I smelled her before I saw her.
Fear, masked with floral perfume and false pride. It clung to the air like cheap wine left out too long—sweet, spoiled, and begging to be noticed.
She stood at the edge of the clearing, her arms stiff at her sides, and wearing military robes pressed too sharply for someone who belonged here. Her hand rested on the hilt of her sword, the tip of her boot digging a nervous circle into the dirt. Her eyes locked on me like I was the enemy she'd been training for in some fantasy she hadn't yet realized would get her killed.
I didn't slow my stride.
"You."
The word snapped out like an accusation. No rank. No bow. Just raw, adolescent emotion wrapped in fabric she hadn't earned.
I raised a brow, more curious than annoyed. "Excuse you?"
"You're Zhao Xinying."
"Last time I checked."
"I heard them."
