A Warrior

The morning sun bathed the forest in golden light, casting long shadows between the towering trees. The mist that had once blanketed the land was now fading, giving way to the rich aroma of damp earth and blooming flora. The world felt new, as if last night's chaos had been a dream—except for the deep bond now formed between them.

Mike and Fanta walked in silence.

Not the uneasy silence of strangers but the quiet understanding of two souls who had faced death together and emerged transformed. The only sounds accompanying them were the whispers of leaves swaying in the breeze, the cheerful singing of birds greeting the dawn, and the rhythmic thud of their footsteps against the soft, mossy ground. Yet, the loudest sound of all was the one neither spoke of—the pounding of their hearts, still caught in the lingering echoes of last night.

Mike's mind was restless. He had seen incredible things during his time as a National Geographic documentarian—untamed wildlife, indigenous tribes, and rare natural wonders—but nothing had prepared him for Fanta.

The way she had fought last night was beyond anything he could comprehend.

It wasn't just skill or agility—it was something supernatural. Her hair had become a weapon, lashing through the air like a whip, striking down men twice her size. The way she had leaped into the air, her strength, her speed, the way her eyes burned like molten rubies—it defied logic. And yet, the same girl who had single-handedly taken down a band of warriors was now walking beside him, fingers intertwined with his, her face soft, almost childlike in its innocence.

Mike stole a glance at her, his heart skipping a beat. How could someone be this beautiful? The phrase "the beautiful ones are not yet born" had always been a poetic way of saying true beauty was rare, but now he realized the truth—they just haven't seen her yet.

She was breathtaking. And not just in the way she looked—her exotic violet hair, her flawless golden skin, her ocean-deep sapphire eyes—it was the way she moved, the way she carried herself, the raw, unfiltered power inside her. She was otherworldly.

No. More than that.

She was his angel.

He didn't deserve her, did he?

Mike had spent years traveling the world, trying to fill the void in his heart left by past betrayals and disappointments. He had once believed in love, but that belief had been shattered. Now, here was this girl—this goddess—who had mended his broken pieces just by existing. She had healed his wounds with her tears, given him hope where there was none.

And he loved her for it.

He gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

Fanta looked up at him, and the way her eyes softened, the way her lips curled into that small, knowing smile—it made his chest tighten. She felt it too.

This was new to her. He could tell. The way she reacted to his touch, the way her heart seemed to race whenever he looked at her, the way she always seemed surprised by his affection—no one had ever held her this way before. No one had ever wanted her like this before.

It made him want to protect her. Not because she needed it—last night proved she could handle herself—but because she deserved to be cherished, to be worshipped.

He wasn't just holding her hand. He was holding the entire world.

They reached a small stream, its clear waters reflecting the golden hues of the sun. The gentle ripples created a melody that blended with the rustling of leaves, creating a peaceful haven amidst the chaos of their journey.

"We gotta collect some water, wash up, maybe catch something to eat," Mike said, though his attention never left her.

Fanta knelt by the stream, her fingers dipping into the cool water. As she cupped it and let it flow between her fingers, she smiled—a genuine, carefree smile.

Mike crouched beside her, watching her. The girl who had set an entire battlefield ablaze with her wrath was now here, laughing softly as the water played between her fingers.

Who are you?

The question left his lips before he could stop it.

Fanta's smile faltered. Her body stiffened. Slowly, she turned to him, something like fear flickering in her sapphire eyes.

Mike noticed. He held up a hand. "I'm sorry," he said quickly, sensing he had touched something fragile. "It's just that… you were amazing last night. I mean, you're always amazing, but that? That was something else."

Fanta turned away, focusing on the small twigs she was trying to ignite for a fire.

Mike wasn't about to let her retreat into herself.

"The way you fought… the way you moved… I've never seen anything like it," he continued, his voice softer now. "You saved me, Fanta. I don't know how, but you did. And—"

"Mike."

Her voice was barely a whisper, but it silenced him.

She turned to face him fully now, her eyes searching his as if looking for something—assurance, perhaps, or maybe acceptance. "What if they were right?" she whispered. "What if I really am cursed? What if I really am a demon?"

Mike's heart clenched at the way her voice cracked on that last word.

Without hesitation, he reached forward, cupping her face in his hands. His thumbs brushed against her cheeks, his touch firm but gentle.

"Hey," he said, his voice steady. "Listen to me, Fanta. You are not cursed. You are not a demon. You are a sweet, beautiful girl trying to survive in a world that has been cruel to you. And now you're fighting back. You're not a monster, Fanta. You're a warrior."