The dawn broke soft and golden over Ashgrove, casting a fragile peace upon the wounded village. Smoke still curled from collapsed homes, but already, hammer strikes rang as villagers worked to rebuild. Children ran between the work teams, carrying water or planks, their laughter bright but strained.
And into this fragile rhythm walked Hana.
She strode through the open gate, no longer bothering with shadows. Her black-and-crimson attire drew wary glances, her mask and twin blades marking her as neither farmer nor friend. Conversation faltered as she entered the square; pitchforks subtly shifted hands, mothers pulled children closer.
The blacksmith, broad-shouldered and limping from his wounds, was the first to confront her. His hand gripped the haft of a hammer larger than most men's arms.
"You don't belong here," he said, his deep voice carrying suspicion. "What business has a cloaked wanderer in Ashgrove?"
Hana stopped, her eyes calm but sharp as flint. "Observation. Survival. Perhaps… warning."
The spearwoman — a hardened villager named Elira, with storm-gray eyes and a scar along her cheek — stepped forward next. She planted her spear into the earth between them. "Speak plain, stranger. We've had enough riddles from the Order's dogs. Who are you?"
Slowly, Hana reached up and pulled down her mask. Her face was smooth, pale under the sun, her eyes dark and steady like still waters hiding dangerous depths.
"My name is Hana. I am no hunter," she said evenly. "I am a kunoichi — a wandering blade, sworn to no lord or faith. I follow only the path the wind gives me."
Her words stirred murmurs. Some villagers backed away, muttering about assassins and mercenaries. Others watched silently, uncertain.
Elira's grip tightened. "And why should we trust you?"
Hana's gaze flicked to the blacksmith, then the elder leaning on his staff nearby. "Because you are in danger still. The hunters did not leave. They are camped in the forest beyond the ridge. They wait, they watch, and when you have worn yourselves weary, they will strike again."
A hush fell over the square.
---
The elder, a man of deep-set eyes and slow breaths, stepped forward. His voice, though cracked with age, held authority. "You have seen this with your own eyes?"
"I have walked the shadows of your woods," Hana replied, bowing slightly in respect. "I found their tracks, their fires. They lick their wounds and sharpen their blades. When they come again, it will not be with probing strikes. They will come to burn this place to ash."
The villagers erupted in whispers, fear prickling through the air. Mothers clutched their children tighter, men glanced to the horizon as though hunters might appear that very moment.
The blacksmith's jaw tightened. "Why tell us this? If you are truly a wanderer, you owe Ashgrove nothing."
Hana met his stare without flinching. "Because once, long ago, my home was also left to burn. The hunters came for us as they came for you. I survived. My village did not." She let the words settle like a blade drawn in silence. "I will not stand by and watch it happen again."
---
The elder nodded slowly. "Then perhaps fate has guided your steps here. But the people will not easily trust a stranger cloaked in shadow. If you mean what you say, you must prove it."
Elira's eyes narrowed. "And how would you prove yourself, kunoichi?"
Hana tilted her head, her voice as calm as steel in its sheath. "Simple. Let me stand on your walls when the hunters come. If my blades spill their blood instead of yours, you will know my truth."
The villagers murmured again, some nodding reluctantly, others clearly unsettled.
The blacksmith growled. "If she turns on us—"
"She won't," the elder said, silencing him with a raised hand. "I see it in her eyes. Not the hunger of a vulture, but the weight of one who has buried too much."
Elira studied Hana for a long, tense moment before finally pulling her spear from the earth. "Very well. But know this — if you betray us, shadow-walker, you'll find Ashgrove's folk are not so weak as you think."
A faint curve touched Hana's lips, almost a smile. "Then we are in agreement."
---
The day passed in preparation. Hana walked the perimeter of Ashgrove alongside Elira, pointing out weak spots in the palisade and suggesting ambush points. The villagers, though wary, watched her work with silent fascination. She moved like smoke, balanced with the grace of one who had lived her entire life in the space between death and survival.
By evening, when lanterns were lit and bread was shared in the square, Hana sat alone at the edge of the firelight. The children whispered about the mysterious woman with the twin blades, daring one another to approach her.
At last, the elder came to her side, lowering himself carefully onto the bench. He offered her a piece of bread.
"Tell me," he said softly, "do you think we can withstand them, if they return?"
Hana took the bread, staring into the fire. For a long time, she was silent. Then, finally, she said:
"With courage, yes. With cunning, perhaps. But with both… Ashgrove may yet see another dawn."
The elder nodded, the firelight reflected in his weary eyes. "Then we must hold to both."
And Hana, though she would not admit it, felt something stir in her chest — not duty, not obligation, but a fragile echo of belonging.