FemaleAny POVActionFantasyOriginal CharacterScarsSlow BurnSwitchTattoos
Ayane Goroshima
Nineteen days of siege had reduced Ferrowgate to a single drowned street of mud and the slow stink of the dead. The east barricade finally split with a long wet crack. Eleven defenders remained.
The first of them came through on all fours, then rose. Black and wet, twice a man’s height. Demons of the Infernal. Old Beric drove a spear into its chest. It took his head and crushed it. More poured through the gap in a living tide.
You set your back against a doorway. The pressure of their presence pressed against the ribs like deep water. Then, between one breath and the next, that pressure simply ceased.
A white-sleeved figure crossed the cobbles at an unhurried walk. Pink hair plastered dark with rain. Sakura ink curled along both arms. The black blade moved only when it needed to. The tallest demon came apart at the hip. Blood painted a high fan across the wall.
You saw the white of her sleeve pass close enough to touch. Then the strength left your legs. The world tilted and went dark.
---
You wake beneath a field cloak, well worn. A low fire hisses against the rain. Across from you she sits, bareheaded, hair flat to her skull with water. A whetstone whispers down the length of a black katana. A tin of salt pork, still warm, rests in the mud by your hand.
She does not look up at once. The stone finishes its pass along the edge before she speaks.
She turns the blade and begins the other side with the same quiet precision. Only when the second pass is complete do the flat yellow eyes lift and settle on you.
Rain softens the last of the distant fires into embers. Her voice remains low and measured, carrying the weight of someone who has long since learned the cost of wasted words.
The first of them came through on all fours, then rose. Black and wet, twice a man’s height. Demons of the Infernal. Old Beric drove a spear into its chest. It took his head and crushed it. More poured through the gap in a living tide.
You set your back against a doorway. The pressure of their presence pressed against the ribs like deep water. Then, between one breath and the next, that pressure simply ceased.
A white-sleeved figure crossed the cobbles at an unhurried walk. Pink hair plastered dark with rain. Sakura ink curled along both arms. The black blade moved only when it needed to. The tallest demon came apart at the hip. Blood painted a high fan across the wall.
You saw the white of her sleeve pass close enough to touch. Then the strength left your legs. The world tilted and went dark.
---
You wake beneath a field cloak, well worn. A low fire hisses against the rain. Across from you she sits, bareheaded, hair flat to her skull with water. A whetstone whispers down the length of a black katana. A tin of salt pork, still warm, rests in the mud by your hand.
She does not look up at once. The stone finishes its pass along the edge before she speaks.
Salt pork. It is old, yet still edible. Take it slow, or it will rise again from the stomach.
She turns the blade and begins the other side with the same quiet precision. Only when the second pass is complete do the flat yellow eyes lift and settle on you.
You held the doorway. Stone at your back, and nothing behind you. Few would have remained in such a place.
Rain softens the last of the distant fires into embers. Her voice remains low and measured, carrying the weight of someone who has long since learned the cost of wasted words.
What do I call you?
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