"Some shadows don't run — they wait."
The villagers said the river knew secrets—held them like breath under the surface. If you sat still long enough, it might whisper one to you.
Nala had never heard it speak, but she knew how to listen.
She and Lena arrived just as dawn broke, their sandals brushing dew-soaked earth. The forest thinned here, opening into a shallow ravine where the river coiled like silver ribbon. Smooth stones jutted up from the bank, the water gliding over them in quiet rhythm.
"Doesn't this feel... off?" Lena asked, squatting near a patch of disturbed dirt by the water's edge. Her straight black hair was tied in a low ponytail, and her sharp green-hazel eyes scanned every ripple like a hawk.
"Too quiet," Nala muttered, eyes moving across the treeline.
They'd come here after an old man in the market had pulled Lena aside, trembling fingers slipping her a parchment with just one word scribbled on it: Mizuji.
A part of the old town near the river. Abandoned decades ago after a fire.
And yet, someone had been here recently.
Boot prints—fresh, sunken deep in the mud. They didn't match hers or Lena's. Someone heavier. Someone who didn't care to hide.
Lena clicked her tongue, pulling out her phone and snapping photos of the prints and a frayed scrap of black fabric caught on a thorn bush.
"Definitely not a villager," she murmured. "And look—ashes in the soil. Something was burned here."
Nala crouched beside her, running fingers along the cooled embers. Mixed in was something sharp. Metal?
She plucked a fragment of charred steel. A lotus symbol, half-melted, barely legible.
Her heart sank. "They were here."
Lena stood abruptly, brows furrowed. "But why come all the way to a forgotten bank? What were they doing?"
"Covering something up," Nala said. "Or leaving a message."
They continued deeper into Mizuji, passing crumbled stone lanterns and abandoned offerings to gods long forgotten. A shrine sat crooked on the far edge of the bank, its torii gate cracked but still standing.
Inside the shrine, the air was cooler. Stale. A broken charm hung from the ceiling by a red thread.
But Nala noticed something else—scratched into the wall with precision. Not graffiti. Not random.
A single line:
"The flower blooms where blood has fallen."
She stared at the words, the blade at her back suddenly heavier.
"I think this is about you," Lena whispered, her voice softer now. "They're circling closer."
Nala didn't reply. Her eyes followed the tree line again.
That feeling... it was back. The weight of a gaze.
"Let's go," she said quickly. "We're not alone."
They left the shrine and followed the river upstream, moving in silence now. The woods closed in again, shadows shifting unnaturally. Cicadas had stopped singing.
Nala knew that silence. The kind that came before something stepped out of the dark.
But nothing did.
Not yet.
They reached the edge of a hill, where the land dipped and the bamboo thickened.
"I'm going to check the ridge," Nala said. "You loop around the east side."
"You sure?"
Nala nodded. "If they're following me... it's better we split."
Lena hesitated, then nodded and disappeared into the foliage, leaving Nala alone.
She moved quietly, senses burning sharp. She let her steps slow, pretending to rest, letting her energy dim just enough.
Then she heard it. Not a step. A breath. Close.
She ducked behind a tree and waited. One minute... two...
Then she turned.
Fast as lightning.
Her blade whispered free from its sheath, and in one smooth arc, it stopped just at the nape of a neck.
The man stood completely still.
Long black hair fell past his jaw in sleek, straight strands, catching the sunlight like obsidian silk. It framed a pale face—sharply cut, as if drawn with the tip of a katana. A thin scar sliced through his right eyebrow, a faded line that added danger to an already unreadable expression.
His skin was smooth, kissed just enough by the sun to reveal a hint of gold—rare for someone who wandered the countryside unnoticed. But he was no ordinary villager.
His eyes were sharp. Not just in shape, but in presence. Narrow, calculating, and dark brown—so dark they almost swallowed the light, except for the glint of gold near the center, a flicker like candlelight before it goes out. They didn't widen in fear. They didn't even move. They simply stared ahead, unbothered, unreadable.
He was tall. Easily over six feet. Broad shoulders, long limbs, a frame that looked like it could wield an axe just as easily as it could vanish into mist. Every inch of him screamed trained—but not in a way passed down through family tradition. No, this was survival. Practice. Purpose.
He didn't flinch with her sword at his neck.
Didn't blink.
Didn't breathe heavy.
Like he'd been waiting for this moment.
Just... awareness.
"You've been following me since the village," Nala said, voice low and steady. "Why?"
He didn't move.
But then... his gaze flicked downward. To her arm. To the curve of the black lotus inked in delicate strokes.
A flicker of something—recognition? Respect? Sadness?
Whatever it was, Nala didn't like it.
"I asked you a question," she said, pressing the blade just a little closer. The man tilted his head, unbothered.
"You're her," he said finally, voice smooth like obsidian. "The one they call Black Flower."
Nala's jaw clenched.
"How do you know that name?"
"I've been looking for you."
Her heart dropped.
Then he smiled—just barely—and it wasn't threatening. It was worse.
It was familiar.