Ava sat on a pile of corpses, drinking water.
The bodies beneath her were Echo-Wraiths—incorporeal spirits rendered very corporal and very dead through sustained application of flame-edged steel. Their blood, if you could call the black ichor seeping from bisected torsos "blood," had soaked through her training clothes until the fabric clung to her skin in uncomfortable patterns.
She took another long drink. The water bottle was nearly empty. Should've brought two.
Blood dripped from her nose. She wiped it away with the back of her hand, smearing red across her knuckles. More blood at the corner of her mouth—she'd bitten her tongue during the Glacial Librarian fight. The iron taste mixed poorly with the water.
Her dual katanas lay across her lap, still radiating residual heat from repeated Flame Temperament applications. The blades had held up better than expected. Good steel. She'd need to thank the smith who'd forged them.
