Chapter 15
Chapter fifteen
Aimee landed hard on the rocky outcrop skirting the crevasse.
Below, the village stretched like a fractured hive, layered with wooden bridges, ladders, and sandstone dwellings carved directly into the cliff walls.
The ledge flaked under her heel, dust spiraling down as she took in the chaos sprawling beneath her.
“Shit.”
Black-clad shinobi swarmed the village like locusts, spilling across every level.
One tore a shutter loose with a gust of wind; another drove a hooked blade into a doorframe, breaking it wide, and stormed inside.
Empty. He reappeared seconds later, snarling, then punched the wall hard enough to fracture the seams.
“Find them!” one of the intruders barked from the third level—the very space where she and Kazuma lived. His voice echoed off the rocks, amplified by the natural acoustics around them.
Aimee stared, thinking, even as a change in the air drew her attention. She didn’t need to look to know Kazuma had appeared at her side.
He said nothing at first, just studied the scene, his serpent-like eyes focused. “They haven’t found the storerooms yet.”
That was where the villagers had hidden when the alarm was raised. Hidden—but not safe. Not for long.
“We’re in time.” She nodded once.
From the lowest levels came a blast of fire, lighting the stone walls in flickering red. A roar followed, deep and defiant. “You shall not pass!”
She bit at her lip. That was Boku—retired Watch, with a shattered leg that never fully healed. But stubborn as hell. He would die before he let anyone reach the children.
Aimee stepped back and drew the twin golden blades from across her back. For the first time since arriving at the Hearth, her hands closed around the hilts. The metal was cool and familiar, pulsing against her palms like a heartbeat.
Kazuma glanced sideways. She saw the change in his eyes—worry. He tried to mask it, but she knew him too well.
“I’ll draw their attention from the top,” she said.
He dipped his chin. “And I’ll slip down to the storerooms.”
They would divide the enemy, striking high and low. But it was still just the two of them against a tide of black.
Aimee watched him crouch, muscles coiled as every inch of him prepared for the coming fight.
Without thinking, her arm reached, and her blade kissed his throat.
He froze as a single bead of blood rose where steel met skin.
“The world isn’t burning yet, snake.” Her voice was low. A warning. A plea. Don’t die.
His body eased, then he rolled his eyes—just enough to make her want to punch him—and vanished into thin air.
She exhaled.
“All right then.”
Aimee pivoted, sprinting for the nearest bridge. She would draw them away to give Kazuma time. And if she was lucky, maybe—just maybe—carve a bloody enough path to turn the tide.
She hit the first one at a dead sprint—steel clashing against steel as her right blade caught his short sword and slid along its edge.
Her left hand found his neck. The impact jarred her elbow, but the head jerked back with a wet crunch.
No time to watch him fall. She pivoted into the next, slashing across the knees, then spinning low as a swung staff caught her in the ribs.
She grunted through it, dropped low, and swept the attacker’s legs clean from under him, driving a blade into his gut before he hit the ground.
Another came from the left—barely a warning before a gust of wind knocked the air from her lungs.
She staggered, and steel rang as her swords met his, teeth grinding with the effort to hold.
He overextended. And she ducked, spun, then came up inside his reach, and opened him from pelvis to collarbone.
Heat splattered across her cheek, and her tongue darted out. Metallic tang flooded her mouth as her vision swam, and for a split second, the world tilted, smeared in red and shadow.
Her eyes squeezed shut. And focus snapped back into place.
The next attacker lunged, reckless, swinging high. She stepped inside the arc, blades crossing, and drove both forward.
Then—movement just ahead as her forward momentum carried her into the group behind him. Six more, maybe seven.
She didn’t count. The swords moved faster now—no flourishes, just brutal arcs.
One of the attackers blocked high, and she punished him with a stomp to his ankle, then sank a blade into the exposed throat.
Another caught her in the ribs—too shallow to slow her, but deep enough to sting.
Blood ran hot beneath her leather vest, and she snarled as her foot drove into his sternum, knocking him backward over the ledge.
Pain honed her focus, but it also fed something else.
The next shinobi got too close, and wind sliced her thigh, opening a thick line of blood. She roared and threw her weight into him, bringing her knee up hard enough to lift him off the ground. She didn’t wait for him to fall—just stabbed him midair, then let him drop.
Men screamed and writhed around her as crimson seeped through her clothing.
Her vision drained into red and black, blood coating her tongue in copper and salt, thick as syrup. One screamed behind her. Another rushed her.
And she grinned, feeling his arm break as he tried to parry her sword. He stumbled, and she stepped into him, dropping the blade to sink her claws—long now—deep into his chest. His scream gurgled against her palm as she held him there, close, their exhales mingling in short, ragged bursts.
A cry above.
She looked up too late, and pain exploded through her shoulder. A spear sank deep, angling down toward her ribs. Snarling, she yanked sideways, tearing it free in a burst of blood as her knees hit the ground.
The blood. The heat.
The world dimmed to sound and movement and breath.
On your left! Kazuma’s voice whipped through her skull.
She turned, just as a whip of black ichor shot toward her throat.
Her arm came up, blocking the attack, shock running all the way to her shoulder, already slick with blood. Then Aimee drove forward, fangs bared, claws sinking home.
Wind screamed past her as another shinobi lunged—only to be yanked sideways mid-strike, limbs flailing as a sudden vortex tore through the walkway. His body crashed into the canyon wall with a dull crunch and dropped.
Aimee blinked through the blood running into her eyes, mouth falling open as she watched.
Kazuma was cutting through them.
He didn’t shout. Didn’t snarl. Just moved—deliberate, merciless.
His katana carved a clean line through the next shinobi’s stomach as a funnel of compressed wind spun another into the air, shredding him mid-scream.
Stone cracked beneath his feet with every step.
Black hair whipped loose from his high tail, flaring behind him like a banner.
Wind coiled around the blade, dense and biting, and with a flick of his wrists, it tore clean through a trio of attackers on the ledge.
He was close now.
Aimee stayed where she was, one knee in the dirt, blood dripping down her side.
All the stars. She finally exhaled.
He didn’t look human.
She felt the heat between her legs before she could stop it—the throb of it deep and dark and so fucking right. Her heart slammed against her ribs, and she bit down, fresh copper blooming in her mouth.
Kazuma’s eyes met hers as he stepped over the dead, katana dragging a thin line of blood through the dirt as he came for her.
The wind settled, and Aimee looked past him.
Bodies. Well over twenty. Some slumped against stone walls, others crumpled in pieces on the walkway. Blood pooled and streaked across the sandstone, thick as ink. One man’s chest had caved inward like his ribs had been folded in half. Another’s arm twitched, severed clean at the shoulder.
She knew Kazuma was skilled. But this…this was slaughter.
He reached her without a word and extended a hand.
His entire arm, from shoulder to fingertips, was soaked in blood, dripping from the edge of his sleeve.
She reached up and gripped his forearm, fingers digging into muscle, sliding a little before locking in place.
“Are these like…discount shinobi or something?” she grunted as he hauled her upright.
Kazuma wiped the blood from his palm onto the sleeve of her tunic without asking.
“Seriously?” she muttered.
Two enemy shinobi rounded the corner at a sprint, but Kazuma didn’t even look. He lifted one hand and snapped his fingers. A slicing gust drove into them, sharp as a blade—cutting both across the torso in the same movement. Their upper halves hit the ground a moment before their legs did.
“They’re better than Tanshi,” he said, eyes scanning the bodies. “But there are no Ryōsh among them.”
Aimee frowned, blood still trickling from the gash on her shoulder. “What does that—?”
“They’re good.” Kazuma sighed. “But not experts.”
“Of course.” She licked her lips. “And you’re using Mana.”
His eyes scanned the space behind her, shoulders half-turned as if already preparing for the next strike.
“We’ll be lucky.” A flicker ran down his jaw. “If we have the opportunity to deal with those particular consequences.”
For just a moment, he sagged—knees easing, shoulders curving in—then straightened again. With a jerk, he flicked the blood from his katana, spraying the stone in quick, wet arcs before he sheathed it in one fluid motion.
“I’m nearly depleted,” he said without looking at her. “And there remain many more.”
Aimee’s gaze drifted to the hatch across the walkway—the one leading down to the storerooms, where the others were hidden.
Then she turned back to him.
Her hand rose to his face, claws grazing along the stubble of his cheek as she forced his eyes to meet hers.
She knew what he would see—eyes gone black, fangs long behind parted lips. He’d been nearly unconscious the last time he’d seen her like this. She’d never been sure if he’d actually seen her. But he did now. And he didn’t flinch. Just stared.
“You are beautiful.” His throat worked as he swallowed. “Aimee…”
“When we get through this,” she interrupted, wrenching him closer. “I want to see what you can do with this Mana.” She leaned in and licked the blood from his cheek. “Just the two of us.” A kiss, light but firm, closed the space between them. “You’ve been caged too long.”
His eyes fluttered shut, and his body shivered once, barely controlled, as a hiss of air warned her.
She spun, blade intercepting a strike meant for Kazuma’s back as he moved with her, katana unsheathed and cutting down across another shinobi’s chest. They moved in unison, backs touching, each breath matched to the other’s rhythm.
More of the enemy descended from above, ropes whipping, black uniforms blotting out what little light clung to the canyon walls.
Steel sung. Wind cut flesh. And darkness rippled across the walkways. The clang of weapons and the screams of the dying blended with the heady stink of blood with every inhale. Her arms burned. His shoulders heaved. Yet, still, they fought, one step at a time, their footing slick with gore.
And they did not falter.
Still, the enemy came.
Then, somewhere above, power stirred—Mira’s, distant and furious—but it was not here yet. Not for them. They fought until time lost all meaning, until the canyon itself seemed to tremble beneath the violence of the assault.
All they could do was last.