Fourteen winters had come and gone since the night her world burned.
Now, at eighteen, Ylin Yokisima sat cross-legged in the quiet corner of a stone chamber, steam curling up from a bowl of jombol stew in her hands. The savory scent of herbs and fire-roasted roots lingered in the air, but her mind was elsewhere—eyes trained on the northern winds brushing against the frost-touched windows.
Everything had led to this.
"Ma'maas, you're already eating?" came a familiar voice.
Ylin blinked. A face leaned far too close.
"Mmhh—what the hell—back off!" she said, jerking her head back.
Dahyun—her Sarvint and lifelong companion—burst into soft laughter, hands raised in mock surrender. "Apologies, Commander. Your battle gear is ready."
Before Ylin could answer, the girl was already halfway out the door.
She stood, brushing off her trousers, only to feel the familiar pull of resistance. The ceremonial dress she wore, stitched with heirloom threads and gilded embroidery, clung at her shoulders.
"Damn it… forgot this thing needs two people," she muttered, tugging in vain.
A knock. Then a familiar voice, muffled through the cracked door. "Do you require assistance, ma'maas?"
"Yes, please," she called back, exasperated.
Dahyun slipped inside, deftly undoing the layers and folds. The weight of tradition fell to the floor with a whisper. Beneath it, Ylin's battle-worn skin, scarred from years of hidden training, breathed free.
She stepped into her gear piece by piece—dark armored trousers, a fitted white shirt, a rugged leather jacket stitched with the symbol of the Salvenders inside the lapel. Her boots clicked into place. She fastened the final strap as her reflection caught in the polished steel of the sword stand.
Her blade, The Gravittor, rested in silence.
Ylin took it in her hands, its weight familiar, grounding.
She pulled her hair into a tight, sharp bun. Her eyes, flint-sharp now, found Dahyun standing at the threshold.
"I'm ready."
Dahyun didn't speak. Her eyes shimmered with tears she quickly wiped away with the back of her sleeve.
"You look like your mother," she whispered.
When are you coming back?" Dahyun's voice cracked in the stillness, her fingers nervously twisting the edge of her tunic.
Ylin paused near the door, her hand resting on the hilt of The Gravittor. She turned slowly, the flickering candlelight casting golden shadows across her face.
"Hey… don't do that," she said gently, walking back toward her. "Don't be sad, Dub. I'll come back. I promise."
She wrapped her arms around Dahyun, holding her close. The younger girl trembled in her embrace.
Ylin leaned back just enough to look her in the eyes. "What have I told you? Be brave, Dahyun. Be a strong woman."
Dahyun's lips trembled. "But… I'm not a man."
Ylin blinked, then softly brushed a stray lock of hair behind Dahyun's ear. Her voice dropped to a whisper—but every word struck like thunder.
"Are you serious? After everything I've taught you? You don't need to be a man to be strong, Dahyun. Strength isn't about your fists. It's not about muscle or scars. Strength is how you choose to stand up—especially when you're scared."
She pulled Dahyun back into a firmer hug, arms wrapped tight as if trying to shield the girl from the world.
"You are you, Dahyun. That's enough. That's more than enough. And one day, you'll move mountains."
Dahyun sniffled, her voice a whisper. "Okay… ma'maas."
Ylin let out a soft laugh. "No more of that. Call me Ylin. Just… Ylin."
"Okay, Ylin," Dahyun said, her smile shining through the tears. She sat beside her on the edge of the bed, shoulders pressed together like sisters forged in war.
"I have to go now," Ylin said, rising once more, this time with the steady calm of a woman stepping into fate.
Dahyun watched her leave, the door closing behind her with a quiet thud. The silence that followed wasn't empty—it was full of promise.