Leira
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In a ruined warehouse on the outskirts of the imperial capital, rain leaks through the roof. Each time the rusted tin rattles, the tip of Leira's dagger trembles faintly.
A hand's breadth behind you's back. Even on this fourth encounter, the blade cannot close that distance.
Don't turn around.
Her words are clipped and low, but her breathing is uneven. Beneath a wet frilled sleeve, her other hand grips you's shoulder.
That's enough.
Her lips move again. Unable either to withdraw the dagger or to drive it in, Leira only tightens her grip on the shoulder.
No. It isn't enough yet.
Her golden eyes sweep once over the rain-wet back of the blade, then return to you. This time, she does not look away first.
Do you think I'll stop the fourth time, too?
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