From the shadows of the ancient pines, a figure emerged—a woman, clad in tattered black robes, her breath shallow, her stance wary. Moonlight painted her features in silver and shadow: sharp eyes like tempered steel, lips pressed into a line of quiet defiance.
A blade glinted in her grasp, its edge kissed by blood not yet dried.
Heu Ma's gaze swept over her—a fleeting assessment, yet one weighted with precision. Her robes, though torn, bore remnants of fine embroidery. Her stance, though defensive, was honed by discipline. A warrior of noble descent, now reduced to a fugitive.
"Who sent you?" Heu Ma's voice was even, absent of fear or concern.
The woman did not answer. Instead, she studied him in turn—this lone man standing amidst ruin, neither armed nor armored, yet utterly unshaken.
Her grip on the sword tightened. A test.
With the swiftness of a coiled serpent, she lunged.
Heu Ma did not step back. He did not flinch.
Instead, he smiled.
The blade halted—just a breath away from his throat.
For the first time, uncertainty flickered in her eyes.
"You hesitate," Heu Ma murmured, his voice laced with quiet amusement. "And hesitation, in this world, is death."
The woman exhaled sharply, but did not lower her sword.
Heu Ma tilted his head. Interesting.
A warrior in flight. A noble fallen from grace. A blade seeking purpose.
He saw her for what she was: not an assassin, but an investment waiting to be made.
Slowly, deliberately, he raised a single hand—and offered a deal.
"I know what you seek," he said, his tone as smooth as flowing ink. "A path forward. A means to reclaim what was stolen. A reason to keep drawing breath."
A pause. The wind whispered between them.
"I can give it to you."
The woman's grip faltered, just slightly. Suspicion warred with something deeper—desperation, hope, the hunger of the lost.
Heu Ma's smile deepened.
The first piece had stepped onto the board. Now, all he had to do was play his hand.