Anemone stood for a few peaceful minutes at the top of a hill overlooking the city. It was soothing to stand in her hometown and embrace the freedom she’d never had before. For most of her youth, they stationed her up north, and she worked by the river all day and fought beasts in the compound by night.

To the right, she noticed a small group of beasts bringing buckets of water to fight the fires. There were perhaps a few dozen more grown ones, all male from her first look of them. She hadn’t seen her fellow beasts since Dormoor, where Dancer, Fists, and Crack were Dormoor’s most recent tributes. Unfortunately for them, they wouldn’t be freed.

Dork City was grander from this elevation than when she first entered the city. While the city at ground level was, at worst, gross, everything outside of the town almost redeemed it. The city was a beauty mark on gorgeous terrain.

Anemone watched Kinler from afar, looking at him confront the group of men. Something went wrong in their meeting, as the Dormoorian’s charged against Kinler’s interests. She saw a blue, glowing sword, and the men that looked like blurs were torn in half. Watching Kinler kill so quickly and without hesitation, Anemone questioned if she could ever become proficient with the sword.

But the light of his sword eventually vanished, and from here, she couldn’t spot him anymore. She frowned at the thought of his potential death. She shook her head. He wouldn’t forbid her to die if he didn’t enforce the same for himself.

Anemone spotted a few Dormoor warriors break past the fence line, and they rushed into the city past the defenders. There were perhaps ten, maybe more who had escaped the guarded front. The spearmen held their stations as ordered, meaning Anemone—and a few of her old beast tamers—were all that remained to clean up.

Anemone peeked from left to right and noticed a problem. They were all over the place, going in wild directions.

Who do I pick out? Anemone thought. She had the opportunity to choose her targets. But such a choice was perhaps too much freedom to have. She was a hunter, and the Dormoorians were her prey.

Some carried torches in their hands, but they avoided buildings, instead choosing to dig deeper into the city where there were fewer on guard. This issue was apparent to her, for if the beast tamers secured near the western part of the city, the Dormoorians would burn the eastern half without retaliation.

Anemone spotted a group of three winding around the hill to her left. One of them had a lit torch in his hand, but he merely ran with it wildly in his hand down the middle of the street. Two soldiers followed behind him had their hands on their hilts, ready to draw in a moment’s notice.

Thanks to the lockdown, no civilians were on the street, keeping them out of the path of the savage-looking men. Anemone followed, trailing them from the top of the hill. They didn’t notice her stalk them from two roads above.

But as they pushed deeper into the city, the hill raised in elevation and would soon force her left when the Dormoor men were on her right.

Anemone improvised, leaping down to land on a rooftop. She braced herself on the fall, feeling the thrill of wind push up against her while she fell. Pulling herself over the back of the roof, she climbed over the tall pinched divider and slid down the steep tiles to drop on the road beneath, scanning the ground-level streets, but she had lost her targets.

Should I climb back? Anemone considered, looking up to realize it was a lot easier going down than it would be going up. No. If I can handle this group, the others should be able to take the rest.

That was if she could even handle them in the first place. She had no experience, and here she was, hunting three when Kinler had told her to ‘pick out individual’ targets. She was far too deep to backtrack now.

Again, she hurried down, trying to reach ground level. She just had one road to descend and one more rooftop in her way. She sprung down to the slanted rooftop below. A barrage of noises as she crashed clumsily, missing the vertex and ultimately her grip. She slipped and rolled down the roof; each rotation pounded like fireworks going off in succession. She screamed, falling to the hardened dirt floor, landing on her right shoulder.

Crack, her ears heard. She squirmed, feeling a heavy shot of pain strike her back.

She underestimated the pain a twenty-foot drop could do to the body before now. My shoulder, Anemone grasped it, pulling to roll off of it and to her beat back. She sat up through her pain. There was no time for this, not when she was supposed to be helping. Her legs were burning underneath the leather of her shins. She was unaware if she bled underneath her armor, but the pain wasn’t nearly as bad as her right arm.

Her knee pads eased her tumbling, thank the Gem God. Her shoulder pad didn’t do as well, and the roar of pain cried from her side.

As Anemone stood up, she felt control over her shoulder again. It felt tense, but the pain faded after a minute or so of rest. She looked around, seeing the back of a building to her left and a ridge wall to her right. Other than an alleyway opening up to the main street fifteen feet away, she was stranded in the back alley.

She moved, trying to flex out her shoulder. Suddenly, she heard a pop in her right ear and a sting of pain that soon disappeared. Now, as if her body fixed her injury for her, her shoulder felt as good as new.

Is this my blood? Anemone thought. She unbuttoned her right sleeve, exposing the skin of her wrist. Her white skin was like a balloon or pouch of her blood. It’s all inside of me, but can it heal me from within?

She recalled the stab wound she once had through the palm of her hand. There was a scar, but it healed in a day when Cyril said it should have taken weeks.

Anemone turned the corner of the alley, now between two different homes. She caught a man’s eyes the same time he saw hers. He grinned. “I thought I heard something!”

She took a few frightful steps back. The brown bearded man held a flame so close to the hair on his chin, unafraid of catching himself on fire. An arsonist, unafraid of the fire he spread.

“Hey!” he called out behind his shoulder. Anemone only now noticed the smoke rise behind him and carry up the hill where she once was. How long had she been stunned? “I found an outsider!”

Soon he was joined by the two soldiers who followed him before. The frontman took a few savage steps forward, coming forward in an awful stride that painted a sense of barbarity. He waved his torch like he tried to push back a beast. He didn’t ignite the wooden walls of the alleyway homes, so to play a little while longer.

Anemone turned back, going to the spot where she fell, trapped. The three Dormoorian stood like a wall in her only way out. She took a breath, drawing her sword.

But as she did, the two behind the Torchman pulled theirs out as well. They had longer blades than her, and immediately, Anemone felt powerless. Terror engulfed her like how air wrapped the earth. Her heart thumped to the same beat as heavy rain. Never in her life had she been this afraid. This desperate.

I don’t want to die, Anemone came to understand. Out of all the years, hours, and minutes she was alive, it’d never been clearer to her than now, just how much she wanted to live.

***

Kinler’s horse charged, very easily controlled. Dormoor horses were unique in this way, the second-best breeds next to Donta-Montal. Cavalry throughout the years lost their strength against modern infantry, but still, Kinler enjoyed riding a steed while wielding his sword.

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Still hot to the touch, his sword started to cool only a little bit to his heat-resistant glove holding its hilt. Despite the Blue Blade’s fire, the edge remained sharp, fully resistant to its heat.

Modai galloped. If he weren’t so heavy, perhaps Kinler could drive him back to Dormoor before his horse tired. Kinler was closing in; the grass plains between them shrank by the second.

“Get him!” Modai shouted at his fellow horsemen guards. One of them slowed, then turned and aimed their sword, trying to use it like a lance.

Kinler accepted the challenge. With one hand on the saddle and his other holding his sword, he responded to the horseman’s thrust with a swing. Their blades crossed, edge to tip, but with Kinler’s swing, he glided along the edge and slashed through the horseman.

Blood boiled on the heated metal of Blue—as Kinler liked to call his Soulsmithed sword—and steam emitted a little more strongly than the air did in its passive form. Blood crested on the face of his sword like a scab covering a wound, only with a little whip of his sword, the scab shattered, flying off in a pinch of debris. Eyes forward, his ears heard the body fall behind him, followed by a horse’s neigh.

The other horseman came in after, but as Kinler swung, he steered to Kinler’s left, slowing down to be on his flank. Kinler ignored him and continued his pursuit of Modai. Now, he had one on each side. Perhaps dangerous if it weren’t for the fact that Modai was no fighter and couldn’t even work with his men in a battle.

Kinler leaned in a little further, telling his horse to speed up even more. He was pushing her limit, but she obliged dutifully.

I’ll reward you for this when we finish, Kinler thought. For now, he was hellbent on reaching Modai. The noble’s oat skin flushed red, not wanting to die.

He was getting close, and every second Kinler chased was a greater distance he parted from the city. But, he couldn’t pass up this opportunity.

The horseman behind started speeding up to match Kinler’s speed. Now that he was where he wanted him, Kinler steered left, then leaned back, slowing the horse’s speed to a near stop. As the horseman passed, he attempted to cross arms to change the direction he could swing. By the time his horse passed Kinler, his head was already off of his body to the harsh, brutal swipe of Blue.

Kinler continued forward, resuming slightly faster than normal speed. He needn’t rush any longer.

“No!” Modai shouted. “I won’t let you!”

Kinler fell closer. Forty feet.

“This isn’t fair!”

Twenty feet.

“Monster! I’ll never surrender!”

Ten feet.

“Get away from me!”

Closer.

“No,” he whispered.

Closer.

“Damn you…”

Closer and… Kinler snatched the back of his vest collar, yanking him off his horse. Kinler halted as the horse Modai rode slowed before drifting to a turn. Kinler dragged Modai for a short distance; his throat squeezed to his pulled vest. “Choose!”

Modai looked up.

“CHOOSE!” Kinler snapped.

“W-what?”

“I’m sending your head back to Aidan,” Kinler said, bringing the heated sword up to Modai’s throat. “But it’s your choice whether or not it’s delivered in a box. So choose!”

“I… surrender,” Modai said, swallowing.

Kinler hopped off his horse, taking the rope from the saddle and tying the two horses together. Kinler allowed Modai to ride back since walking would take too long and their combined weight would be too much for a single horse to handle. They moved toward the city, slowly but surely to demand Dormoor’s surrender and ensure victory for both Dork and Soucrest.

***

Anemone had her back against the dirt wall, as far back as she physically could be, entrapped. The odds were against her, and she had no way out other than to fight.

I’m going to die, Anemone thought. She had little experience blocking sword strikes. She had no chance, taking two of them on at once. They wouldn’t spare her the pain like Kinler did in training; they aimed to kill.

The Torchman laughed. “Now, we have two options with how to proceed,” he said, spinning around to look the swordsmen in the eyes, settling back forward to look at Anemone. He moved flamboyantly, using his entire body to aid his words. His torch drifted fire and smoke as it swayed from his hand. “We have a cornered rat on our hands. But this rat has a sword. Now, we’ve never killed a sword-wielding rat before, and we would be joyless creatures not to take this opportunity. But rats spread plagues, and the only way to kill their disease is by fire. Hmm… what to choose, what to choose…”

“I say the first one,” the swordsman left of the Torchman said.

“Ditto,” the other said.

“Hey!” the Torchman frowned. “Just because I set the fire doesn’t mean I don’t get to have any pleasure myself!”

“Dumbass, the fires are your pleasure,” the left said.

“Oh, well, I suppose that’s right. Regardless, I hardly get to hear them scream.”

“Ooo!” the swordsman on the right said, smiling. “How about we do both? Let’s injure her enough so that she lives, then we set the alley on fire and watch her scream.”

Anemone breathed heavily. They spoke so harshly, so amused by committing such heinous acts. Yet nothing they said seemed like a joke. They were wicked, crazed.

“I like that,” the Torchman said, scratching his beard. “That way, everybody wins.”

Anemone had to act; she just didn’t know how she could in a way that didn’t end in her death.

She had her blood, but it only came out when she cut. It was her one saving defense, but she didn’t know for sure if it would work. Nothing was certain with her power.

Kinler had said, “Don’t be afraid to use it to defend yourself, if not, as a part of your offense.” What did he mean by using it as an offense? How could she use her blood if she couldn’t even freely access it?

The two swordsmen took three steps forward, and Anemone finally found the answer. She flipped her sword around and pointed her hilt out to Torchman. The tip of her blade touching her left palm. If they approached any further, she would stab herself, drawing her blood by force.

Fear shifted to intensity, like a wave pushing the other out of her body. If they decided not to kill her, then that would be the biggest mistake of their lives. If they stabbed or cut her, her blood would blast out. And from the little she knew of her blood, it would do anything to protect her.

Even murder.

She solved it! There’s a chance. Her blood is inherently defensive in nature, but she could force it out of herself in order to protect herself. Its defense would be her offense.

“Look at her,” the Torchman said, clueless. Anemone wondered what they would do if they found out how valuable she was to Aidan. But, she’d rather die having lived an everyday life for a few days than return to being a tool again. “Poor thing thinks that her heart is in her hand. Sweety, if you want to kill yourself, it’s better to aim for the—”

A shadow hammered him to the floor. A spike impaled him through the back of his head. The torch hit the floor, extinguished. Eyes lifted from on top of the Torchman and glared at Anemone.

Corden, he came for her.

The swordsman reacted, the one on the right swung overhead, but Corden’s cane blocked it, the pullout from the Torchman’s head splattered some blood. Wood splintered, but the cane held against the blow. Corden dashed forward, missing a stab as he lunged to Anemone’s left. They were now standing together, allies. Allies?

“Do you hear your horns? Fools!” Corden asked.

Anemone turned to him, lost for words. He stood there, defending her. Growing up, he was the worst, an abuser, someone who punished her physically, mentally, and emotionally. He cursed her with his beliefs; he used every punch he had to bring them down. But now, he stood up with Anemone.

“What are you talking about, old geezer,” the swordsman on the left grimaced. The man on the right looked down at their dead friend. He looked shocked, distraught. Even awful people had friends, and that thought wasn’t pleasant to have.

Anemone concentrated, and past the chaos, she found the horns. Faint, but present. It wasn’t as hard of a tone as it’d been when they approached the city. It was like a slow, constant sound.

“Your nobleman is calling for a surrender; you’re to retreat.” Corden stood, his cane like a one-handed spear. Usually, he used it to walk around. But today, he used it to fight.

The Dormoorians looked at each other. After a moment, the one on the right took a step forward. “Retreat? Yes, we will. But not until we finish this up before we go. You bastard! You killed Flemmen!”

Corden grunted. He didn’t look so confident.

Meanwhile, Anemone continued to hold her sword to her palm. They approached together, eying Corden more than her. Through their eyes, they found it was worth more to deal with the capable veteran first over the girl who held her sword the wrong way.

But as they were nearing swinging distance, Anemone pulled her right hand inward, piercing her palm.

Liquid death spurted out in front of her, catching the two in a web of the wound’s first, excessive burst. So. Much. Blood. Her hand twitched as she pulled her sword out, gasping as she underestimated the sting of pain. The swordsmen had their faces covered in blood as thick as slime and as black as tar. It didn’t drip like water, let alone normal blood.

She clenched her hand as she thought of the order. Anemone had control over her blood. This was certain to her now. She could either spare these two or have them suffocated given a command. With a thought, she could pull them into each other, similar to how her blood pulled Aidan’s hand closer to his face. She had the power to take their breath away.

It was all up to her. Spare or kill? Did they deserve it? What would Kinler do? What would Ranun and Calace do—

Corden jumped in, thrusting in to kill one of them with a stab to the throat. Terror and screams from the other, unable to see, only able to hear his friend’s hissing throat. Corden pulled out and finished the other, taking all of the choice out of Anemone’s hands and making it himself.

“Good work,” Corden said, screwing in the foot of his cane back in. He turned, stepping over the pile of hardened blood to pass them before stopping once he reached the feet of the Torchman. He turned to Anemone with a plain, unhindered expression. “Are you coming?”

“Oh,” Anemone said. “Yeah.”

She followed Corden, walking behind him once again.

He didn’t even look at me any differently than before, Anemone thought. My blood isn’t normal, yet he still looked at me as if I were the same beast. Like nothing has changed.

Corden was a beast tamer. And beasts… they were capable of any atrocity imaginable—even black blood.

Anemone had a downright dreadful walk back, reconsidering just how human she truly was.