She gave a soft laugh—barely more than a breath. "Fair enough, Cal Weaver."
He looked at her closely. "So, which is it? Cloud or Wind?"
"Both. Neither. Depends how you see me," she said, turning back to the window. The green lantern light reflected off her sword, throwing soft ripples of light across the room. "Names are just masks. You figure that out, eventually."
Cal leaned back against the wall, tired from just sitting up. "Cryptic. Great. So, Cloud-Wind-whatever—you're not with the city watch, are you?"
She didn't turn. "No."
"Then… what? You just happened to walk by while I was bleeding out in some alley?"
She turned her head slightly, just enough to show a small smirk. "Believe it or not, I really was just passing by."
Cal frowned. "Seriously?"
"You stumbled out of the alley, covered in blood, and dropped right in front of me," she said calmly, brushing some hair from her face. "Hard to ignore something like that. Even for me."
"So… what, you felt bad for me?"
She raised an eyebrow. "Not exactly."
"Then why save me?"
She narrowed her eyes a little, her voice cooler now. "Honestly? I don't know."
Cal blinked. "That doesn't make me feel any better."
She stood still for a moment, thinking. Then she said, "You didn't die. That felt like enough reason at the time."
He let out a slow breath and glanced around the small room. "Alright, fine. But where is this place?"
"You're in Ahen," she said. "A small town near the southern edge."
Cal frowned. "Southern edge of… what?"
She paused and tilted her head. "You really don't know?"
"No. I don't know anything." His voice rose a bit, frustration showing. "I woke up in an alley, bloody and confused. I don't know the town, the year, the continent—nothing. I don't even know how I got here."
She stared at him, the teasing gone now. "You're serious."
"Completely."
There was a long silence. Then she spoke.
"You're in the Kingdom of Pristan. Ahen's just one of the smaller border towns. Been here a long time, but no one remembers why it was built. It's small. Quiet. Out of the way. There are thirty-two towns like it across the kingdom. This one isn't even one of the twelve main cities. No big roads, no nobles, no guards. Just farms, fog, and old stories."
Cal leaned his head back against the wall. "So… I'm in the middle of nowhere."
"Pretty much," she said. "That's why I'm here. Quiet towns don't ask too many questions."
He looked over at her, unsure if he should be suspicious or grateful. "And you just happened to be walking through this quiet town when I dropped in?"
"I wasn't walking," she said, sitting on a worn bench nearby. "I live outside of town. Came into Ahen to get a few things. Then you dropped in front of me like a bag of dying meat. I could've left you… but I didn't."
Cal stared at the lantern light, letting it all sink in.
"…Thanks," he muttered.
Neither of them spoke after that. The room fell into quiet again.
Two weeks later.
Cal sat on the steps outside the old shack, blanket draped over his shoulders, watching the mist swirl around his bare feet. He was stronger now—he could stand, walk short distances, even lift a wooden bucket without collapsing.
Inside, the woman—Cloud, Wind, or whatever she wanted to be—was sharpening her sword again. The sound of the whetstone scraping rang in a steady rhythm.
He still didn't know her real name.
She hadn't asked many questions since that night. And he hadn't offered much.
Cal rubbed the side of his neck, where the last of his wounds had faded into a scar. Then he looked toward the woods beyond the fog.
He thought about her again.
She said her name didn't matter. That names were just masks. Maybe that was true.
But Cal was starting to see past hers.
She acted cold. Kept her distance. Spoke in short lines like she didn't care.
But the truth was different—he could tell.
No one carries a bleeding stranger home, cleans them up, feeds them, and watches over them through fevered nights just because they "felt like it."
No. She cared. She just didn't want him to know.
She moved like she was ready to leave at any moment, like this place, this room, even Cal, were temporary.
And still—every day she came back.
Fresh herbs. Boiled water. A quiet plate of stew left by his side.
She never said why. Never acted like it meant anything.
But actions speak louder than cold words.
Cal whispered under his breath,
"She acts cold but is soft inside. Like her face is always hidden behind that greenish-blue veil... like she's protecting something."
He glanced toward the window, where shadows of trees danced in the fading light.
"Maybe one day, she'll show me who she really is."
The steady scrape of the whetstone slowed, then stopped.
Cal glanced inside and saw her standing in the center of the room, sword in hand. The greenish-blue veil still covered her face, but now her posture was different—loose, controlled, confident.
She began to swing the blade with smooth, practiced arcs, each movement fluid and precise, as if the sword was an extension of her body.
The blade cut through the air with a soft whistle, slicing invisible enemies with deadly grace.
Cal watched, mesmerized. The way she moved was unlike anything he'd ever seen.
After a few moments, she paused, lowering the sword slowly and turning toward him.
"Ever held a sword before?" she asked.
Cal rubbed the back of his neck, trying to hide his hesitation.
"Uh… not really. I mean, I've dreamed about it. Always thought it'd be cool to actually learn." He forced a smile. "So… what do you say? Will you teach me?"
She raised an eyebrow, silent for a moment.
Cal's smile turned sheepish. "Please. Please."
There was a brief silence, then she gave a small nod.
"Alright. But don't expect me to go easy on you."
Cal's heart jumped. "I wouldn't want it any other way."
One Month Later
The morning air was cold and fresh, smelling of pine trees and wet dirt. Cal stood in a clearing near the old shack, his breath showing in the chilly light.
He held a wooden practice sword. It felt familiar in his hands now, though his palms still had fresh blisters.