“I don’t know who he is,” Soma said bluntly, eyes dark as spilled ink. “But I’m sure he’s one of my parents’ killers. At least, he looks like him. That’s better—means I don’t have to spend years hunting. He came to me instead.” Her voice trembled for a heartbeat, and Assashin instinctively moved back, unsettled by the shadow that flashed across her face.

  Then, just as quickly, Soma’s old brightness returned. She stepped forward and laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “So I’m counting on you, Assashin. You’re my partner now. You’ll stand with me against this unknown enemy… right?”

  Assashin swallowed. “Y-yes. Of course, sis. I’m sorry. Don’t worry. I’ll be your reliable partner on the battlefield. I’ll train—hone my blade—and I’ll protect you.”

  Soma ruffled his hair and smiled that small, dangerous smile he was already beginning to recognize. “Good. I don’t mind having a little brother besides Theo. You’re family—call me whatever you want. I’ll help you train too.”

  From that day, Soma and Assashin took a break from raiding and selling occupied lands. They focused on rebuilding their bodies and sharpening their skills. Soma had been immobile for a week after the last fight despite insisting the wounds were “minor.” Her body needed rebuilding; so did Assashin’s resolve and technique.

  Soma taught him everything she knew—acrobatics, timing, how to fall without breaking, how to make a dagger sing. She drilled him in the moves that let her slip through a guard line and appear behind an enemy without a sound. She showed him how to use momentum as a weapon and how to read a breathing pattern to predict a strike.

  At first, he lagged behind. Soma’s talent was raw and effortless—an instinct born of hard years and harder nights. Yet Assashin worked; he pushed his body, practiced the footwork until it stopped aching. Slowly, the gap narrowed. The boy who had once hesitated to step forward began to move with purpose.

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  One morning, after weeks of training, Soma approached him with a half-smile and a plan.

  “Assashin,” she said, “how about a small test? Nothing fancy—just a real fight in a shop. We’ll use real weapons so it feels like an actual mission. What do you use, by the way? I fight with two big daggers, you know that.”

  Assashin didn’t hesitate. “I prefer a long sword with a sharp blade. It’s what I’m used to.”

  Soma’s smile wavered. The choice made her think of Maricela—the girl who favored a similar blade—and the memory tugged at something raw inside her. Theo, watching, noticed the shadow cross her face and hurried to break the tension.

  “I want to fight with daggers like my sister when I grow up,” he announced, eyes bright. “I think her style is the best.”

  Soma’s expression softened at the boy’s earnestness. She stepped toward Theo, scooped him into a fierce hug and whispered, “I’ll teach you every move myself.”

  Assashin watched them—the small family he’d stepped into—and felt something tighten and warm in his chest. He wasn’t just learning to be a fighter; he was learning to belong.

  They prepared for the test. The market would be their arena: narrow aisles, low roofs, civilians’ stalls that would force them to fight tight, close, and precise. Soma’s acrobatics against Assashin’s reach—daggers dancing against a blade’s arc. It would be messy, real, and the kind of crucible that either made warriors—or broke them.

  Assashin wrapped his hands and checked the edge of his sword. Soma strapped her twin daggers to her thighs, her face returning to the focused calm of a hunter. Theo watched from a doorway, clutching a scrap of cloth and trembling with excitement.

  When they stepped into the stall-lined lane, the city felt smaller, somehow—sudden, like a throat tightened around a secret. The contest would tell them much: how far Assashin had come, how much Soma had given, and whether this strange little family could survive the war they were choosing.

  And under it all, a darker thought lingered—who had sent that man, and how many more traps were waiting in the shadowed alleys ahead?