Thirteen

I learned to fight in secret, under moonlit courtyards, with a stolen sword and aching hands. My father never saw me as a warrior—now he fears my name. Among assassins, I rose to the 38th rank with elegance and edge. I move like falling petals and strike like winter frost. Some call me cold. A few, unfeeling. But even an assassin’s heart has its seasons. And Seven… well, he’s a nuisance who won’t stop blooming in my path.