The clearing burned.
Flames crawled low across the grass, feeding on what little moisture the dawn hadn't yet claimed. Each blade blackened, curled, and vanished beneath the slow advance of fire. Heat rose unevenly, pockets of warmth brushing against my skin before fading again in the shifting air.
Behind me, steel rang.
Not loud. Not frantic.
Measured.
Lady Alvie's spear met the cultist again—metal striking with a clean, deliberate note that cut through the crackle of fire. Each impact landed with precision, as though the fight behind me existed on a different rhythm entirely.
The sun had not yet fully risen.
The world lingered in that grey hour where light and shadow refused to commit. Shapes blurred at the edges. Smoke drifted low, catching faint light that couldn't quite decide if it belonged to morning or night.
Mist gate, I considered.
The thought surfaced cleanly.
A retreat. A reset.
I let the idea sit for a moment—
—and dismissed it.
Too uncertain.
Too many eyes.
Too many things watching that I couldn't yet see.
"She's not doing anything," the female twin said.
Her voice carried easily through the smoke, irritation laced beneath the casual tone. I heard the shift of her stance—the faint scrape of her foot against the scorched ground.
"Then I'll motivate her."
She moved.
No warning beyond the intent in her voice.
I stepped forward as she closed the distance, both hands tightening around my naginata. The shaft settled into my grip, familiar weight aligning with instinct. I swung wide—an arc meant to claim space, to force her back—
At the same moment, she flicked her finger.
A sphere of white qi shot toward me.
Fast.
Too fast to ignore.
I twisted the weapon, catching it with the butt end and knocking it aside. The impact jolted through my arms—a sharp, compressed force that dissipated the moment it deflected.
The sphere struck the ground.
The grass ignited instantly.
Fire bloomed outward in a tight circle, heat rushing up in a sudden wave.
Fire.
A cultivator.
The realization settled in my chest, not cleanly.
Something coiled beneath it—half anticipation, half something colder.
"I see," I murmured, adjusting my stance.
Feet planted. Weight centered.
I kept her in front of me.
And him.
My gaze flicked past her briefly.
The man—Logan—sat beneath a tree at the edge of the clearing. Cross-legged. Still.
Unmoving.
He hadn't lifted a hand.
Hadn't spoken.
But his eyes—
They were on us.
Constant.
"Mother, she's a water cultivator!" the woman said, her voice brightening with open excitement. "She's a water cultivator!"
She raised her sword again, grip tightening with anticipation.
"Aren't you going to explain why you're attacking?" I asked.
Qi moved through my meridians, slow and controlled. A steady circulation, building without rushing.
"No," she replied cheerfully. "Can't do that."
She glanced back over her shoulder.
"Isn't that right, mother?"
My focus snapped forward again.
She was already moving.
I moved first.
"Scaling Torrent."
The words left my mouth with the motion.
My blade came down.
Clean.
Direct.
"Wow," she breathed.
The edge barely grazed her leg—
But the effect was immediate.
Her skin burned along the line of contact, a sharp, unnatural reaction that spread a fraction wider than the cut itself.
She jumped back.
Light on her feet.
"Interesting."
Her twin stepped forward then—calm, unhurried. The contrast between them was immediate. Where Morgan burned with motion, the other moved like still water.
A hand pressed gently against the wound.
The burn vanished.
Gone as if it had never been there.
A healer.
I inhaled slowly.
Fire.
Water.
Or something close enough to the pattern.
"Round two," Morgan said brightly, lifting her sword again.
She paused.
Tilted her head.
"Oh—sorry. My name is Morgan."
The introduction came mid-battle, as if we were exchanging pleasantries over tea instead of standing in a burning field.
She gestured lazily behind her.
"And that's Logan."
Logan did not move.
Still seated.
Still circulating qi.
The air around him felt… stable. Grounded in a way that the rest of the battlefield wasn't.
Yet his gaze never left us.
"What's your name?" Morgan asked.
Her blade stayed raised, but her posture loosened. Relaxed. Curious.
"Why should—"
I stopped.
My footing shifted slightly, adjusting for the uneven ground beneath me. Ash crunched under my heel.
For a brief moment, my eyes dropped to my weapon.
A naginata.
Long reach. Control.
But here—
A sword might have been easier.
"Heiwa."
The name left before I could reconsider it.
Morgan smiled.
"Heiwa," she repeated, tasting it.
Then her fingers came together—thumb and index finger pinched close.
A small, precise motion.
"Heiwa, I call this… Solar Flare."
Qi surged.
The air tightened.
A beam of white-hot fire erupted from her fingers.
Not a burst.
Not a wave.
A line.
Focused. Condensed. Screaming through the air like a blade made of heat.
I didn't block.
I ran.
My body moved before the decision fully formed. Feet pushed off the ground, muscles responding to the sheer intensity of the attack. The beam carved through the space I had occupied a heartbeat earlier, slicing through earth and stone.
Behind me, the ground split open.
Molten edges glowed where the attack passed.
Morgan followed.
Her footsteps were light—too light—and laughter trailed behind her, bright and unrestrained.
By the time the beam faded, we had moved.
Far enough that the sounds of the others dulled.
Fire crackled.
Smoke drifted thicker here.
"Hey!" she called. "You didn't even try to parry it!"
"Why would I?" I replied, slowing just enough to turn.
Qi gathered in my left hand.
Condensed.
Cold.
I flicked my finger.
The motion mirrored hers.
The ground beneath her froze instantly. Frost spread in a sharp burst, ice climbing upward in jagged lines.
"Nice," she said, leaping back just before it reached her feet.
The ice cracked where she had stood, splintering outward.
"We should be friends."
She dropped low.
A runner's stance.
Then—
She vanished.
No build-up.
No transition.
One moment she was there—
The next—
She was in front of me.
My body reacted on instinct.
The clash rang out as I barely caught her strike. The force of it traveled through the shaft of my weapon, rattling my grip.
Behind her—
The path she had taken burned.
A line of fire marking her movement.
I pushed back immediately.
Countered.
My blade cut across her chest.
This time the strike landed clean.
The wound opened deep before she could disengage.
She retreated, landing several paces away.
Her breath came slightly faster now.
But she didn't attack.
Instead—
She shifted her grip.
Left hand over right.
Her sword drove into the ground with a dull, solid impact.
Then she inhaled.
Deep.
The air around her pulled inward.
Qi followed.
It gathered along the blade, sinking into the metal until it hummed faintly with contained energy.
She exhaled.
The release came all at once.
A cloud erupted outward.
Thick.
Heavy.
Ash poured from the blade in a violent burst, expanding in every direction. It wasn't grey.
Not entirely.
Flecks of blue flickered within it—small points of light that pulsed faintly like dying embers.
The air darkened instantly.
Vision collapsed.
The smoke burned.
It hit my eyes first—sharp, biting, forcing them to narrow. My lungs followed, the first breath catching as the ash carried heat and something else beneath it.
I stepped back.
Once.
Twice.
Creating distance.
The ground shifted underfoot, uneven and obscured.
The world narrowed to sound.
Crackling fire.
The faint drift of ash settling against fabric.
And her voice—
Somewhere inside the cloud.
Lazy.
Amused.
"Let's see how well water sees in blue ashes, Heiwa."