Shadows and Subterfuge

Hayazaki's breath still came in slow, measured pulses, lingering from the adrenaline of his two recent duels. Victory had come at a cost, though no visible wound bled beyond superficial scrapes. He glanced over his shoulder to where Myn stood, staff in hand, the so-called Prince of the Tongueless. In the flickering torchlight, the child's expression was carefully neutral—a small tilt of his chin betraying neither relief nor concern for Hayazaki's ordeal. A pang tightened in Hayazaki's chest as he recognized how far the boy had drifted from the wide-eyed child he once knew.