Crisp cold air blew around her, tugging at the curls escaping her ponytail. Asha let out a small huff, continuing her walk with a sack slung over her shoulder.
"He better pay me well for wasting my time," she muttered under her breath. "Or his blood'll cover the rest."
The path led her to a crumbling ruin—ancient pillars cracked and scattered, half-swallowed by overgrown shrubs. In the center stood a makeshift market, the kind only the bold or desperate visited.
She strode through it without sparing anyone a glance, heading straight for a stall cluttered with monster parts—horns, claws, blood-dried hides.
A short man emerged from behind it, messy blond hair and green eyes far too cheerful for a place like this.
"Asha! My favorite curly-haired friend."
"I'm not your friend, Handson. Pay me."
She dropped the sack onto the table with a thud, making the old wood creak under the weight.
"Right, right. Payment… About that—business has been a little slow, so maybe—"
"Don't waste my time," she snapped. "I don't work for free. So either pay… or be useful some other way."
Handson visibly gulped.
"Of course... Uh I know a guy who runs a small in, I can cash in a favor and—"
Asha grabs the front of his shirt, digging her fingers into the worn fabric.
"That's not going to cut it"
A dull light flickered from her palm. Slowly, a dagger began to materialize—elegant and jagged, forged from her summoned energy. She pressed it to his throat, the edge biting into skin. A thin line of dark red trickled down his neck.
"If you can't pay me then your useless"
"W-Wait! There's no need for violence!" Handson stammered, Sweating now. "Asha—We're friends, Remember?"
The blade didn't move. Neither did she.
Then—a horn blared in the distance.
"The Dark Captain is here!"
Panic swept the market like wildfire. Merchants shoved relics and monster parts into sacks with frantic hands. Those who valued their lives more than gold turned and bolted, pushing past each other without hesitation.
Asha let go of Handson, the dagger vanishing into smoke as quickly as it came.
She turned toward the commotion, her silver eyes gleaming under the cold, pale light of the dark moon.
"If you live, Handson," she said flatly, "I expect payment."
"Wait—aren't you going to protect us?!"
Handson's voice cracked as he clutched the front of his shirt, hastily smoothing it down. The usual cheer in his face had drained away, leaving only fear and confusion.
Asha didn't answer right away. She glanced at him—those tired gray eyes didn't blink, didn't soften. It felt like she was staring through him. Or maybe calculating how much he was worth in gold or favors. No one ever really knew. She never wore her emotions where anyone could see.
"I don't waste my time on that," she said flatly.
Handson took a step back.
"Count yourself lucky," she added, taking a step forward. "I came here to kill the Captain."
Then—quick as breath—Asha's hand shot out and gripped his throat. Not tight enough to choke him. Just enough to remind him what she could do.
Her voice dropped to a near-whisper. "Don't mistake this for mercy. You're only alive because you still have some use to me."
A big shadow passed overhead.
THe very few remaining market-goers and sellers scattered, diving under stalls, fleeing to bushes, or ending it there, rather choose their own death then lose it to the captain. The wind changed—Heavier now, colder and a hint of tension. Asha let go of Handson and turned toward the ruin's edge.
A tall figure emerged from the tree line, framed by the dark moonlight. His armor was blackened steel, cracked and reeked with old blood. A jagged cloak trailed behind him like smoke,and the horns of a beast skull crowned his helm. His face—if he had one—was hidden, for now.
The Dark Captain
He moved with purpose, his steps echoing over the stone and dirt. Silent. Measured. Calculated. Wrong. Wrong in the way that monsters who wear human skin always were.
Asha exhaled once through her nose. Calm. Calculated. Nervous? She rolled her shoulders, the weight of exhaustion never leaving them.
Her hand hovered near her belt, her fingers brushing over the hilt of a shirt blade. The dagger she nearly killed Handson with was gone— but she had others
"Is that… the real Captain?…" Handson, whispered too loud.
Asha didn't answer. She never does. She stepped forward, placing herself between the market and the dark figure.
The captain stopped several paces away. Slowly, deliberately, He lifted his head—metal creaking and black liquid dripping from under his mask— then looked directly at her.
Something ancient pulsed between them. A familiar wrongness. She'd fought dozens of monsters, but this one…this one had been waiting for her. Longer than she has been waiting for it.
She drew her blade, it sang faintly in the cold air, divine energy pulsing through it.
Asha's tired voice cut through the tense silence.
"I don't care what title you borrowed. If you bleed you die."
The captain didn't speak. But his sword— broad, chipped, cursed, just like her—came free from his back with a heavy clang.
And she didn't flinch. She never does.