Morning light spilled into the dojo, casting long shadows across the polished wooden floor. Kai moved with deliberate grace, his body following the rhythm of the forms he had practiced since childhood. His katana hummed softly in the air.
A knock interrupted the silence.
He turned, expecting the landlord. Instead, it was her.
Herin Rai stood in the doorway, dressed in clean clothes but still carrying the sharpness in her gaze. "You didn't lock the door," she said.
"Didn't need to."
She stepped inside, glancing around. The dojo was sparse—simple mats, faded scrolls, the smell of old wood and incense. "You fight like no one I've ever seen."
Kai said nothing.
"I want to learn. From you."
He raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
Her fists clenched at her sides. "Because I need to get stronger. I've lost too many people. I'm done being weak."
Kai studied her, then nodded once. "Be here at dawn."
---
Dawn came, and she returned. And the next day. And the one after.
Kai trained her in silence. No lectures, no comfort. Just movement, repetition, and pain. Herin never complained. Her punches grew sharper, her stance more solid. When she fell, she got back up.
One evening, after a particularly brutal sparring session, Herin sat beside him, wiping sweat from her brow.
"You don't talk much," she said.
"Words aren't necessary," Kai replied.
"Well, I'm not good at silence."
He almost smiled.
"You're a mystery, Kai Hitari," she said, watching him from the corner of her eye. "But I think I'm starting to understand you."
He met her gaze, and for a moment, neither of them looked away.
Something was beginning to shift—between them, and within them.