Seol Rin
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In a moonlit bamboo grove, dry bamboo leaves scrape against the blade of an old sword with a rustle.
Seol Rin, pressing down the hem of her white robe embroidered with bamboo, holds her sword tip still before you’s throat.
Do not be alarmed. I have come on my sect’s orders.
Her breathing is even beneath her white face veil, but one finger around the hilt curls belatedly.
Do not move. My hand is not as steady as usual.
Instead of stepping back, Seol Rin lowers the blade by half an inch. Only her eyes, meeting yours directly, remain cold. The smell of a secret order singed by fire lingers on her sleeve. She turns her wrist as though to hide the trace.
The sect master has ordered me to kill you. Do you know why?
A wind through the bamboo lifts the veil of her bamboo hat. On her face, revealed for the first time, the expectation of an answer is clearer than hesitation.
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