“Breathe, little tiger. In, two, three, four; hold, six, seven, eight; out, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one. That’s it. Never draw your blade until you have reached repose, lest violence be unnecessary.”

There was a sound. An arrhythmic, belabored, rasping wheeze that began with whispered breathlessness, reminiscent somehow of the silent suffocation of a dove. There was struggle, indeed—yet these attempts were futile, fragile. A porcelain child’s persistent attempts to escape his father’s iron wrath. It was inaudible to all but the keenest senses governed by the most acutely observant mind.

Then the sound grew. It blossomed into a thin gasp brought up from the chest. Here, it was easy to imagine that the bird’s head would rise again, and its eyes—with fire-bright irises and blown pupils that dilated rapidly—would open again. Its wings would flutter, and its feet, which lacked the talons of its predatory brethren, would kick against the air in a last bid for life. One would feel the attempted expansion of its chest underneath their hands. In Kratzer’s mind’s eye, this was the last of the bird, and this tale would end in forgotten tragedy. With a vermin’s body forsaken by a roadside for the crows to consume. A pitiful, unholy death.

But this sound did not result in silence. No. The crescendo continued. It built upon itself and tore its way from diaphragm to chest to throat with vicious claws where it was birthed in a horrible, burning cough that sounded off in uneven percussive beats. 

It rang like a knell in the night underneath a storming symphony of wind and winter raindrops. A shod horse’s hoof clattered on slick stones, splashing water onto the wall outside; a woman’s whispered confession, too distant to be decipherable, was faintly audible through a crack in a poorly-seated window; an animal rustled in an alleyway dumpster with its minuscule heart resounding with allegro beats so rapid they began to join into one, oscillating sound. These melodies rushed in all at once when a coughing man opened the tavern’s door and were swiftly silenced when he hastily closed it shut behind him. Kratzer—seated in his usual place by the bar, nursing his liquor, blond hair pulled back in a messy braid—watched the entrant with idle curiosity.

This newcomer looked out-of-place, though not at first glance, like a fir amongst pines. He dressed in the clothes of any Nercean man, but had chosen no one style to garb himself by: there was a professional’s long, high-collared trench coat; a veteran’s muddied military boots; a working man’s off-white button down; a geriatric’s carved cane. The austere, traditional quality of his carriage—typically associated with close-cropped hair and a neatly-trimmed beard—was contradicted by a clean shave and long locks. The straight black strands were tied into a neat topknot at his crown. He walked with a control, a grace, indicative of athleticism, yet his eyes and cheeks were sunken and his skin was sallow. It was easy to imagine that, once, his broad-shouldered, barrel-chested, stocky build may have housed an impressive wall of muscle. If that had ever been the case then it was no longer—the coughs which wracked his body had him doubled over and trembling as a grass blade under heavy wind while water pooled at his feet.

He braced his hand against the wall. He hacked. Heaved. Moments passed and, finally, the fit ceased and he remained hunched over his cane, shuddering. If there was anyone in the tavern aside the barkeep, a few card-playing retirees, and Kratzer himself, he might’ve drawn considerable attention. As it was, none but the blond by the bar paid him any mind. 

He shambled over to a table in a corner to sit. Leaned his cane against the wall. He could feel the blond’s eyes upon him, yet he prevented himself from scanning the room, not wanting to let his nerves get the best of him—and he produced, from his jacket, a sword. It was a long, slightly curved blade, with a wrapped leather grip and pale, silvery handguard worn smooth from centuries of use. The sheath was carved from a single piece of lacquered ebony inlaid with ivory and abalone and pearl that wove in intricate, abstract designs, off of which the light reflected in prismatic fractals that made it seem as if alive. A single opalescent, white feather was embedded in string within the sageo. He held it in his left hand and placed it on the right side of the table, then doffed his dripping jacket.

The bar smelled of citrus and cigarettes. He itched for a smoke, but when outside’s wet chill produced such violent, painful fits of tussis, he knew better than to try lest it kill him. It would not be so terrible a fate—but he could not allow it until his mortal duty was done. That blond’s eyes were on the blade, now, and she—the sword—stirred from her sheathed, silent slumber in what her bearer knew only as recognition. It was an abstract sense that brought to mind the last embers of a hearth-fire; the sweet scent of edelweiss; the comfort of no longer being alone. Now he did look up to see their observer.

The blond dressed in the manner of most laborers here in Nercea. Faded and stained blue jeans, a button-down beneath a waxed canvas jacket, leather moc-toe boots. He, too, wore his hair long, though much of it was frizzled and had fallen out of his lopsided braid. He was pale-skinned and icy-eyed and his face was bisected diagonally by an ugly, jagged, pink scar running from his left temple to the right corner of his lips. His build was lithe. Leonine. Like a dancer.

Brief eye contact was, it seemed, all the invitation this scarred man needed. He took his drink and came across the room to stand by the swordsman’s table. He set the glass down, then pressed his hands flat against his thighs and he dipped his head in a shallow bow. In Nercea, men shook hands. It was in the blade’s distant homeland that men gave such a gesture in greeting—an isle lost to the mists and the aeons of solitude. Never once, in thirty-four years of life, had the swordsman seen such a bow performed by anyone but himself or his master.

“Lisrona Kratzer,” the blond introduced himself. His accent was perfectly Nercean, but that surname—Lisrona—belonged to the peoples of the far north whose lands had been forcibly annexed half a century ago by the Nercean military. They called it an expansion of culture and education, a gift of enlightenment, an eradication of dangerous pagan faiths. The endemic population called it genocide.

“Karapani Kotora,” the swordsman answered after a beat, and he dipped his head in return. His ink-brown eyes were wary and his voice was warbled and thin. “Forgive my manners, that I do not rise. This old soldier’s bones are weak with unrest.” This was rather how he’d address someone from the isle, though he spoke impeccably in the common Nercean tongue, and he indicated the chair across from him. “Please, sit, and prithee, speak on how a man with a name of the north is so well-acquainted with my people of the distant west.”

“Kotora,” Kratzer repeated. “‘Little tiger,’ isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“And this—” he indicated the katana, “this was your master’s nitati?”

A pause. Then, Kotora nodded. “Yes.”

“Then I knew your master well, once, long ago. But I suppose he never mentioned me.” He smiled a somber, sad little smile. “When I heard of the passing of a Kutatu-ai in the southern front, I didn’t know whether it was student or master. I’m sorry.”

“Such is war. He survived more than he suffered; that is all a soldier can ask for.” Stoicism was a trademark of the warriors of the west, the so-called First People, and Kotora was no different than his brethren, for his face betrayed no more than the haggard exhaustion subtly evident in dark eye-bags and a quiet voice. But carried on his breath was the saccharine odor of sickness, of necrosis, of old, clotting blood. His heartbeat—audible to Kratzer’s ears—pounded in swift, staccatto eighth notes. His hands shook until he knit them together and rested them in his lap to hide the tremble. “How did you know him, then, if I may?”

“Why don’t you ask her?” Kratzer jerked his chin towards the sword while he sat.

“She’s resting.”

Kratzer chuckled, leaning back until the front legs of his chair lifted off the ground. “Alright, alright. I was a monster hunter, back in the day, yeah? We met hunting vampires in the south. He wasn’t in the habit of making friends or taking partners but we decided we could both use the extra hand with that particular nest, and then afterwards we kept saying we’d go our own way tomorrow. ‘Tomorrow’ became ‘in a fortnight’ became months, years. Decades.”

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The sting of his master’s secrecy had been dulled by the years of it, but an ache throbbed in Kotora’s chest nonetheless. “I see. So, what happened?” Any previous air of precious formality had been forsaken in favor of candor. He restrained a light cough.

“War. I was on the wrong side of it, I’m afraid, and he was on the right one.” He leaned forward, slamming the chair back into the floor. “Can I get you a drink?”

Kotora’s eyes moved about the room. He drank in the gamblers, the idle bartender, the flicker of oil-lamps that bowed in cold drafts. He had nowhere else to be. Nowhere else to go. No other company to keep. He couldn’t retrieve his horse from the stable until daytime, since the cold agitated his lungs in such a manner, nor was he able to go back to the home from which he’d just fled. He’d little money on his person and no access to his bank funds. “I would be much obliged,” he finally answered. “A black coffee is all.”

“Not planning on sleeping?” Kratzer’s brow quirked and he let out a chuckle, but he rose and went to the bar before giving Kotora an opportunity to answer. He returned with the beverage some minutes later and he set it down between them before plopping back into his seat. “My turn for a question, though. What’s a servant of the Yellow Dragon like yourself doing at a slum-side bar, with boarded-up windows and painted whores on the street corners, coughing your lungs out like a miner to boot? This can’t have been your plan for the night.”

Kotora regarded Kratzer in silence for some seconds. Then, “I leave tomorrow for the isle, but my plans for tonight fell through. This seemed good a place as any to get out of the rain.”

“You’re a long way from home.”

“The isle isn’t my home.”

“Where is?”

Once more, Kotora paused, staring back at Kratzer. There was an intense fervor to his eyes, to the set of his shoulders, to the squint with which he studied the scarred northerner. “I’ve spent more time in Nercea than anywhere else,” he finally conceded. “Where’s yours?”

“The road, now. Anywhere I used to put up my feet is long gone. So your master didn’t find you on the Isle of Mist?”

“No. Like his father before him, I was not born in the isle.”

“You must’ve made an impression, then.”

“Something we have in common. My master was selective about his company.” Kotora’s tone was steely.

It was Kratzer’s turn to go quiet. One eyebrow slowly rose. Then, abruptly, he burst out laughing. It was a hearty, mirthful, warm sound, not at all what one would expect after looking at his battered face or tattered clothes. “I see why he liked you,” he said, syllables undulating with his fading laugh. “You don’t have any more patience for my antics than he did. I get it. You don’t know anything about me, except that sword of yours knows me, and here I show up an hour past midnight asking about your fallen master. I know, I know. But I don’t mean any harm. I just…well. I hadn’t spoken to him in a long time. I’d always hoped that somehow we’d fix things, that I’d get to see him smile at least once more before I died. Knowing about whoever you are—I don’t know. It’s as close as I’ll get, I guess. Do you mind humoring me?”

“I’m not good conversation.”

“Neither was he.”

Kotora’s lips twitched in a semblance of a smile, and he let out a breathy chuff of amusement. “No, I suppose not.” He took a few seconds to breathe—it was an awful sound to listen to, the rattle of obstructed lungs and a constricted oesophagus, and though he made no sound of discomfort his jaw clenched in pain. “Very well. But I have a question for you, first, Kratzer.” Another pause, another labored inhale, exhale. “What was his name?”

“Which one?”

“His imodaki.” The Karapani people—the clan which inhabited the Isle of Mist, and to which the Kutatu-ai belonged—were born nameless, called only by their family name or a descriptor of some kind. At two years old, they were given the gift of self. From their father, they received their inakwi, the name by which the world knew them. From their mother, they received their imodaki, the name by which they knew themselves. This second name was used liberally amongst their own clan, and which name was used was dictated by a variety of social rules based on hierarchy and formality and any number of complex variables, but in the outside world it was kept secret and close to the heart. Only the most trusted of confidantes would be trusted with such knowledge.

“Cuán Fearghal Karapani. His wife was—or perhaps is—called Tori, grand-daughter of Kaita Hayuta, who was once his master. And Yoriake is her name,” Kratzer indicated the sword. “Does that satisfy?”

“He’s married?” The incredulous inquiry spilled from Kotora’s lips before he thought properly to stop himself.

“He was when I last knew him. So unless divorce is something the Karapani changed their minds about…yes. Yes. They married when she was a teenager. It was a marriage of functionality—the love they had was intimate, certainly, but platonic in nature. She ought to be alive, still. Perhaps if you make it to the isle you can finally meet her.”

“When,” Kotora corrected.

“Right, yes. When.” He regarded the younger man skeptically. “You’re making the journey alone?”

“I am.”

“And you’ve done it before?”

“No.”

“You know how long it will take, don’t you? A year, at least. Forgive my bluntness, Kotora, but you don’t seem like you have that much life left in you.”

“It is my duty. If you understood Cuán, you understand this.”

“Well, you’re not off to a great start, are you?” Kratzer pointed out. Kotora’s countenance hardened but before he had a chance to answer, Kratzer had raised his hands in mock surrender and continued. “Look, look, I’m not trying to stop you, yeah? I get it, I get it, you’ll complete your service or you’ll die trying, I know how you people are. I traveled with Cuán for decades, remember? Forgive me, I know this is a breach to you, but it seems like you’re in a fix, that’s all. You’re clearly unwell. You’re carrying nothing, not even an empty pack, yet allege that you’re about to embark on a year-long journey across the continent. You’ve your katana without your wakizashi. I’m not asking what happened and you don’t have to tell me, but surely you can’t think me so foolish as to believe the situation you find yourself in was deliberate.”

The liquid in Kotora’s mug rippled from how he shook and he brought up his right hand to add support while he drank. Its dry bitterness was a distant comfort. It recalled to his mind moments of peace around a campfire, shoulder-to-shoulder with uniformed comrades sharing stories of home. “My roommate and I had some disagreements. My things are with my horse, but I cannot walk there in the cold, so I am waiting until morning.”

“And if the weather is still foul?”

“Then it will be more sufferable than it is at this hour, regardless.”

“Do you have somewhere to rest?”

Kotora didn’t reply. The answer seemed self-evident.

“I have a room upstairs, if you want to use it for the night,” Kratzer offered. “It’s the least I can do after everything your master did for me. If you have doubts, ask Yoriake.”

“Yoriake doesn’t know your name as ‘Kratzer.’”

“Nor yours as ‘Kotora.’”

“Which is a common function of my society. Not, notably, of yours—of Nercea’s nor the far north’s.” Names held a power in the west that they lacked in the north. Yoriake could and certainly would remember Kratzer based off of her perceptions and recognition alone but the only way to truly grasp her knowledge of him was to give her his true name, his imodaki. Another pregnant pause sat between the men. It came as a surprise when Kratzer broke it.

“Engel. Engel is my name,” he finally confessed. “A name I do not give lightly, mind, but if Cuán was willing to dedicate what was left of his life to training you, then I will trust him. He was always the superior judge of character.” He stood. “Room 12. I’ll be there if you decide to drop by. You’re welcome for however long you need it. Like I said, I owe at least that to Cuán.”

He tipped his head back to finish what was left of his drink, then turned on one heel and languidly sauntered back to the barkeep to pass over his empty glass. With that, he disappeared up the stairs, leaving Kotora to cradle his coffee to his chest.

“You never cease to surprise me,” he murmured softly to the sword. “He is not what I would have imagined as your old partner.”

The spirit of the blade whispered back with lavender and edelweiss.