrow Sea. But then she remembered the men in the Winter Town.
She remembered Yoriichi throwing a dagger into a thug's thigh with the force of a grown man. She finally realized that her children were far more anomalous than anything she had ever encountered. If her son said breathing was power, she had to believe him.
"Alright," she had agreed, sitting up straight. "Show me. For our survival."
For the next six months, their tiny hut became a secret, intensive training ground. They could only train at night, with the windows covered, so the spies and whores of Mole's Town wouldn't get wind of it and try to copy them.
Every night, Yoriichi taught her the absolute basics of his Total Concentration Breathing. He corrected her posture relentlessly, poking her ribs gently when she breathed from her chest instead of her belly. Lyra joined them too, sitting beside her mother, learning to use the breathing to sharpen her hearing and sense of smell to an incredible degree.
"Deeper," Yoriichi would command softly as Serena gasped for air. "Fill your lungs until they ache. Now, push that energy into your arms and legs."
He showed her how to plant her feet firmly, how to pivot her hips to generate explosive force, and how to strike using the hard bones of her palms and elbows rather than her fragile knuckles. To build her pain tolerance, he had her strike the thick wooden support beam in the center of their hut repeatedly.
At first, her hands bled, and she cried silent tears of pain. But as weeks passed, the breathing techniques accelerated her healing. Her bones grew denser. Her skin developed tough, invisible calluses. She learned to channel her oxygen directly into her strikes.
Just two days ago, while walking alone through the woods near the edge of the Gift to gather firewood, she had tested her true progress. She had taken a deep, focused breath, pivoted her hips flawlessly, and punched the thick, frozen bark of an ironwood tree.
Crack.
The bark splintered and caved in under her fist. She felt a dull impact, but absolutely no pain. No broken bones. If an ordinary man had seen a slender, beautiful woman punch a tree hard enough to dent it, he would have been utterly bewildered. Her willpower and her physical body had finally aligned into a dangerous weapon.
End of Flashback
"We are here, Mother," Yoriichi announced, closing the heavy history book with a soft thud as they reached the front steps of The Black Cache.
Serena blinked, pulling her mind back to the present. She smiled, pushed open the heavy oak door, and stepped into the warmth.
The shop was already toasty. Old Silas was adding pine logs to the roaring fire.
"Morning, boss," Silas grunted, giving Serena a highly respectful nod. He didn't treat her like a cleaner anymore; she was the undisputed master of this shop.
Over the past year, Serena had brought massive changes to the trading post. She didn't just sell rusty swords and old boots anymore. She had implemented a clever, wide-reaching barter system.
Poor farmers from the Gift could trade their raw wool or fresh herbs for repaired tools. She even secretly hired local women—those who were desperate to escape Gared's brothel—to clean and sew the dirty furs the Night's Watch brought in, selling them back to travelers as premium winter cloaks.
Because of her fair prices and wide variety of goods, the shop became incredibly popular. Even the corrupt Night's Watch brothers preferred buying from Serena because she never cheated them on the weight of the grain.
By mid-morning, the shop was bustling with eager customers.
Yoriichi sat in his usual corner near the hearth, his legs crossed, meditating with his eyes closed. Lyra sat right beside him, practicing tying complex knots with a thick piece of rope, relying entirely on her heightened sense of touch.
Serena was standing behind the sturdy wooden counter, efficiently billing a young steward for a sack of dried apples.
Suddenly, the heavy front door slammed open with a loud bang.
A massive, bearded man stumbled in. He didn't wear the black of the Watch; he wore the dirty, mismatched armor of a freerider—a sellsword traveling the North. He stank of stale ale, vomit, and unwashed sweat.
"Oi!" the drunk sellsword bellowed, completely ignoring the neat line of customers. He marched straight to the front counter, shoving a smaller farmer out of his way. His heavy boots tracked slush and mud everywhere. He reached out and grabbed a beautifully stitched, highly expensive shadowcat-pelt cloak from a display rack. "I'm taking this fur. It's freezing out there."
Silas frowned deeply, stepping forward and leaning on his cane. "That cloak is three silver stags, friend. Pay up or put it back on the rack."
"Three stags?!" The drunk sellsword laughed aggressively, spit flying from his rotten teeth. "I'll give you three copper pennies, old man! I bleed to keep these roads safe from bandits. I take what I want!"
He turned to leave, tossing the heavy, expensive cloak over his broad shoulder.
"Put it back," Serena said. Her voice was not loud, but it was incredibly sharp and cold, cutting right through the frightened murmurs of the customers.
The giant sellsword stopped in his tracks. He turned around slowly, his bloodshot eyes narrowing as he looked at the slender, beautiful woman with crimson hair standing behind the counter. He offered a nasty, gap-toothed grin, his eyes raking over her body.
"And who's gonna make me, pretty bird? You?" He took a threatening step toward her, reaching a massive, filthy hand out across the counter to grab the front of her dress. "Maybe I'll just take the cloak and the pretty shopkeeper to warm my bed tonight!"
Silas raised his cane to strike, and in the corner, Yoriichi's red eyes snapped open, his hand drifting instantly toward his wooden practice sword.
Wait, Serena signaled to Yoriichi with a subtle, hidden flick of her wrist. I have this.
The drunk sellsword lunged, his heavy hand grasping for her collar.