The sun began to sink, casting long shadows across Gray’s royal hall as the stench of blood seeped into its walls. At the center stood a silver-haired girl with a sword resting on her shoulder—Ihwa. And behind her, as always, stood someone: her loyal companion and steadfast follower.

Ihwa was a force of nature. A thousand gods could rise against her, and she would face them all without flinching.

No, Ihwa doesn't need friends. Ihwa doesn't need help. But bringing someone along doesn’t hurt. At the very least, her companion’s presence makes the silence less dull, the carnage less lonely.

“Hey,” Ihwa called over her shoulder. “…It’s cold here, huh?”

Her companion understood immediately. To Ihwa, warm meant danger: people hiding, plotting, breathing. But cold meant the opposite: the enemy had fallen. Again, and again. Until none were left.