(Hana's Perspective)
The moon hung low, a silver coin adrift in a sea of ink. Beneath its pale glow moved a figure cloaked in shadow, her steps so light that even the grass barely stirred. Her name was Hana, and she had long since forgotten what it meant to stay in one place.
For years she had wandered from kingdom to kingdom, guided only by whispers of work and the promise of survival. A kunoichi by training, Hana lived by the code of silence and steel. She carried no banner, pledged no loyalty to crown or temple. Her allegiance was to the path itself — the life of the blade.
Tonight, the wind carried smoke.
From a ridge above the valley, Hana crouched, sharp eyes tracing the village below. What had once been tidy thatched roofs now bore blackened scars. The scent of ash lingered, mingled with iron and blood. Even from afar she could hear the faint hammering of repair, the murmured voices of survivors.
"A battle," Hana whispered to herself, brushing a strand of raven-black hair from her face. Her voice was low, smooth as running water. "And recent."
---
She descended silently into the valley, her movements like a shadow's drift. At the edge of the woods, she paused, crouching near the dirt path. The ground told its story plainly to one trained to read it: boot prints gouged deep into the soil, many men, heavily armored. Broken shafts of arrows littered the earth, some black-fletched, others of simpler village make. Blood stains darkened the dirt, dragged lines where bodies had been carried away.
The kunoichi narrowed her eyes. "Hunters." She knew the type. Mercenaries and zealots of the Order, trained to cut down anything branded 'unnatural.' She had crossed blades with them before — cold, efficient killers who cloaked cruelty in righteousness.
But here… something was different. She followed the trail of destruction to the village gates, half-collapsed, but already under repair. Lanterns glowed inside. Children's laughter mixed with hammer blows and low songs of rebuilding. Against all odds, life remained.
Hana allowed herself the faintest smile. "So. The hunters came… and failed."
---
She slipped past the gate unseen, her shadow merging with the ruined timbers. Within the square, villagers worked in tired but steady rhythm. Men hauled beams onto carts, women scrubbed soot from stone, and elders whispered prayers beside a small shrine where incense burned for the dead.
But what caught Hana's eye were three figures among them — a broad-shouldered blacksmith with a bandaged arm, a fierce-eyed woman drilling youths with makeshift spears, and a tall man leaning on a staff, calm as still water.
"These ones fought," Hana thought, her gaze sharp as a blade. "They carry themselves not as survivors, but as defenders."
Her instincts told her to move on. Villages were not her concern. The code of the wandering blade was not to entangle with others' wars. Yet something held her in place.
Perhaps it was the memory of another village long ago — her home — burned to cinders by men who looked too much like these hunters. Or perhaps it was curiosity.
---
Night deepened, and Hana found herself watching unseen from the rafters of the half-burned mill as the villagers lit their lanterns, sending them down the river. She studied their faces — grief-stricken yet defiant. She listened to their voices as they cried: "Ashgrove stands!"
The words struck something within her chest, something she had long buried.
Ashgrove stood, yes. But how long could a simple village stand against the Order's endless reach?
Hana's hand drifted to the pair of short blades at her side — kunai forged in silence, stained in shadow. She was no savior. She was a weapon, and weapons did not heal. But still, she found herself whispering, "Perhaps… my path leads here."
---
Later, as the moon reached its peak, Hana scouted the woods around Ashgrove. Her keen senses picked up what the villagers could not — broken branches, faint impressions in the mud, and the lingering smell of oiled steel. The hunters had not vanished. They had retreated, regrouping. Watching.
From the treeline, Hana's eyes gleamed beneath her mask. "The storm hasn't passed. It's only waiting."
She considered walking away. A kunoichi's life was detachment, survival, movement. But Ashgrove's lanterns still floated in her mind, bobbing gently on the river like fragile hopes against the dark.
Hana rested a hand on her blade and made a silent vow. "Just a little longer. I will stay in the shadows of this place. If the hunters return, they will not find Ashgrove unguarded."
And with that, she melted back into the night — unseen, unheard, yet very much present. A wandering shadow had chosen to linger, and fate itself shifted with her decision.