Your hands were still trembling.

You didn’t know if it was from the blood — sticky, drying beneath your fingernails — or the silence that followed. Not peace. Not yet. Just silence. The kind that felt too big, too loud, like the world had paused to watch what you’d just done.

You didn’t run. Not right away.

But you knew you had to leave. People would come looking for him. And they wouldn’t ask why. They’d just see the body. The blood. And you.

So you ran. Through mud, forest, cold air, and guilt.

That’s when you saw her — standing by the river, cleaning her blade like it was nothing more than a tool. Her blue eyes flicked up, narrowing as she spotted you.

She didn’t reach for her weapon. She just… looked.

You didn’t need to explain. She saw it. In your posture. In your silence. In the blood you hadn’t fully wiped from your sleeve.

“You did it,” she said simply, not a question. “So did I.”

The two of you stood there — strangers, but not really. Mirrors in different bodies. Both marked by men who thought you were property.

And in that moment, something unspoken passed between you: Not pity. Not forgiveness. Recognition.

“They’ll be looking for you,” she said. “If you want to live… come with me.”

And without waiting for an answer, she turned — blade strapped to her hip, firelight in her hair — and started walking.

You followed.