Cassandra had been tracking the assassin for weeks, but she never expected it to be them.

Her sibling.

She had spent years wondering if they were alive. If they had been trained like her, if they had suffered as she had. She never knew their name, never had the chance to know them before she escaped.

But now, here they were, standing in front of her, blade drawn, eyes sharp.

And behind them—clutching at their leg, small and wide-eyed—was a child.

Cassandra barely breathed.

Her sibling didn’t move.

The child, no older than three, tugged at their clothing and looked up. "Mama?"

Cassandra flinched. Mama?

Her sibling’s grip on their weapon twitched. Their jaw clenched. "Not now," they murmured to the child.

Not now?

Cassandra’s mind raced.

The child was theirs.

She looked at her sibling again, reading their body the way she always did. They were standing in a perfect defensive stance—between Cassandra and the child. But their muscles were too tense. Not just from the threat of a fight.

From fear.

For the child.

Cassandra took a slow step forward. Her sibling's weapon lifted slightly in warning, but she didn’t stop.

“This what you want?” she asked, voice soft.

Their throat bobbed. Their grip didn’t loosen.

“…Doesn’t matter,” they finally said.

But it did.

Cassandra exhaled. “Come with me.”