The wind screamed across the frost cliffs.
Tikshn stood with his sword drawn low—its edge crusted with old blood, its silence louder than any war cry.
Across from him, the girl in red waited. Her blade shimmered with the silver sheen of refinement—polished, honed, perfect.
She moved with a dancer's ease. Each step echoed with precision, unlike anything he had seen. She belonged to a high sect, that much was certain.
Yet she stood here alone.
**Like him.**
The duel began with no signal.
Only a breath.
Tikshn lunged first. His strikes were raw—unrefined, stripped of flair, shaped by desperation and instinct. Hers, in contrast, flowed like a crimson current—curved cuts, perfect ripostes, footwork aligned like calligraphy.
She met every strike with precision, but her face remained focused—untroubled.
Yet something flickered behind her eyes.
**Recognition.**
He twisted, ducked low, feinted upward—and managed to scratch her sleeve. A red line across crimson silk.
She paused.
Then smiled—genuinely.
"You don't fight like a sect disciple," she said, circling.
"I'm not," he replied.
"Then who taught you?"
"My grief."
She blinked. The smile faded.
"…I see."
Then, with no warning—she dropped her stance.
Lowered her blade.
Tikshn froze. Not out of mercy, but confusion.
She studied him, breathing hard. "You don't want to kill me."
"No," he said. "But I will."
A beat of silence.
Then sheathing her sword, she stepped back. "You carry a weight I've only seen in one other."
He remained silent.
She continued. "My name is **Lian Xue**. Crimson Lotus Pavilion."
That name held weight. One of the elite inner sects. Known for swordplay taught in line with meditation and poetry. For her to be here—alone—was rare.
"I seek the tomb too," she said. "But not for power. For answers."
Tikshn didn't lower his guard. But something shifted in his stance.
Lian looked down. "My brother died. Not in war. Not in a duel. But to rot—neglect. Our sect chose not to aid the weak. And he was deemed unworthy."
She raised her gaze to Tikshn. "That's what I saw in your sword. Not rage. **Refusal**."
Tikshn's fingers twitched on his hilt.
He thought of Kirin.
His mother's hands.
His father's broken shout.
His village turning to ash while the strong watched.
"…We were weak," he said. "So we were erased."
Lian nodded. "Same fire, different scars."
Then she stepped forward and tossed something toward him.
A small, wrapped bundle. Warm.
He caught it instinctively.
Bread. And dried fruit.
"Eat," she said. "We both know you've gone too long without rest."
He hesitated.
"…Why?" he asked.
"Because even blades break if never sharpened with kindness."
For a long time, he stood still.
Then, slowly—he sat.
Not beside her. But near.
Close enough to share silence.
---
That night, they shared no more words. Just a fire. A wind. Two swords leaning against stone.
She watched the stars.
He closed his eyes and let the warmth of bread remind him of things long gone.
And for the first time since Rihn, he did not dream of fire.
---