I was out cold, slumped against the wall, the cold stone the only thing keeping me from collapsing completely. My blade lay across my lap, silent for once, and my scarred hand ached like it'd been dipped in fire. The city was quiet, too quiet, and my dreams—if you could call them that—were a mess of burning skies and that damn voice whispering my name. I didn't know how long I'd been out, but I was too beat to care. This whole trial, or whatever it was, had chewed me up and spit me out. I was no hero, just some guy who'd stumbled out of a grave and into a fight I didn't understand.
A soft scuff of boots snapped me awake. My eyes flicked open, heart jumping, hand fumbling for the blade before I even saw what was coming. The street was dim, lit by a faint glow from a lantern swinging in the breeze. A girl stood there, maybe my age, maybe younger, with messy brown hair spilling out of a hood and eyes wide with worry. She was… cute, I guess, in a scrappy way—freckles dusting her nose, a patched-up coat too big for her frame. She didn't look like she belonged in this city of ash and shadows.
"Hey," she said, voice soft but sharp, like she was used to being ignored. "You okay? You look like you got dragged through a meat grinder."
I tried to sit up, wincing as pain shot through my ribs. "I'm fine," I lied, voice rough, barely hiding how shaky I felt. My hand gripped the blade, not trusting her, not trusting anything after that thing in the alley. She didn't flinch, just crouched down, close enough I could smell the faint mint on her breath, like she'd been chewing leaves to stay awake.
"You don't look fine," she said, tilting her head, studying me like I was a stray dog. "That hand of yours is a mess. And you're sleeping in an alley like a drunk. What's your deal?"
I didn't answer, mostly because I didn't have one. No past, no plan, just scars and a blade that sang when things got bloody. I shifted, trying to stand, but my legs gave out, and I slumped back, cursing under my breath. She didn't laugh, just reached into her coat and pulled out a rag, clean enough to make me wonder where she got it.
"Here," she said, tossing it to me. "Wrap that hand before you bleed out. I'm not carrying you anywhere." Her tone was light, but her eyes kept darting to the shadows, like she knew they weren't empty.
I caught the rag, clumsy, and pressed it to my hand. The scars stung, but the bleeding slowed. "Why're you helping me?" I muttered, suspicious. Nobody in this city did anything for free—I'd learned that the hard way.
She shrugged, standing now, hands in her pockets. "Dunno. You looked pathetic. And I'm bored." She grinned, a quick flash of teeth, but it didn't hide the way she kept glancing at my blade, like she knew it wasn't just metal. "Name's Lila, by the way. You got one?"
"Kael," I said, too tired to lie. I managed to stand this time, leaning on the wall, blade in one hand, rag in the other. My head spun, but her voice grounded me, kept me from slipping back into the dark.
"Come on, Kael," she said, turning toward the street. "There's a place nearby with a fire and some food. You look like you need both. But don't think I'm your nursemaid—I'm just not in the mood to step over a corpse tomorrow."
I followed, legs wobbly, feeling like a kid trailing after someone who knew the way. The shadows stayed quiet, I finally didn't hear the resounding noises and managed to rest. I wonder if it was a good idea to trust her so easily..