Petal-Sleeved Thread

[Nephthys8079]

The bus rattled to a stop with a pneumatic hiss that sounded like the world's most exhausted sigh, and Taylor Hebert pressed her forehead against the grimy window, watching the gravel lot unfold below. Pinewood Summer Camp. Two weeks of forced socialization, bug-infested cabins, and activities designed to make thirteen-year-olds pretend they were having the time of their lives. She was thirteen now—had been for a month, technically—but the birthday cake her dad had baked (lopsided, with too much frosting to hide the cracks) hadn't made her feel any older. Just... taller. Awkwardly so. Her legs stuck out like stilts in the seat, knees bumping the back of the one in front. Her black curls, wild and unbrushed, frizzed against the glass, framing brown eyes that stared out dull and distant, like storm clouds gathering over Brockton Bay.

"Alright, campers! Out you go!" The counselor at the front—Ms. Hargrove, with her whistle necklace and clipboard armor—clapped her hands like she was herding cats. "Bags first, then line up for cabin assignments. No running!"

Taylor waited until the rush thinned, slinging her duffel over one shoulder. It was lighter than it should have been; Dad had packed it mostly himself, muttering about "essentials" while she stared at the ceiling. Toothbrush, changes of clothes, a dog-eared copy of The Once and Future King that she'd already read twice. No swimsuit—she hated the way water clung to her skin like a second, unwanted layer. No makeup or jewelry; those were for girls who fit in easier, the ones who didn't have to think twice about lockers or lunch tables.

The air outside hit her like a damp sponge: pine-scented, heavy with the promise of rain that never quite fell in Brockton Bay but seemed to lurk everywhere else. The camp sprawled at the edge of the woods, a cluster of low cabins ringed by soccer fields and a lake that shimmered like tarnished silver under the overcast sky. Girls milled about in packs, laughter sharp and exclusive. Taylor kept her head down, weaving toward the tree line instead of the registration table—no familiar faces here, no Emma with her easy grin to make the noise bearable. Emma was off at that fancy arts camp she'd bragged about last spring, the one with pottery wheels and guest poets, while Taylor got the budget version: canoes and capture-the-flag, courtesy of a Dockworkers' family discount.

It wasn't running away. Not exactly. Just... needing space. The bus had been too loud, too close, all those bodies pressing in like they might accidentally brush against her and shatter the fragile bubble she'd built around herself. The woods called, dark and indifferent, promising quiet if she could just slip under its eaves.

Ms. Hargrove's voice chased her halfway there. "Hebert! Taylor Hebert, cabin assignments are this way!"

Taylor didn't turn. "I'll be right back," she called over her shoulder, the lie tasting like chalk. The counselor's protest faded into the general clamor as Taylor ducked under the first low branch, the underbrush scratching at her jeans like eager fingers.

The woods weren't deep—not really. A buffer zone between civilization and the real wilds, patrolled by camp staff with walkie-talkies and vague warnings about poison ivy. But they felt ancient to Taylor, the kind of place where stories hid in the roots. She picked her way along a faint deer trail, ducking ferns and stepping over moss-slick logs, the duffel thumping against her hip like a guilty conscience. Five minutes in, the camp noise dulled to a murmur, replaced by the rustle of leaves and the distant trill of some bird she couldn't name.

She stopped at a small clearing, ringed by oaks whose trunks twisted like old men arguing. A fallen tree lay across one side, its bark peeled back in strips, exposing pale wood beneath. Taylor dropped her bag and sank onto the log, knees drawn up, chin resting on them. The book tumbled out, but she ignored it. Instead, she traced patterns in the dirt with her sneaker: swirls and lines, half-remembered from doodles in math class. The quiet pressed in, heavy without Emma's chatter to fill it, and Taylor's mind wandered to Brockton Bay—to home, to the empty evenings waiting when camp ended, to the way things had started feeling... off, lately. Distant laughs in hallways, invitations that never quite included her. But that was school stuff. This was escape.

That's when she saw it. Not the pattern, but the disturbance beneath it. A patch of soil looser than the rest, darker, like it had been turned recently. Or... not recently. Buried, maybe. Taylor's heart gave a funny little skip, the kind that came from too many ghost stories swapped at sleepovers. She glanced around the clearing—empty, save for a squirrel pausing mid-scamper to stare at her with beady judgment—then knelt, fingers hovering over the dirt.

Stupid, she thought. What if it's animal bones? Or trash? But curiosity was a hook in her gut, pulling her down. She dug with her hands, nails blackening with loam, the soil cool and cloying. It gave way easier than it should, like it had been waiting. Ten inches down, her fingertips brushed something smooth, unyielding. Fabric? No—something wrapped, layered in earth-damp cloth that unfolded like a reluctant secret.

She pulled it free, heart hammering now, and sat back on her heels. The outer layer was oilcloth, mottled with age and damp, tied with frayed cord. Beneath it, a garment: a haori, she guessed, from the stories she'd skimmed in library books on feudal Japan. It was pale pink, loose and flowing like a jacket over other clothes, edged with fuchsia flowers embroidered along the hems and long sleeves, the silk heavy and resilient despite the burial's toll. Threads whispered of use—faint stains like old blood or ink—but it held a quiet elegance, as if it had been draped over shoulders that carried weight beyond cloth. A red sash lay coiled in its folds, vibrant against the soft hue, and hints of what might lie beneath: layered kimono whites and blacks, dark boots to anchor the grace.

Cradled inside the haori's folds was the hilt of a sword. Not a toy, not a prop. A real blade, long and curved like something out of a samurai movie, the scabbard lacquered black with subtle veins of indigo running through it, like iris petals frozen in flight. The hilt wrapped in ray skin and silk cord, worn but intact, fitting her palm as if measured for it when she hesitantly drew it an inch from the sheath. Steel gleamed, cold and hungry, etched with patterns that danced in the dappled light—waves? Petals? It hummed, almost, a vibration up her arm that settled in her bones like the memory of a song she didn't know. In the blade's reflection, her own face stared back—black hair tumbling wild, brown eyes widening—a gangly kid with too-long limbs, but something in the way the light hit made her look... different. Taller, maybe. Sharper.

Tucked against the scabbard, nestled in the haori's inner pocket, was a battered notebook, its cover cracked leather embossed with faded kanji she couldn't read—sharp strokes like blade edges. Taylor draped the haori over her lap, the fabric cool against her skin, carrying a faint scent of cedar and steel. She flipped the notebook open, pages yellowed and brittle, filled with meticulous ink sketches: detailed figures in various poses, arrows marking footwork, dotted lines tracing sword arcs. At the top of the first page, in neat, slanted handwriting: Dual Moon's One Blade Drawing Style. Notes from Yuzuriha. Practice every day. Start slow. Don't rush the basics. This is for the next one who finds it—make it yours, but respect the steps. I was thirteen when I started, scared of the weight in my hand. You'll feel it too. Keep going.

The writing was straightforward, like a journal or a training log, laced with raw honesty—no fancy words or riddles, just clear instructions, step-by-step breakdowns, and tips scribbled in the margins in hurried script that sometimes smudged like tears or sweat. Taylor read hungrily, her fingers smudging the pages as she turned them, the words pulling her in like a map to somewhere secret, but one drawn by someone who'd tripped on the path. The sword is the Iris Blade: Kamiji-no-Homare. I call her Ayame-chan because she's reliable, like a friend who doesn't judge when you mess up. Grip it firm but not tight—let your wrist stay loose for the draw. Clean the blade after every session; rust is the enemy. Oil the scabbard monthly, keep it dry. First time I drew her, my hands shook so bad I nicked the scabbard. Laughed about it later, but it hurt then.

It started with the fundamentals, pages dedicated to building from the ground up, each entry dated like diary confessions. Basic Grip and Posture (Day 1): Hold the hilt with your right hand thumb outside the guard, fingers curled natural. Left hand on the scabbard mouth for control. Stand with feet apart like this [sketch of feet positions]. Weight even, but ready to shift. Breathe steady—in through nose, out through mouth. Hold for 5 minutes, then walk ten steps without losing form. Tip: If your shoulders tense, you're gripping too hard. Shake it out. I did 20 minutes today—arms ache, but form's better. Dad watched, said I looked like Mom. Miss her.

Then the stances, each one broken down with variations, common mistakes, and Yuzuriha's unfiltered gripes. Neutral Stance (Week 1): Feet shoulder-width, knees bent just enough to spring—about 20 degrees. Sword sheathed low on left hip, point down. Hands relaxed but alert. This is home base. From here, you can draw or step. Practice transitioning: neutral to guard (left foot forward, sword half-drawn across body) in under 2 seconds. Mistake: Leaning back—keeps you off-balance. Drill: Mirror work, 20 reps. Note from week 3: Added 10 more, sweat through shirt. Felt stupid staring at myself, but it's the only way to see the wobble.

Guard Stance (Day 15): Advance left foot, turn body sideways to present less target. Draw the blade halfway, tip up at eye level, edge facing out. Good for blocking overheads. Hold 30 seconds, then counter with a low sweep. Note: In wind, the haori can snag—tuck sleeves if needed. Practiced blocking a thrown scarf today—caught it twice, dropped once. Brother laughed when I tangled myself. Told him to try it sometime.

Quick-Draw Stance (Month 1): From neutral, slide right foot back half a step, sink hips low like sitting on a stool. Right hand clamps hilt, left pushes scabbard forward. Tension here [arrow to elbow]. Draw explodes forward—aim elbow height first. It tires the arms fast, so limit to bursts: enter stance, three draws, exit by stepping wide. In this stance, normal walking slows—use short bursts instead: forward lunge step or backward slide. Exit cue: Drop shoulders, breathe deep. Tip: I slipped on wet grass my first week—wear grippy shoes. Dry reps: 15, full draw: 8. Arms like jelly after. Cried a bit—stupid, but you're pushing limits. That's the point.

Vorpal Stance (Month 3): Advanced—only after basics are muscle memory. Like quick-draw but add core twist: tighten abs, exhale sharp on entry. Speeds your first motion by half a beat. Follow-ups flow smoother from here. Burnout after 10 reps, so use for openings. Transition: Neutral to Vorpal in one breath. Warning: Overdo it and you'll cramp mid-fight. Stretch after. Personal best: Held for 12 reps today, no cramp—progress! Felt invincible for a second. Then puked from the effort. Hydrate, dummy.

The special techniques filled half the book, each with numbered steps, timing notes, and follow-up sequences sketched out like flowcharts, peppered with Yuzuriha's victories and vents. Ainsel Lost (Week 6): Speed drill. Start in neutral, build to a jog, then push off right foot hard—explode forward like you're dodging a thrown rock. Cover ground fast, blade optional at first. Follow with immediate guard to recover. Distance: 5-10 paces. Reps: 5, rest 1 minute. Feels awkward? Good—means you're learning the push. Added blade on rep 4—smooth, but winded. Ran it in the rain once; slipped, face-planted. Laughed so hard I couldn't get up.

First Type: Paulownia (Month 2): Enter quick-draw, pull and slash horizontal across midsection (1). Pivot left, upward diagonal to shoulder (2). Step right, downward diagonal to hip (3). Can jump into it for air version—launch from guard, slash on descent. Follow with a basic thrust to knock them down. Practice slow: 1/4 speed, full form. Mistake: Rushing the pivot—clips your own leg. Tape measure for arc length. Drilled air version 10 times—landing's key. Nailed it mid-spar with Uncle; he tapped out grinning. Best day ever.

Second Type: Bloom (Week 8): From quick-draw, lean torso forward 30 degrees, draw into wide horizontal sweep low to ground (horizontal version). For upward, angle blade 45 degrees at draw—catches legs or lifts guard. Air safe: Jump back, slash on landing. Mix levels to keep them guessing. Follow with Paulownia low if it connects. Tip: Swing uses shoulder, not arm—power from hips. I bruised my palm early; wrap if tender. 12 reps, mixed high/low—feels natural now. Used it to trip the dog once—felt bad, gave him treats after.

Zeroth Type: Life Crimson (Month 4): Power move—save for must-win. Vorpal stance entry, dash in with rapid draws: slash high (1), low cross (2), mid thrust (3). Build to final double-cross: step in, left-to-right then right-to-left at throat level. Full sequence takes 4 seconds if smooth. Practice in sections: first three slashes separate, then link. Exhausting—breathe between reps. Note: Ends with you extended; follow with backward step. First full run: 3 minutes recovery—build stamina. Broke a training dummy with it. Cried—not sad, just... overwhelming. You're strong enough for this.

The haori section was tucked toward the back, treated like an extension of the body, with sketches of cloth mid-whip annotated like battle scars. Coat Work (Week 4): It's loose for a reason—use the flow. Backward swing: From neutral, fling haori over shoulder mid-draw—catches incoming grabs or sticks, turns their push into your counter. Time it tight or it tangles you. Forward swing: Whip ahead post-slash—lifts light hits into air for follow-up strikes. Backward pull on block: Yanks them off-balance, close for the next move. Empty reps first: 10 each direction, focus snap at wrist. In stance, it adds reach—test with partner if safe. Stain tip: Spot clean with vinegar; don't soak. Practiced pull on dummy—snagged twice, smooth once. Ripped a seam sparring; Mom sewed it while lecturing me on patience.

Follow-up sequences and defense had their own charts, doodled with frustrated underlines: From a Throw: Grab, flip, immediate low draw into Bloom to keep them close. Basic Slash Follow: Slash poke, if it lands, step into Paulownia to press the advantage. Corner Tip: Always angle steps to push them back—control the ground. Defense notes: Turnarounds: Vorpal draw takes a lot out of you—save it for when you're really cornered. Basic Block: Step back, flare the haori to create distance. Got jumped once—coat saved my neck. Still shakes me.

Yuzuriha's asides dotted the margins like Post-its, raw and rambling: Day 47: Finally nailed Ainsel without tripping. Reward: Extra rice. You got this—wish someone had told me that. Forgot to eat before Crimson—dizzy after. Lesson learned. Family dinner helped; talk to yours. Stance marks: Track with notches on a stick. Reset daily. Mine's full now—time to carve a new one. The last page: This style's for keeping peace, not starting fights. Practice to protect—what's worth it to you? When you're good, pass the notebook on. I had to let go once; it hurt, but it found you. -Yuzuriha, after a long night.

It wasn't a cape thing. Not the kind of power that lit up the news with Endbringers and warlord territories. This was... work. Drills and do-overs, laced with someone else's heartaches and triumphs, for anyone stubborn enough.

The horn blared again, sharper now, pulling Taylor from the pages. She snapped the notebook shut, the weight of Yuzuriha's words settling like the haori's silk—soft, but insistent. Cabin assignments waited, the duffel a guilty lump at her side. But as she stood, the clearing felt smaller, charged, like the air before a storm. Practice every day, the notes urged. Start slow. Tonight, maybe. After lights out, when the camp slept and the woods whispered back.

She rewrapped the bundle with careful hands—haori folding around Ayame-chan like a promise kept, notebook tucked safe—and slung the duffel higher. The disturbed earth smoothed under her sneaker, a secret sealed. No one would know. Not yet.

The path back was quicker, deliberate, her steps echoing the neutral stance in her head: weight even, ready to shift. The camp unfolded again—girls in lines, Ms. Hargrove ticking names—but Taylor moved through it like a shadow testing edges, brown eyes sharper, black curls catching the wind. Assigned to Cabin Six, top bunk, she nodded through the chatter, unpacking with mechanical care, the bundle hidden under her pillow like a stolen heartbeat.

Dinner was a blur: trays of mystery meat and wilted salad, laughter from strangers that grated like sand. Taylor picked at her food, mind replaying Grip firm but not tight, the ache in her untested arms already a ghost. Lights out came too slow, the cabin filling with whispers and giggles that faded to snores. Emma wasn't here—no stories to share under blankets—but the absence left room for this, whatever this was.

Past midnight, the counselor's rounds long done, Taylor slipped from her bunk. Ladder rungs cold under bare feet, she eased the door open—hinges mercifully quiet—and melted into the night. The air bit sharper, moon a sliver through pines, but the deer trail called her back, muscle memory from one walk. The clearing waited, oaks silent sentinels, the fallen log a throne for forgotten kings.

She knelt where she'd dug, breath fogging, and unwrapped by moonlight: haori first, pale pink blooming like a bruise in the dark, fuchsia flowers faint ghosts on sleeves. It draped over her hoodie awkward, too big, the red sash loose around her waist like a half-tied knot. Ayame-chan next, scabbard heavy in her lap, hilt fitting her palm like it remembered smaller hands. The notebook stayed closed; words were in her now, insistent as pulse.

Start slow. Neutral stance. Taylor stood, feet shoulder-width on uneven ground, knees soft—20 degrees, she guessed, wobbling like a colt. Weight even, breathe in... out. Hands: right on hilt, thumb out, fingers curl—loose, not tight. Left on scabbard. Back straight, eyes forward into nothing. Hold. Five minutes? Felt like forever, calves burning, mind yelling slouch, but she didn't. The haori shifted with her breath, sleeves brushing arms like encouragement. I did 20 minutes today—arms ache, but form's better.

Walk ten steps. Forward, deliberate: left, right, sword thumping hip, balance teetering but holding. The dirt gave under sneakers, roots snagging toes, but she pivoted at ten, back the way she came. Form's better. A grin cracked her face, small and secret—stupid, but real.

Transition: neutral to guard. Left foot forward, turn sidewise—less target, yeah. Draw halfway—shing, steel whispering free, tip up at eye level, edge out. Block an overhead? She swung imaginary: low sweep, cloth flaring accidental, catching a phantom blow. Hold 30 seconds—lungs burned, arms quivered—but the blade steadied her, cold line in the night.

Quick-draw next? Don't rush. But the itch won. Slide right foot back, sink hips—stool, low. Clamp hilt, push scabbard. Tension elbow. Explode—draw forward, elbow height, air slicing clean. Whoosh. Arms screamed, but it landed, blade halting mid-arc, haori snapping behind like a flag. Three draws: one shaky, two smoother, three—clean, petals of moonlight scattering. Exit: shoulders drop, breathe. Arms like jelly after. Cried a bit—stupid, but you're pushing limits.

She collapsed on the log, blade sheathed with a click that echoed too loud, haori pooling around her like fallen petals. Chest heaved, sweat prickling despite the chill, a laugh bubbling up—raw, disbelieving. You're strong enough for this. Yuzuriha's words, but they fit now, loose as the sash. Not a cape thing—just her, gangly limbs aching, brown eyes bright in the dark, black hair sticking to damp forehead. A start.

The woods rustled approval, or warning—hard to tell. Taylor bundled up quick, rewrapping with dirt-streaked hands, duffel thumping soft against her side on the way back. Cabin door creaked her in, bunk ladder a quiet climb, pillow muffling the secret. Sleep came fitful, dreams of draws and dashes, but when dawn horn blew, she rose with the ache earned, steps surer.

For the first time that day—and maybe ever—Taylor Hebert felt like the edge wasn't cutting her, but something she could wield.