She swings, slashes, then cuts—each movement precise, deliberate. A stab would only bury her blade deeper into the amalgamation of fat and sinew, leaving it trapped. She avoids the mistake, her strikes calculated, her rhythm unbroken.
Slabs of meat and arcs of blood paint the ground, a grotesque canvas growing with every motion. She adds another stroke to her work: his head rolls cleanly from his shoulders. For a fleeting moment, she wonders if regret follows as swiftly as her blade, but the thought dissolves like smoke in the wind.
Another grunt escapes her lips as her sword cleaves through an arm. It dangles, lifeless, held only by threads of elastic skin, the bone beneath severed with brutal efficiency. A scream erupts—horrible, deafening—but it is cut short by the crunch of bones and the finality of silence. The night air wraps around them, cold and indifferent, a shroud for the fallen.
She stands over the dismembered figures, her breath steady, her expression unreadable. No sympathy stirs within her; there is no room for it. Instead, her hands move with purpose, searching through bloodied rags and tattered garments for scraps of rotten bread and pouches of coins, now slick with blood.
When her task is done, she pauses. Their sword and dagger are placed carefully in the dirt, buried deep above where their heads once rested. She doesn't question the ritual—it's a habit, picked up from whispers and superstitions during her travels. She doesn't believe in ghosts, but she doesn't dare tempt the unknown.
With her spoils gathered, she leaves the campsite behind, her footsteps steady as she follows the path to a river she had tracked the night before. The water glistens under the pale light of the moon, a stark contrast to the carnage she leaves in her wake.
Sitting by the riverbank, she washes her face, the cool water soothing her skin. Her silver hair, streaked with blood, glimmers as she rinses it clean. The sound of birdsong drifts through the air, a fragile reminder of life amidst the death she sows.
Her sword is next. She cleans it meticulously, the blade gleaming as the water carries away the remnants of battle. She dries it with care, ensuring no trace of rust will mar its edge. It is her companion, her tool, her lifeline. She treats it with the reverence it deserves.
The forest hums softly around her, a symphony of rustling leaves and distant owl calls. The air is cool, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and pine. Emilia sits by the riverbank, her silver hair catching the moonlight as she drifts in and out of sleep. The gentle murmur of the water and the forest's lullaby almost lull her into a rare moment of peace.
Almost.
"Emilia."
The voice cuts through the stillness—sharp, intimate, and unwelcome. It's a whisper, low and deliberate, curling around her like smoke. Her eyes snap open, her body tensing as if struck. The voice is too close, too familiar, and it sends a jolt of ice through her veins. She feels violated, the peace of the forest shattered, her skin crawling with disgust.
In an instant, she's on her feet, her blade already in hand. The metal gleams cold and deadly as it arcs through the air, driven by instinct and rage. Her movements are swift, precise, fueled by a wretched intent that leaves no room for hesitation. The tip of her sword halts just shy of his throat, the edge kissing the pale skin of his neck.
The man doesn't flinch. His dark hair falls in unruly waves, framing a face that's both familiar and infuriating. His eyes, deep and unreadable, meet hers with a calm that only stokes her fury. He stands there, unarmed, his hands raised in a mockery of surrender, a faint smirk playing on his lips.
"So rough and rowdy," he says, his voice smooth, almost teasing. "Can't say I dislike it when you take control, Mili."
The sound of it grates against her nerves, each word a provocation. Emilia's grip tightens on the hilt of her sword, her knuckles white. The blade trembles slightly, not from fear, but from the effort it takes to keep it still. She wants to drive it forward, to feel the resistance of flesh giving way, to silence him forever. But something holds her back—an old habit, a lingering doubt, a thread of restraint she can't quite sever.
The forest holds its breath around them, the lullaby replaced by a tense, suffocating silence. The moonlight filters through the canopy above, casting jagged shadows that dance across their faces. Emilia's chest rises and falls with shallow breaths, her heart pounding in her ears. She can smell the faint scent of him—earth and iron, a hint of something wild—and it makes her stomach churn.
"Speak," she hisses, her voice low and venomous. "And make it worth my mercy."
He tilts his head slightly, the movement deliberate, almost mocking. His smirk widens, but his eyes remain guarded, calculating. "Always so dramatic," he says, his tone light, as if they were old friends sharing a joke. "I was just passing through. Can't help but stare when I see a beauty drifting off to sleep."
Emilia's lips curl into a snarl. "And you expect me to believe you're no thief or bandit, here to steal my spoils for yourself?" she spits, the words sharp and final. Her blade presses closer, drawing a thin line of red against his skin. A single drop of blood wells up, dark and glistening, before trailing down his neck.
He doesn't move, doesn't even blink. His calm is infuriating, a stark contrast to the storm raging within her. For a moment, they stand like that, locked in a silent battle of wills, the forest around them holding its breath.
"Nope," he says simply, his smirk never wavering.
With a growl of frustration, Emilia pulls the blade back, though she doesn't sheathe it. "Leave," she commands, her voice trembling with barely contained rage. "Before I change my mind."
He chuckles softly, the sound low and dangerous. "Your words wound me so terribly, Emilia," he says, taking a step back, his hands still raised. "But I'll see you around."
She watches him disappear into the shadows, her blade still poised, her body taut with tension. Only when the forest swallows him completely does she lower her sword, her breath escaping in a shuddering exhale. The lullaby of the forest returns, but it feels hollow now, the peace irreparably broken.
Emilia stands there for a long moment, her silver hair catching the moonlight, her amethyst eyes fixed on the darkness where he vanished. The night feels colder now, the shadows deeper. She sheathes her sword with a sharp click, the sound final, decisive.
Her hands fumble in her pocket, pulling out a crumpled roll of paper. She unfurls it, her eyes scanning the map under the pale light. The lines and symbols blur together, meaningless to her. Frustration boils over, and she lets out a scream, raw and guttural, stomping on the map as if it were to blame.
"Dammit! Dammit all!" she shouts, her voice echoing through the trees. She snatches the map from the ground, shoving it back into her pocket. Grabbing her saddle and sword, she storms off toward the next town, her boots crunching against the forest floor.