The back garden hummed with the lazy buzz of bees and the occasional flap of laundry above, as the maid hung large white blankets. The soft spring wind blew gently, making the leaves of the hedge sway and dance just a little.
Claire sat in the grass with her arms behind her, face tilted up to the sun like a solar panel. A stick poked out of her mouth like a cigar—or, in her mind, she was on an expedition, imagining frogs leaping in and out of the garden pond with their croaks.
Beside her, Rose sat quietly with both hands wrapped around her mug, sweater sleeves nearly covering her fingers. Claire glanced toward the pond again, just in time to see a lone frog shyly waiting at the edge while the others had already started to swim. But before she could finish the thought, Rose beside her blew on the steam—too softly—and took a sip.
She immediately winced.
"Oh! Rose, did you burn yourself?" Claire asked, her attention quickly shifting from the frogs.
Rose gave a tiny nod, lips pressed tight and eyes watery. She didn't say a word, just hugged the mug closer.
"The cocoa's still too hot, capisce?" Claire said, concerned but still with her usual brightness. "Maybe blow on it more next time."
Rose had taken a sip too fast and flinched, pulling it back with a tiny, audible "Mmf—" and scrunching her face before making a soft and quiet cough. Claire leaned closer to check on her.
"Come on, didn't I tell ya?" Claire said, not unkindly. "My mom says patience saves tongues."
From the porch, Claire's mom called over, "Did she burn her lips already? You two haven't even finished sitting down!"
Claire grinned, bouncing slightly where she sat. "Rose's tongue met a boss fight and lost the battle! But she's being all quiet about it!"
Her mom handed her a cup of warm milk with a smirk, setting it down in front of her before giving a subtle nod sideways—a kind of gesture, per se. Claire picked up the cup carefully, then rested it gently on the grass beside her.
"So," her mom said, tying her frizzy hair into a loose bun, "are you two doing science or starting a cult?"
Claire blinked, eyes bright with mischief. "...Bit of both, capisce? The frogs are teaching us their mysterious ways!"
Her mom chuckled, leaning on her elbows. "Wanna talk about it, or should I prepare the ceremonial spoon of encouragement?"
Claire snorted, wrinkling her nose. "Please don't bring the spoon back."
"I make no promises."
Her mom walked over with her own mug in hand and settled onto the garden step beside them. "Alright, miss chaos. What's got you so serious today? You're usually narrating your own life like an adventure story."
Claire plucked a clover and twirled it between her fingers, legs swinging with restless energy. "Dunno. Just wondering stuff. Do you think some people are born with special bravery powers? Like they just know how to do the Big Thing without getting all wobbly inside?"
Her mom gave her a look. "Big Thing?"
Claire nodded, flopping dramatically onto her back, arms spread wide. "Like... when Rose has to talk in front of everyone. Or when I have to jump off the high diving board at the pool. The stuff that makes your stomach feel like it's full of jumping beans, capisce?"
Her mom raised an eyebrow. "You do realize that sounds like something you'd say after watching three shows back-to-back with no sleep, or am I wrong?" Her voice carried that playful edge.
Claire gave a sheepish shrug, grass stains already forming on her elbows. "...No comment."
Rose blinked slowly at that, the tip of her nose slightly pink from the steam. She sipped more carefully this time, both hands still cupped tight around the mug like it might float away if she let go. Her shoulders hunched forward just slightly, as if trying to make herself smaller in the vast garden.
"Well," her mom said, taking a slow sip from her tea, eyes drifting briefly toward the pond, "you know that old poem? The one about the frog?"
Claire's eyes lit up like sparklers on a summer night, her shoulders perking as she straightened her back. "The one who fell in love with the moon?" Her voice bubbled with enthusiasm, fingers drumming against her knee in a rapid pattern as she waited for the answer.
"No, not the romantic one. The one that jumped."
Claire squinted, scrunching her nose and pulling her mouth to one side. "...That sounds like a really reckless frog." Her eyebrows knitted together in genuine concern for this fictional amphibian.
Her mom grinned, tapping her fingers lightly against her mug. Sunlight caught the edges of her loose hair as she leaned forward. Her voice softened, just above a whisper:
"Even the frog, though small,
leaps into the unknown stream,
trusting not the depth,
but its own legs."
Claire tilted her head, watching the ripples in her milk as she swirled the cup gently. Her eyes followed the white circles with fascination. "That's kinda poetic. And also very irresponsible. What if the frog can't swim? That would be catastrophic, capisce?" Her free hand made a small explosive gesture.
Her mom let out a soft, amused breath, eyes crinkling at the corners. "That's the thing. It doesn't wait to be sure. It jumps. Scared or not."
Claire poked her cheek with a finger, a small crease forming in her brow. She chewed on her bottom lip, processing this information with the seriousness of a small philosopher. "So… moral of the story is: be a little reckless frog? Jump first, panic later?"
Her mom reached over and gently tapped Claire's forehead. "Be the kind of reckless frog that learns to swim on the way down. That's courage."
Claire took a long, theatrical sip from her cup, her eyes never leaving her mother's face. Milk left a tiny white mustache that she wiped away with her sleeve. "...Still feels scary." Her voice softened, betraying a vulnerability beneath her constant motion.
"It always is," her mom said, nudging her knee with the side of her own. "But when the moment comes, you won't be thinking about fear. You'll just jump. And when you do, don't forget—your legs are stronger than you think."
Claire blinked, lips curling into a thoughtful smile, her eyes suddenly distant as if seeing possibilities unfold. Then she muttered, her shoulders doing a little wiggle, "...What if I belly flop? Splash! Total disaster!"
Her mom grinned. "Then I'll be waiting with a towel and hot cocoa."
Claire shook her head, smiling into her cup, a soft pink flush spreading across her cheeks. "You're weird, mom..."
Her mom beamed, eyebrows raised. "Takes one to raise one."
Rose gave a tiny chuckle into her mug, eyes lowered, shoulders twitching slightly as if surprised by her own laughter. Her knuckles were white from gripping the mug so tightly.
Claire turned to her, expression sly but warm, leaning into Rose's space with the easy confidence of perpetual motion. "You'd probably test the water temperature like fifty times first. And check for alligators and underwater monsters!"
Rose lowered her mug slowly, nodding sheepishly, eyes not quite meeting Claire's but glancing up with a soft gleam beneath her lashes. Her cheeks flushed pink not just from the steam now.
Claire leaned closer, grinning, her whole body nearly vibrating with excitement. "I'd still push you in."
Rose made a tiny surprised squeak and scooted an inch away, a shy smile peeking out at the corners of her mouth, her shoulders lifting up near her ears.
"With love," Claire added, tapping her chest dramatically over her heart. "That's how friends help each other be brave!"
"Who you calling weird?" her mom said from behind her mug, eyes twinkling with amusement.
Claire looked back toward the pond, catching a small splash from the corner of her eye. That shy little frog—hesitant before—had finally jumped. Her face softened with understanding beyond her years.
And it swam just fine.
And then—
Darkness.
The memory unraveled, folding into shadow as the present surged back. Claire's blade caught the silver-haired man's cane mid-swing with a jarring clang that shattered the silence. Light burst and died in the same instant—the barrier collapsed, leaving them in suffocating dark.
The air turned cold and damp. Moonlight filtered weakly through the tall windows, casting long, distorted shadows across the hallway that stretched endlessly behind her, lined with the still forms of those who had already fallen. The weight of their silence pressed against her chest, but her body didn't falter—it moved not with thought, but instinct. Something deeper had taken over.
The silver-haired man's eyes flickered like pale embers in the darkness, unreadable beneath the shadow of his brow. Claire didn't blink. She couldn't afford fear now, even as her heart hammered against her ribs.
The ground groaned beneath them, echoes of a crumbling world whispering through the cracks. Around them, dark figures clashed—mere silhouettes in the gloom, their movements creating a macabre dance of shadows. Still, her grip tightened. Her breath stayed sharp. Not for herself. Not for survival.
But for the ones still standing.
She couldn't let them fall.
"Well, this was unexpected..." The silver-haired man's lips curved into a graceful smile as he spread his arms with theatrical ease. Chaos swirled around them, yet his poise remained untouched, his tall figure eerily calm amid the storm of combat. "I thought that gentleman over there would be the only interesting part of all this." His eyes locked onto Claire, gleaming with dangerous curiosity in the sparse moonlight. "But you... I should warn you—I might be a bit rougher than before. Do try to keep up. It would be such a shame to end our dance prematurely."
Claire's mouth opened—then closed. Then opened again. "I don't—You!" she blurted, jabbing her sword forward in a clumsy thrust. Heat rushed to her cheeks, burning hot against the chill air. Really? That was her grand response?
Her knuckles went white around the hilt. She swallowed, mentally kicking herself for not having a better retort. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear with her free hand, nearly dropping her guard in the process.
The man chuckled, his voice smooth—like silk draped over steel. "Was that your best attempt?" he said, tilting his head. The shadows shifted across his face, rendering him more specter than man. "I expected more... fire."
Claire growled and lunged forward, her feet suddenly finding purpose, her blade slicing through the air—and through his chest. No blood. No impact. Just a ripple, like plunging a hand into water.
She stumbled forward, nearly eating dirt as momentum carried her too far.
"Whoaaa—!" Her arms pinwheeled as she caught her balance, her sword hand dropping dangerously low.
A whisper tickled her ear, cold breath raising goosebumps along her neck.
"Too predictable."
She spun, swinging without aim, her sword swiping empty space. She tripped over her own feet, barely catching herself. Her breath caught in her throat. The air felt wrong—thick, cold. Like they were being watched by the walls themselves.
Above—shadows moved across the ceiling, stretching and contracting like living things.
The cane came down like a hammer, cutting through the darkness with lethal intent.
Claire's eyes widened, her body suddenly fluid—she twisted sideways, her awkwardness momentarily forgotten as she narrowly avoided the strike. The cane cracked the floor where she'd stood, sending marble chips scattering across the polished surface.
"I—um—that was close!" she gasped, backing away and nearly colliding with a fallen column. "Too close! That's not fair!"
A harsh clang rang out—Takumi's scythe caught the blow just in time. Their weapons locked midair, metal shrieking as the vibration crawled into Claire's teeth. Takumi landed in front of her, the low moonlight streaming through tall windows tracing sharp angles on his blade.
"Cheating on me already?" he said, eyes flicking to her with a smirk. "You're making me... jealous!"
He launched into a wide arc, the blade humming through the darkness. The silver-haired man deflected it with a flick of his cane, his expression barely changing in the dim light. Behind him, the hallway flickered—too long, then too short, like a dream warping at the edges. Shadowy figures continued their battle in the periphery, mere silhouettes in the gloom.
Claire tried to steady her breathing, tucking her hair behind her ear twice before realizing it was already there. Her fingers twitched against the hilt. Her grip slipped just slightly—too sweaty. She bit her lip, feeling completely out of place in this eerie battlefield.
Then Takumi was shoved back, the floor groaning beneath him as he skidded across polished marble.
Claire moved. Not thought, but instinct.
Her sword clashed against the cane with unexpected precision. Her form wasn't perfect—too close, too low—but she held, surprising even herself. The silver-haired man tilted his head as if examining a curious specimen, his eyes reflecting moonlight like a predator's. Not threatened. Merely curious.
She didn't blink, though her free hand fidgeted at her side.
Takumi stepped beside her again. A nod. No words.
They attacked.
Takumi led—slashes fast and fluid, cutting arcs that forced the man to sway like a dancer avoiding fire. Each time he phased, the space around him warped, trailing a moment too long. Like time hesitated.
Takumi pushed forward—
The man grinned, catching the scythe with his bare hand. No blood.
Takumi blinked.
Claire darted in, blade aiming low. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, but her hands suddenly steadied.
She wasn't as clean as Takumi. Her swings were fast but slightly off, her foot catching on cracked tile once, causing her to mumble "stupid floor" under her breath. Still—she pushed. She ducked under the cane and rolled awkwardly to the side, nearly tangling in her own limbs before popping up beside Takumi with a soft "oof."
Then he jumped—two spinning slashes, one from above—
—but the man vanished again, leaving only wisps of darkness.
Claire's arrow flew the moment he landed behind them, her bow appearing in her hands almost without thought.
He dodged. Barely.
But the air shivered where it passed, like reality was trying to catch up.
Takumi dashed back in with a clean arc. The silver-haired man phased mid-swing—then materialized behind Takumi and kicked him hard in the ribs. He skidded back with a grunt, shadows swallowing half his form.
"Bit unfair, per se..." the man said lightly, adjusting his collar as if they were having a pleasant conversation at a café rather than fighting in a crumbling, moonlit hallway filled with fallen bodies.
"Eh, you were cheating on me," Takumi called back, brushing dust off his shoulder with theatrical flair. "So payback's a charm."
Claire made a confused noise as she hissed, her face flushing even in the midst of battle. "Wha—what the heck are you even babbling about, Takumi?" She nearly dropped her sword while gesturing with her free hand.
"Strategic banter," he said, grinning through a wince. "Very advanced tactic. You'll catch on."
She rolled her eyes, momentarily forgetting the danger as she shifted her weight awkwardly. "You're the worst."
"Probably. Keep swinging."
Then—before either of them could react—the man dropped from above like a guillotine.
Takumi barely raised his scythe before the cane slammed into it with a sickening crack. The force launched him backward, his boots scraping violently across the floor before he hit the ground and rolled with a groan.
Claire blinked—too slow. Her eyes widened with the realization.
The man was already spinning.
His cane swung in a wide arc, and Claire lifted her sword just in time to catch the blow. The impact sent a sharp jolt through her arms and knocked her off balance. Her back slammed into the wall with a quiet, winded—"Ack…"
Before she could even fully inhale, he was there again. Takumi quickly stood up but before he could rush forward and assist Claire, the chaos of fighting assailants and students blocked his path as he tip-toed to see Claire struggle, gritting his teeth in frustration as the only thing he could do was watch while he parried effortlessly an attack from one of the assailants with his scythe before pushing them away.
"Claire!" Takumi called out through the din, his voice tight with urgency. "Not to rush you, but maybe try not dying right now!"
The next blow came fast, aiming for her head, but she dropped sideways along the wall. Dust scattered. His cane hit where she'd been, splinters cracking from the stone.
She pulled out her bow with fumbling fingers, nearly dropping another arrow before nocking it and firing, but the man, unfazed, just stood eerily still and let the arrow phase through him.
"Oh, come on!" Claire whined, her voice cracking. "That's just—how is that even fair?"
In her vision, he became a blur of motion—an elegant silhouette slicing through the dark like some relentless machine. No hesitation. No breath. Just strike, twist, vanish—strike again. Every movement clean. Too clean. The moonlight from the tall windows caught his silver hair occasionally, making him appear almost ghostly as he moved.
She scrambled, breath ragged, narrowly avoiding another crushing slam. Her blade clanged weakly against his cane, more out of panic than control. She ducked lower, crawling into a crouch, the cold stone seeping into her palms.
"S-stop it!" she stammered, pushing herself up only to nearly trip again. Yet when she swung her sword, her movements suddenly became fluid, precise—as if some hidden part of her took control while her mind struggled to keep up.
The man didn't speak. He didn't need to as he slammed his cane onto the ground causing a large wham. Claire narrowly dodged but the force caused her to falter away. She quaked and fell to the floor, her sword clattering beside her as she watched the man approach through the curtain of her disheveled hair.
He stood just a few feet away, lifting his cane slowly, deliberately. The tip gleamed faintly under the dying torchlight. That smile again—soft and composed, like he was about to toast a glass of wine, not crush someone's skull.
She met his eyes—silver, flat, and somehow bottomless. Around them, the shadows of other combatants danced across the walls, their figures distorted and stretched by the inconsistent moonlight, occasionally seeming to move independently of the people casting them.
She couldn't move.
Her fingers trembled against her sword's grip, her chest heaving. Somewhere behind her, Takumi stirred—but the sound felt distant, smothered under the weight pressing in from all sides.
The hallway felt smaller now. The walls too close. And the shadows—moving when they shouldn't—crept just a little farther across the floor toward her feet.
Something shifted in Claire's eyes. Fear remained, but beneath it—determination flickered. She suddenly rolled forward, her shoulder hitting the marble floor awkwardly as she narrowly avoided a swing from the man's cane. Her hair swaying as she attempted a slash from behind, her movements more instinct than skill.
The man anticipated her move, spinning with unnatural grace. Their weapons met with a metallic screech that echoed through the darkened hallway, vibrations stinging Claire's palm.
"Now what are you up to?" he asked quietly, his voice barely carrying despite the perfect acoustics of the empty corridor. The moonlight caught his silver hair, creating an eerie halo effect against the shadows that seemed to pulse around him like a living shroud.
Claire opened her mouth, closed it, then bit her lower lip. Words failed her completely. Instead, she alternated between her bow and sword, switching weapons with surprising speed despite her trembling fingers. Each time she nearly dropped her sword, it somehow ended up exactly where she needed it. When she stumbled backward, tripping over nothing, it transformed into a perfectly timed dodge.
Her movements were a contradictory mix—clumsy yet effective, awkward yet precise. She swung wide, creating an opening that any skilled fighter would exploit, her face flushing with embarrassment at her obvious mistake.
The man took the bait, thrusting his cane forward.
Claire's wide arc caused a recoil, which she used as momentum to flip backward—something she'd probably never manage in training. Mid-flip, with her hair whipping across her vision and momentarily blinding her, she grabbed an arrow from her quiver, fumbling it between her fingers before securing it.
With a small inhale, she nocked the arrow and fired.
Straight toward him.
The man didn't even blink.
He phased.
The arrow passed through, disappearing into the darkness beyond, the soft thud of it hitting something in the distance the only proof it had existed at all.
Claire's steps slowed, one heel dragging gently as she backed away, breath shaky, blade still half-slick in her fingers. Her eyes stayed locked on his—not out of confidence, but survival. The distant sounds of conflict echoed around them, creating a dissonant backdrop to their deadly dance.
He was watching her now. Still. Waiting. His presence seemed to swallow all available light.
She took one more breath, tried to steady her racing heart.
Then dashed forward again, a stray lock of hair falling into her eyes that she didn't have time to brush away.
Her sword swung toward him—messy, tense, imperfect—but this time, he blocked.
The clang rang out, steel on steel, sharp enough to sting her ears.
Her eyes widened as a small huff of realization escaped her lips.
He blocked.
Her grip tightened. Muscles tensed.
With a small grunt, she shoved forward, forcing him a step back. Dust swirled beneath their feet.
The man didn't smile this time.
They stood still—blades held between them—only inches apart.
Breathing. Watching.
Waiting for who would move next.
"Well," the man said coolly, his voice barely louder than the hush of the burning chaos around them, "you're somewhat better than the relentless mouth... not that the bar was particularly high." He stood tall in the dim, the flickering shadows sharpening his silhouette—elegant, poised, quietly threatening.
Claire's fingers twitched around her bowstring.
"I, uh—that wasn't even my best shot!" she blurted, then immediately winced, her face scrunching at her own accidental pun. Her hand jerked for another arrow, fumbling slightly before recovering as her breath caught in her throat.
Trying to think—trying—she dropped to one knee, scooping up a palmful of debris. Dirt, dust, ash—whatever this place had left. Without pause, she threw it up into the stale air.
The particles hung there, suspended.
And then they bent.
Tiny ripples, like something brushing invisible threads in space.
Claire didn't overthink it. Her bow shifted back into a blade with a flicker of light, and she twisted mid-air, flinging herself backward—through what looked like nothing.
But wasn't.
A cold static buzzed against her skin as she passed through the place where he wasn't quite real—and it hit him. The moment forced him fully into solidity, and he stepped back, brows furrowing.
Claire didn't press her luck.
She scrambled away, almost slipping again, muttering a panicked "whoops—!" before she steadied her footing and aimed again, wobbling slightly.
"Sorry! I mean—not sorry!" she snapped, as if that somehow fixed anything.
"Nice return, Claire!" Takumi called out dryly from across the room. "Might wanna work on the comeback timing, though..."
He glanced behind him. Liene hadn't moved. Still kneeling, one hand barely holding her upright, eyes unfocused.
Takumi exhaled sharply through his nose, then ran to her.
He stopped in front of her, towering slightly with hands on his hips. "Yo. You wanna keep sitting there, or maybe help a little?"
No response. Not even a glance.
"Cool. Great talk," he said, throwing his hands up. "Guess you're gonna sit and mope about losing to Claire's roommate, huh? After all that smug confidence you were spitting before?"
Liene's eyes finally narrowed—but she still didn't speak.
Takumi leaned down a bit, not unkind, just… frustrated.
"Tell me then, since you're so smart and all—how would you know my situation, huh boy?"
Silence.
"Yeah. I don't. I wouldn't know shit. Not like every time I get back up, I lose something else. Not like every single time I move, a million better chances are already gone. And hey, that's my deal, that shit's fine. But I guess it's easier when it's not yours, right?"
Still nothing.
He sighed, louder this time. The quiet around them felt heavier. The crumbling ceiling hissed with dust, and the fight in the distance echoed faintly—yet his voice felt louder than any explosion.
"You lost. Yeah. It sucks. Welcome to the club, I've got loyalty cards at this point since I'm a total loser myself." His voice cracked into a short, bitter laugh. "But you gonna stay there forever? What's that gonna fix? You think staying down like this is gonna undo a war that's already swallowed people whole?"
No response.
His mouth tightened. Jaw clenched.
"...Sorry," he muttered, finally pulling away. He reached into his belt, drawing a few more small bombs from his pouch, gripping them with quiet focus.
Then, slower, quieter, he began to walk forward.
Back into the dark.