Red

Yunhua had always thought the worst injuries were the quiet ones.

The bruises that blossomed beneath tunics and never changed how a person walked. The fractures hidden in the soft meat of pride. The damage that didn't show unless you knew where to look.

But Rowan — Rowan was bleeding.

Not in some metaphor or shade of implication. Blood clung to her sleeve in vivid, rust-colored blotches. Her curls were matted to one side, tangled with dried rain and something darker.

She stood in the courtyard like a statue cast in defiance — fists clenched, jaw locked, eyes sharp. Her shoulders refused to sag even though she was clearly favoring one side. Her tunic hung in ribbons at the seam. And still — she didn't speak.

Yunhua had not meant to move.

But her feet had carried her forward without permission, drawing her closer to the knot of onlookers, then through them.

She heard murmurs. The sharp-edged curiosity of those who hadn't seen violence in weeks. Instructors barking orders. Apprentices whispering names. Someone cursed under their breath.

Yunhua only saw Rowan.

The silence between them — so comfortably familiar in the garden — now crackled with something raw. Rowan did not meet her eyes and something akin to worry and hurt prickled at Yunhua's chest (even if she'd never admit it, not even to herself).

The medic was already there, a sharp-faced elven man with quick hands and a quicker tongue. He didn't bother scolding Rowan, merely gestured for her to sit on the stone bench.

She didn't.

"I said sit," the medic repeated, more firmly as if speaking to an unruly child.

"I'm fine."

"You are not fine. You've been cut. Possibly deeper than you think."

"It's shallow." She grunted out like the whole situation was an inconvenience.

The medic turned, exasperated. "Then you won't mind proving it."

Rowan's eyes flicked toward Yunhua, just for a heartbeat.

Then she sat.

Later, after the courtyard had emptied and the whispers had moved on to fresher gossip, Yunhua lingered in the infirmary doorway.

She knew better than to enter without cause. She was no friend. No family. Nothing that entitled her to answers.

And yet—

Rowan was there, alone now. Her shoulder had been wrapped, her hair washed, though not with much care. She sat on the edge of the cot, legs swinging idly. Her tunic was replaced with a spare issue one—too big in the sleeves—and she looked, for once, like someone forced into stillness.

Yunhua stepped inside.

Rowan's eyes met hers at once.

"You're not supposed to be here."

"I know."

They stared at each other.

No breeze moved the infirmary windows. The walls breathed stale herbs and coppery remnants.

Yunhua approached slowly, stopping two paces from the cot in an almost awkward stance.

"What happened."

Not a question. Not exactly.

Rowan exhaled through her nose. "You heard the version out there?"

"I want yours."

A long silence.

Then Rowan looked away, toward the shelves stacked with tinctures and powders — suddenly finding appeal in them.

"It doesn't matter."

"It does."

Rowan tilted her head. Her red curls were still damp, clinging to the nape of her neck.

"Why?" she asked. "So you can add it to your list of things not to think about?"

"I don't make lists," Yunhua said. "I forget things I don't care about."

Rowan laughed—a dry, bitter sound.

"Well. Good news, then. You can forget this."

Yunhua said nothing.

Then, quietly: "Was it about me?"

Rowan's gaze snapped to hers.

And that was answer enough.

It had been building, of course.

Yunhua had noticed the looks. The whispers. The way certain instructors paused too long at her name during roll call. She knew better than anyone that half-elves did not draw warmth in elven territories — not without years of earned distinction or exceptional usefulness.

Yunhua had neither.

And Rowan —

Rowan was reckless. Proud. Stupid in the way people only are when they care.

Yunhua hadn't asked for her to interfere. Hadn't invited it. But it had happened anyway.

"Who?" she asked.

Rowan hesitated. "One of the junior swordmasters. Tavros or whatever his name is."

Yunhua's brow furrowed.

"I don't know him."

"He knows you."

That should not have mattered.

But it did.

Rowan leaned back against the wall, eyes closing for a moment. "He said things. Half-breed. Mistake. Waste of rations. Said the only reason you're still here is because no one wants the paperwork of sending you back." Her tone made it seem like even repeating those words made some unspoken emotion stir within her all over again.

Yunhua's face didn't move.

But her hands were tight at her sides.

"And you fought him."

Rowan opened her eyes, and for the first time, they were tired.

"I corrected him."

Yunhua blinked.

Rowan continued. "He grabbed me. I grabbed back. Someone else saw. Things escalated."

"How bad?"

Rowan shrugged—then winced as the movement tugged her bandaged shoulder.

"He'll live."

Yunhua should have been angry.

Should have scolded her. Told her she didn't need a defender. That Rowan's bruises proved nothing. That words were just words.

But instead, she asked: "Why?"

Rowan looked at her, as if trying to decide how honest to be.

Then, very quietly: "Because no one else would."

Later that evening, Yunhua found herself walking the garden paths again.

Frost had settled across the earth like spilled salt. The feverwort was already beginning to crisp at the edges, its season nearly over.

She crouched in the dirt, gloves still in her sleeves, and pulled dead leaves from the stems without real focus.

Her thoughts would not quiet.

No one else would.

Not an oath. Not a promise. Just a fact.

But it lodged itself in Yunhua's chest like a splinter too deep to dig out.

Rowan had bled for her.

Not because she wanted to impress anyone. Not because she had to.

Because she could.

Because she would.

That changed things.

Not outwardly. Not in any way a stranger might see.

But for Yunhua — who had trained herself to expect nothing, to earn silence and survive inside it — it felt like someone had cracked the edge of her solitude and let light in.

Uninvited. Unasked.

But not unwelcome.

She stayed outside long after the bell rang for curfew.

And when she returned to her quarters, she did not light a candle.

She lay awake in the dark, eyes open, watching the way moonlight traced the rafters.

Rowan had said she wasn't broken.

Maybe.

But some things—some old, hidden parts of herself—had begun to move again. Not like a wound. More like thaw.

A slow, patient kind of change.

And change, Yunhua had learned, was always dangerous.