The blade cut through the air with quiet whooshes, her breath falling into cadence with the motion. Sweat beaded on her brow, but she ignored it.
For the first time, cultivation wasn't just a duty pressed on her by family or cousin. It was hers.
Her lips curved into the faintest smile as she tightened her grip and swung harder.
Lily's rhythm faltered. Out of the corner of her eye, something tall and still stood by the garden hedge—an armored figure washed in moonlight, visor turned her way.
It was one of Michael's undead.
Her cousin had left several undead to watch over the house with two simple orders: protect family; heed their commands.
Time among people had sanded their edges a little; they moved less like puppets now, responded to tone as well as words, and could hold brief, clipped conversations. Not human—but not mindless, either.
Lily lowered her sword and lifted a hand, beckoning. "You. Come here."
