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Her blade was too clean.
It had been for days now. Too many dead ends, too many lies. Too many starless nights in the wilderness, trudging through bitter snow— a step in the right direction, but an end too far from sight.
All she needed was a name. All she had was a name.
The whispers of a brothel were enough. A crimson trail, leading towards justice. She never needed much to find her prey and rats did tend to hole up in all the same filthy corners.
This town was no different. Most of the streets led nowhere, dirty with slush. The markets reeked of salted fish, oysters, and guts. But it was a port town, and port towns were good for trade. Which meant peddlers, merchants. Tourists with coin and tastes for something exotic.
Possibly a specific tourist, with a specific taste— a specific name.
It didn’t take long to find the paper lanterns strung across the rooftops, bleeding red over the snow. A district that flourished under nightfall, and deep-seated desires.
Caitlyn made her way under the frostfall into the dark.
It was warm and inviting inside. A spacious abode cluttered with tea tables and furnaces. Too many faces, not enough candlelight, not to mention the thick layer of smoke in the room that kept the partakers hidden. Most of them splayed out in their corners, smoking pipes and cooing at the women who kept them flush with sake.
She had only seconds to spy the room before shadows surrounded her, tails of robes, painted faces and heavy perfume. A red pair of lips touched her ear, “You seem lost, handsome. Why don’t you come on in, let Meridia here warm you up?”
A finger on her jaw guided her to another face, but her tone cut short. “I’m here for the Madame.”
The woman purred in response, “Everyone’s here for the Madame, darling. Rarely any man gets to meet her. Come, I’ll show you a better place to explore your options~”
There were hands then, too many, curling around her arm, her neck and face, entrapping her, but Caitlyn locked her jaw, pulling away.
“I prefer to wait,” She mustered, glancing between the women. “Alone.”
Whatever gleam they saw behind those rose-tinted glasses, it must’ve told them everything they needed to know. Caitlyn may have entered a patron, but her sword and business was in blood. She didn’t come here for the simple pleasure of flesh.
Their postures shifted, not quite easing, but intrigued now. Not because they didn’t know but because they did.
A few others glanced to each other, silently lost of all interest. They drifted away, more interested in easier men to take advantage of.
Only Meridia was left then, lifting her nose. “We’ll arrange a room for you to wait. The Madame has other priorities tonight, many important men visiting from Shimura. Come, and we will notify of your arrival.”
Caitlyn nodded and was led away with small footsteps, guided away from the furnaces, behind the private curtains, towards the long wooden corridors where most patrons came to spend their time. She could hear every coin they spent behind the walls, the muffled hums of laughter, giggling. Silver rattling of chains, and deeply masculine grunts.
The room was small, neat. It came with a mirror, a washing bin, a small bamboo mat to rest your knees.
“Please make yourself comfortable,” Meridia bowed. The paper door slid shut and left her alone.
An hour passed in that quiet. Caitlyn wasn't offended; she was used to waiting. All her life, she’s done nothing but wait. Bide her time, sit on memories and empty promises of vengeance.
After listening to the door for footsteps or small voices, Caitlyn eventually settled, disarming herself to relax. A sword from her left hip, and a flintlock from behind her belt.
She’d been taking it apart and reassembling it for days now, trying to understand its inner workings. It was greasy and stained, a filthy mess of machinery. But uniquely crafted somehow. It only held four shots.
She studied every groove and divot in hopes it might lead her towards its salesman, or maker, now that the buyer had so poetically died of his own purchase.
Caitlyn smiled at the memory, kneeling at the table to wipe the barrel clean. She'd fiddle with it long enough to tire her, then perhaps wash her own face for the night before she said her mantra.
Just as her eyes finally slipped closed, her mind blanketing from the meditation, a scrape of the door had her seething. The Madame would've at least introduced herself first, or had someone do it for her. “I told you, I'm not looking for company tonight.”
“Madame said she’s busy with a higher patron,” came a strange voice. “So Meridia sent me to accompany you instead.”
It wasn’t what Caitlyn was expecting to hear turning around. A voice as soft and smooth as silk, unnaturally deep for a woman. Along with a certain rasp, an accent unfamiliar to her, even throughout her travels. Her eyes narrowed at first glance, but what she saw had them growing wide.
It was another escort, easily depicted by the elaborate dressing all the women had here. It was an impressive pigment, a heavy kimono the color of sakura petals, with a blue patterned fabric wrapped around her waist, her shoulders.
But what stunned Caitlyn silent was the distinct shade of pink that matched the color of her hair. A fiery shade unseen before, with fair, speckled skin and pale eyes—eyes so blue, so round and unnatural that Caitlyn wasn’t sure she’d ever seen anyone with so many startling features.
She was a foreigner, had to be. But above all, the woman was exceptionally beautiful. The kind of beauty that only settled after the initial shock, once they took the time to glide further into the room; settling comfortably among the cushions as though she owned them and Caitlyn were simply keeping watch.
Which could very well be the case, but was clear they had no knowledge or care for customary etiquette when entering a stranger’s abode—
“You surprise me.”
Caitlyn carefully shifted towards the stranger. Her posture steady, refined, so she could continue her appraisal. “Is that so?”
The woman held her gaze as if it weighed nothing to her. “Most men who walk through these doors come looking for something…specific. But they never expect my hair. It is natural, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“I don’t care for unnecessary questions about me, so I don’t ask any in return.”
Those grey eyes were still, hard as stone. Caitlyn returned to her table where her flintlock still lay, half-cleaned with oil. She resumed her work, hoping this one might read her tone to get the point.
“I don’t mind questions,” the stranger went on. Of course. “The right ones can be very revealing in a way. Seeing someone for who they are, what they truly want. I’ve found it entirely more…entertaining than the other unsavory means of gaining information.”
“And is that why the Madame is fond of you so?” Caitlyn mused, peering down her eyepiece with the smallest hint of a smile. “I come here seeking information, so they send you to do the same?”
“No,” The woman laughed, a gravelly tone. A rumbling melody. “I’m here because I'm what they call a peculiarity.”
Caitlyn looked up then, at the sound of a match catching flame. They had pulled a long pipe from a sleeve or pocket, puffing thick clouds of tobacco smoke. It filled the room with a heavy, grey haze, the scent burning her nostrils. As she shifted to dispose of the matchstick, her kimono came loose around the shoulders with quiet ease.
For a second, Caitlyn caught sight of a strong build, muscled chest and a physique she’d never quite seen before on a woman. Then, just a peek at colored skin, of petals and ink, disappearing down her neck.
She had seen inked skin before but was rare, often hidden. An indicator used by criminals and clans to prove their resilience, their loyalty, or commissioned by their lord to paint them of their crimes.
Never typically on women either, and especially not foreigners.
“Violet.”
“Excuse me?” Caitlyn asked, waving a hand through the smoke.
“My name. In case you were also wondering,” She grinned, relaxing back with the pipe between her teeth. The quiet must have gone on too long, revealed something. She stared back at Caitlyn as though she caught her lingering on those parts she never questioned. As though Caitlyn knew exactly what she was once she said it.
A peculiarity named Violet.
“Your tongue is impressive,” Caitlyn said. Not as a compliment, just a mere observation.
Vi smiled, like she was waiting for it. “You’d be surprised what it’s capable of.”
She winked, and Caitlyn’s huff turned her back towards her pistol. She continued on unbothered by this, while Violet hummed through another smoky inhale, “I came here many years ago. I was looking for someone.”
Her eyes dropped, as if going over a long-gone memory. No particular emotion attached, just something aged. “I never found them.”
“I too am looking for someone. But not in the way you once were, I assume.”
“Is that what that fancy device over there is for?” Violet nodded towards the pistol in her grip. “I haven't seen one of those since my homeland.”
“There are men I need to kill,” Caitlyn told her. “Whether by my blade or a contraption of their own making, so long as their blood spills by my feet.”
Violet glanced to the sheathed blade on the floor by her knees, almost as if she could picture it. The smooth metal, the sharpened edge dripping with crimson revenge. A smile touched her lips, fascinated. “At least you’re honest.”
She sat forward as though entranced now, caught on the length of it. Her mouth hung open, “Can I touch it? Your sword,” She nodded down with an amused gleam, “The real one.”
“It’s not something to play with,” Caitlyn mentioned, as Violet inched closer.
“But it’s yours. An extension of yourself. Why not display that?”
She crossed the room with languid steps, closing in. Her hand hovered the sheathe, waiting for her permission. Caitlyn did nothing but look away. The sword carefully shed its scabbard, revealing an engraved blade, as Violet knelt beside her.
There was a symbol right by the hilt, a crest of two keys, locked in an embrace. “You have a sword by—”
“An old friend,” Caitlyn sighed, before pausing at the way Vi was staring up at her. The eerie silence of careful consideration. She was too close now.
She was no stranger to that silence but it stung her all the same. The moment she knew would come, the moment Caitlyn always loathed. When they could take one look at her eyes beyond the frame and know what she was. What everyone called her.
“Your eyes…” Vi insisted, switching between them both, as if caught on which to comment on. The blue one they whispered of, that men feared and called onyrō— or the other one, deeply slashed and milky white, lost of all sight and color.
“Wh—”
“I suggest you hold your tongue if you wish to keep it,” Caitlyn lashed, grabbing the hilt from her.
But Violet paid no mind. She righted herself at that tone, carefully, but still had trouble looking away.
“…I’m in no place to speak against deformities of any kind.” She mentioned. “Especially in a land as rigid as this, and looking the way I do. Forgive me. I just wasn’t expecting something so remarkable.”
Remarkable.
Caitlyn nearly scoffed, despite the flutter in her throat. “You think flattery will persuade me into giving you whatever it is you came here for?”
“No, but sometimes I feel compelled to tell truths when I find someone uniquely…handsome.” Vi said, with a smile that spread sideways. “Trust me, it's exceedingly rare that I do. For men.”
That last word drifted with a delightful gleam. Something curious, unexplainable. The barest hint of a challenge.
But there was something artful about the way Caitlyn sheathed her sword, the way those deft fingers moved around the handle, laying it gently against the floor. Violet was so taken watching the movement, she nearly missed what Caitlyn said when she returned.
“Undress your kimono.”
Violet flicked back to her, stiff and wary of the demand. Those hard lines along her nose, her jaw. The depth of her voice, which was no stranger to command.
“Show me your ink,” Caitlyn went on, more softly. Not without an edge, but one of practicality. She nodded below, “Undress. Slowly.”
Violet was no stranger to obedience, so did as she was told. She unraveled her belt. Highly aware of the gaze on her fingers, the toned skin, the unexpected definition that revealed, as it slipped down her arms.
She couldn’t help but watch for a reaction, past the slightest glimmer in her eye, as the robe just barely exposed the space between her breasts. She adjusted herself then, shifting around to face the wall, and suddenly all Caitlyn could see was lovely hues of nature.
It was all inkwork and cherry blossom trees, an entire tale of a region. An evocative poetry, etched in the large expanse of her back, trailing beneath the fabric.
“The pigment is exquisite,” Caitlyn commented, squinting her eyes and leaning, “The detail is masterful.”
The scene was so lifelike, Caitlyn didn’t notice how the flowers and leaves seemed to breathe and grow, as if they were real. She indulged herself in a small touch by a sapling and saw it move, the barest twitch of a muscle she didn’t realize was there, hiding under the ink.
Everything about this woman was a work of art, a masterpiece of muscle, curves, and story.
“I used to have violets in my mothers garden,” She whispered, tracing the branches. Another shiver coursed through her spine, pushing a small breath from her lips. “What inspired this?”
“When I first came to this land, they told me a story of a girl, lost. She had taken refuge under a sakura tree. For years, I thought it was a myth forged from truth. And for years, I followed the tale and did what I must to reach her,” Violet spoke. Her head lowered as she paused, her shoulders a mirror. Strong, delicate hands curled into her lap. “I told myself to keep going. Make myself a weapon, a tool, until my fists broke. I used to work for the same powerful men that would come for the Madame.”
At this, Caitlyn flicked up from the ink. Her eyes narrowed at the back of her head, trying to picture what Violet might have looked like all those years ago, a foreigner in a foreign land, carrying the same swords and bravado as all these ronin and peddlers did. “I browsed these halls countless times under their banners. But, in the end, it was the Madame who took me in when they cast me aside.”
Her head twitched enough for Caitlyn to glimpse the flare in her nostrils, the feral flash of teeth. “I owe a great deal to her. I’d kill for her if she asked. If she didn’t. Sometimes, I miss it. Not the— the act of it,” She insisted, glancing momentarily over her shoulder. “But of who I was when I did. There was a…comfort in the fear, the rush. In knowing you’re alive, because someone else is not.”
“I know what you mean,” Caitlyn confessed.
A lull drifted between them, and Vi went on, “Most of the women here have suffered worse and continue to do so. I suppose we all grow calluses to survive, just in different ways. So, this…this I don’t mind.” Her back straightened with confidence, integrity. An invisible armor. “I am at your disposal if you so please.”
Those blue eyes flicked up, hand paused above her skin. Her fingers curled inward, away. She spoke harshly, “I don't enjoy using things, or people, considered to be at my disposal.”
Violet chuckled, as if she told a fine joke. “You really must be a samurai, then. Or lost.” She clicked her tongue, something devious inside that smile. “I’m afraid there’s no honor left between these walls.”
Caitlyn entertained that gaze. “That’s perfectly fine. I lost that a long time ago. Not that there was much to begin with.”
“You were dishonored?” Vi asked, turning.
”I dishonored myself,” Caitlyn answered, kneeling back on her rear. She pulled her legs in, crossed them on the mat. The pose of a warrior. “And will continue to do so.”
The incense burned as they stared at one another.
“It’s a relief, isn't it, “ Violet said. Not as a question, but a fact. “I think it reminds us that we’re human. That we’ve loved. That we would do anything for it. Isn’t that an honor of its own right?”
A smile crept up her lips, “You are very persuasive.”
Violet gleamed something quiet, mischievous. But there was a light to them, a certain softness. A charm, as effortless as the wind. She leaned, pale eyes lowering down her lips, “What else might I persuade you to do?”
Within seconds, the robe slipped and Caitlyn gasped as the woman kneeled forward, her naked form sending her stumbling back onto her palms, as those strong arms planted on either side. She tried everything not to glance down but the sight was enrapturing, the smooth length of her neck, the small breasts, all the way down to the shadows between her legs.
Violet made no other sudden movements. Her presence still cautious, aware of the anxious pinch of her client’s eyebrows. She knew how to read quick shifts of those sparkling eyes, the desire that was there, swimming below the surface.
But that wasn’t what took Violet’s breath away. Yes, the stumble had skewed those rose-tinted glasses from the long bridge of her nose, fully revealing a pair of eyes so rare that Violet had to blink twice. A gaze of blue waves and sea foam, that crashed the sands of an Ionian shore.
But it was her knee, pressed into the empty space between her legs—that had both of their hearts hammering, pupils blown wide. When Violet realized instantly, and Caitlyn couldn’t hide her fear.
Before the woman could open her mouth, speak or smile, those discolored eyes went sharp and she found the room barreling under her. One hard press on the inside of her knee, and Violet found herself forced upon by the client.
There was a distinct shink of metal escaping its sheathe. A blade now pressed against the jugular of her throat, one flick from certain death. An imminent silencing.
Those stormy eyes said it all. No one learns my secret and lives.
I have taken more lives than years I have lived. I exist here and now because I so choose, and will kill to keep it this way.
So long as you breathe air, you risk my freedom. My stolen privilege. Any chance of finishing my revenge.
I should kill you now.
But Violet barely swallowed against that sharp, cold steel— too lost in those eyes, searching them for more, more truths, more hidden secrets, more of what else might reveal before that decision was made.
It wasn’t the reaction Caitlyn was expecting at all. The smoke in the room settled with quiet fascination.
Violet leaned up slowly, careful not to move too quickly, so as not to startle the blade against her throat. But she couldn't hide the wondrous excitement in her eye as she drank her in, every detail now, like seeing her for the first time. The delicate shape of her eyes, the slim length of her throat, all the way down to the tight bandages just barely peeking from her chest.
All telltale signs, every trick in the book Violet knew, only because it was her so many months ago.
A hand reached up tentatively and Caitlyn withdrew ever so slightly, until Violet hesitated, watching, waiting for permission. Her pressed her lips firm, but said nothing. Her heart hammered and her palm was sweating against the handle, unsure of its own hesitation.
She could blame it on so many things. Her secret being revealed, the fact that it was a stranger to figure it out.
But this wasn’t a death she could bring herself to do. She couldn’t justify it, not with the way Violet was looking at her now, as if she were the most curious peculiarity in the whole world.
That hand moved, between stolen breaths, and reached for the metal pin fastened behind her head, gently removing it from the sleek bun. Caitlyn couldn’t swallow nor move. Not when the dark strands spilled from its hold. When Violet’s breath caught at the way they fell, pin-straight, soft as silk, fanning around the sharp bones of her cheeks. When everything shifted right into place between them, earning a breathless laugh from the patron.
“I suppose that explains it,” Violet finally said.
Those dark eyebrows angled down on her. She couldn’t read that expression. “Explains what?”
“…Why I couldn't take my eyes off you,” Vi confessed, swallowing. As though she were relieved. Her other hand raised, aiming for her hair to tuck behind her ear, but that wrist got snatched, stolen.
If Violet was expecting a soft, feminine moment then Caitlyn shut that down with ease. Her tone dipped, bared through her teeth, “Give me one good reason I shouldn't kill you before you run off to one of your mistresses, ready to sell my secrets.”
“Because I have a secret worth more than yours,” Vi responded, with a flash of her teeth. “Get that blade out of my face and you might find who you’re looking for.”
The grip tightened, furiously trying to read those eyes. There was a mischief there Caitlyn despised, but she also knew when someone was simply playing to their advantage.
She backed off her lap but kept that edge sharp, piercing her chin. "Up. On your feet."
Violet gleamed that threat, pressing her mouth. She said nothing, kept her hands held high as she stood. "Whatever you're planning, I don't suggest it."
"I don't remember asking. Face the door," Caitlyn quickly grabbed the hairpin with her free hand, twisting the long strands back behind her head. "I think your Madame has wasted enough of my time."
The paper door slid open to a dark hallway. The edge pushed into Violet's back, a warning. "You know which way. Go."
They pushed through the narrow corridor, both hearts beating rapidly with every footstep, every voice beyond the wall, until Violet stopped at the master's quarters.
The door burst and Violet stumbled in, falling to her knees. On a chafe was a short woman, draped in a lavender cloth, turning from her mirror. Her reaction was surprisingly neutral, given Violet's disheveled form.
She pulled her sleeve up just as the Madame tutted at her, like a weathered mother. "Now Violet, I told you. Patience is everything."
Her grin slid sideways in response, somewhat apologetic, but cut off quickly. Once that blade reentered from behind, angled against her throat.
"Are you Madame Kobayashi?" Caitlyn uttered, below her breath. "Head of the White Rose?"
She responded not with words, but an elegant lift of her chin.
"You need better spies," a swift kick to Violet's back, sending her on her hands and knees.
The Madame smiled, gathering her robes to stand. "You're very familiar for a first-timer. It seems my service was not up to par. Forgive my sweet Violet here, she's...still adjusting."
"I'm looking for Hattori Hanzo. It's to my knowledge that you do business for him. Provide peculiarities, like sweet Violet here, for him and his guard," Caitlyn reiterated. "I need to know who gave him this."
The pistol dropped onto the floor, skidding by her feet. Whatever recognition the Madame had was buried under paint and red lipstick. Her eyes, dark and depthless, flicked to her own.
"The privacies of my patrons are not up for sale. That is, of course, your only offer is the blood of my own." She hesitated then, rolling her eyes. "Violet my sweet, stand up. No need for such dramatics."
A momentary glance to the blade, the way those deft fingers shifted ever so slightly. Violet worked her chin around the gleaming edge as it hovered in place, carefully rising to her feet.
"The only blood I offer is Hattori Hanzo's," Caitlyn informed, raising her brow. "Once he tells me what I need to know."
"Hattori Hanzo provides good business to our establishment. Why would I spill his blood when I could bleed his pockets instead?"
"Because there will always be another man with a deeper pocket, whether he lives or not. Why should you care about this particular one?" Caitlyn drawled. "I would worry more about the blood in this room than the hypothetical one of a flesh trader, however."
The Madame caught sight of Violet's hard expression, the clench in her jaw. The way her head dipped towards her sword, the handle...
"Spies, often carry information." The Madame mentioned then, effortlessly. "If you're going to accuse Violet of such, I think it's only fair to ask what her consensus is." She waded a few steps towards the escort, hands tucked away underneath her robes.
They shared an expression Caitlyn didn't care for. A look of stubborn trust, unconditional loyalty.
"I suggest you choose your words wisely, then," Caitlyn advised.
There was a moment's hesitation, when Violet met her eyes beyond the frame. For once, the woman seemed to consider what she said before spewing it.
"He's a Kiramman," Violet finally spoke. "One of the Zhyun Clans, you can check the brand on his sword."
Caitlyn narrowed her eyes behind the glasses, but Violet said nothing else. The Madame glanced between the two, sighing. "A petty house from a petty portside clan. I expected more from you, Violet. Especially since this trespasser is now more trouble than he's worth."
"I come seeking justice and I will have it, with or without your help." Caitlyn vowed, stepping in. The blade a bridge between them, steady and fierce. "You're only choice is if you're willing to die to protect him."
The Madame smirked with her eyes, but spoke softly. "Hattori Hanzo has an appetite for women considered below him. Peasants, the young. I have no loyalty to men like him. If you wish to find him, head to the alehouse by the edge of town. He likes to prowl the young maidens that perform there."
With the knowledge she needed, Caitlyn lowered her weapon. She glanced to Violet but found something unfamiliar there, a harsh concern. Perhaps a disappointment.
Caitlyn wandered closer, but only to pick up the pistol from their feet.
"I implore you to finish the job you've set out for," The Madame called right as she turned. She stopped in the open doorway. "Should he hear about my involvement and come looking for me, it'll be you and the remainder of your clan that I throw to wolves to save my own, Kiramman. Remember that."
Reasonable, Caitlyn thought. But unnecessary.
She never left any kill unfinished.
It had taken too long to worm that information out of the Madame. The moon was too high now, Caitlyn was too easily seen passing through the shadows.
She trudged through hard snow, down alleyways and across the city towards the alehouse. It wasn't long before she heard the slightest echo of a crunch behind her, of heavy steps, trying to be quiet. Within seconds, that blade unsheathed and pointed at the intruder.
Violet stopped around the corner, backing up with wide eyes. She had stripped herself of her Kobayashi's branded kimono, wearing stolen trousers similar to her own. The covering pressed to her neck to keep from the cold, yet her cheeks were flush with intrigue, excitement. Alive again.
"You follow me after I spare your life?" Caitlyn accused, as if she were stupid. "Or are you that desperate for a deathwish?"
"You could be a touch kinder after I kept your secrets," Violet mused, lowering her hands. "I thought we had a sort of...unspoken agreement."
A huff pushed from her nose. The blade lowered and went tucked away, and Violet eased. Caitlyn held that same eye contact, the one it seemed Violet always insisted upon when things fell silent—but the answer was there, spoken without a word.
Whatever they were in the warmth of that room, whatever they shared... It was gone now.
"You should go back," Caitlyn said gently.
Violet laughed, once. Something breathless, lost of all humor. She decided to ignore that, mulling over her next words. Or perhaps how to say them.
"You're from Nanthee," She said, just as Caitlyn turned to go.
It wasn't a question. Violet could see in her stance, her shoulders, the idle rage behind her eyes.
"The town that burned for seven days," She recalled. "It nearly wiped out your entire clan."
It wouldn't be a proper tragedy if people didn't make it into something more poetic— but Caitlyn wasn't going to correct any kind of exaggeration. There was enough heat and blood to last for centuries, whether the explosions and the fire lasted for three days or a hundred.
That was the price of port towns, too much gunpowder, too many weapons. Too many foreign men with white skin, setting fire to things they don't understand.
"You don't know what you speak of."
"No. But I told you, I've lost someone too," Violet said, drifting off. "I may have grown idle working for the Madame, but... you've inspired me. I want to find them. And I want to help you find your revenge as well."
"What I seek is justice," Caitlyn insisted, as if offended by that word. "For honor, for legacy. Things you know nothing about. I understand you mean well, Violet, but I've no need for..."
The words fell away staring at her, the wild hair, the kind eyes. The way everything about her stole her breath, made no sense. She couldn't have that around, she couldn't risk it.
A distraction. That's all she was, all she would be.
"I'm not someone you should follow," was all Caitlyn could say.
Not anymore.
They weren't royalty, but they were remembered. Her family. They were a staple of the town, one part of a council, even one as small as Nanthee. She used to be someone. More than a ghost, more than a samurai, scorned of all honor.
She used to be a Kiramman. A merchant's daughter.
The clan would survive, it would because she said so. Because Caitlyn pushed herself, here and now, to serve justice and bring her family retribution— even if that meant casting herself from it.
"I'll make that judgement myself, if you don't mind." Violet spoke then, stealing her gaze back. There was something somber in her eyes, another expression Caitlyn couldn't will herself to meet. "There are a lot of things we shouldn't be, yet are anyways."
"If you wish to waste time and stand outside, then so be it," She ceded, muttering. "I won't tell you what to do, so long as you give me that same courtesy."
A smile slipped on Violet's lips, small, rare. Caitlyn left.
All that was left was the familiar echo of boots over snow, following one after another.
It didn't take long to sniff him out. Men like him always reeked. It was in their skin, the sake and sweat, and undeniable arrogance of nobility.
The alehouse was small, dirty. She found him sat near the back, surrounded by boisterous men and kettles.
At least ten others, Caitlyn counted, spying their swords. The scars on their fists, their faces. The way their tattoos swirled on their skin, as if brought to life.
Of course.
The Madame failed to mention that Hattori Hanzo was part of the Shadow Order. The same elite assassins that massacred the Raishai temple in her hometown, all their monks and acolytes. The same community her family used to trade with back when they had weekly shipments, before the news spread and suddenly the temple was no more.
She should have seen it coming. It should've been a sign, the massacre, but she was too young—
Caitlyn breathed in, "You are Hattori Hanzo?"
All that laughter faded, dying into quiet amusement. A man with long braid answered, halfway through a sip. His eyes gleamed a challenge. "What of it?"
The gun pulled from her belted robe, touching down on the table. It took mere seconds for the recognition to flash across his face. He hadn't mastered the art of subtlety like the Madame had, and it told Caitlyn everything she needed to know.
He knows whose gun this is.
He knows who set the explosives, who slaughtered innocents, and left behind twisted displays of their bodies.
He knows the man who desecrated my mother.
"A golden demon gave you this gun. The day that Nanthee burned, you were there." Caitlyn bared her teeth, "You will tell me his name."
But swordsmen like this didn't take kindly to demands. Each of them stood, ready to defend themselves. Prove something. Their egos catching flame, sparking right into that deep-seated fury Caitlyn had buried into her bones.
She cut through their fingers, their ankles, the bowels of their guts until they dropped onto the floor. The room bristled with shadows, a magic that smelled of smoke and fire.
Through every slash Caitlyn could see it: that day. The shaking walls, the moaning wood. The heat and flame that licked her cheeks, that swallowed her home. Every last jagged piece of her heart, ripping through her throat—through bone and blood until there was no one left. No one standing, no one that breathed air.
Her knees gave, the smoke and adrenaline blinding her left eye. Her chest galloped against the cage, trying to calm itself. She whirled through the gore, through sticky steps of blood, searching, searching, until she found him.
Hattori.
The blade skewered his shoulder and he cried out, a whimpering wail. His breath quickened, panting, desperate for airflow instead of blood.
"Tell me...who gave you...the gun," Caitlyn rasped, swallowing back her own bile. Her head twitched, frenzied by the screams behind her and flashes of that golden demon, seared into her eyes.
"K-Khada J...Jhin..."
Khada Jhin.
The life drained from his beady, black eyes and Caitlyn inhaled every last breath. Her vision was stained, burnt, smeared in red. The doors pushed outside and she escaped into the bitter cold, her knees weak and fingers numb as they fell into snow.
Jhin. Jhin. Jhin.
Another name, a masked face. Another trek across the country, following whispers and lies, more ghostly tales of pale skin.
She was so tired.
Every step closer only showed her path further on, how much further away it all was.
How long would this continue?
Her bones ached. Her back stung, shredded, bleeding and bare beneath her robe. Her fingers trembled, unable to move.
The snow burned on her cheek and Caitlyn felt her eyes slip closed, taken by the warmth. She felt her robe shifted, her body touched, but couldn't feel anything other than the wind, searing her back.
She grasped that phantom hand in a death grip, her heart hammering as she felt herself exposed, "It's me, it's okay. I got you... Come on, up, up."
It's me.
Violet.
For the first time in what felt like years, Caitlyn didn't force herself awake. She didn't thrash or lunge for her sword. She no longer feared the world as it laid itself down upon her, blanketing her mind.
Her eyes closed to warm hands, and strong arms, and a strange smell of something...sweet. Foreign.
Something like a flower.
How peculiar.
.
.
.