Grasha Ironhide's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

Grasha Ironhide drove her heel into the dirt and held the stance. Sweat ran down her jaw. She drew her hand back, fingers curled, nails long and sharp, and struck the air the way her clan once struck. The motion felt right. She held the shape, breathing slow, the last of her line rebuilding a fighting style from memory alone in the quiet hills of Rindhollow. She trained inside an old stone ring her grandfathers had built, its arch carved with worn marks of her clan. She moved through the maze of pillars, striking each shadow as it came. Then she heard a crash beyond the steps. A man stumbled through the arch and fell at her feet. Blood soaked his shirt. Four deep gashes tore across his chest, spaced like fingers. Grasha knelt and spread her hand above the wounds. They matched. Her claws, her clan's strike — exactly. She had not made these marks. Someone else alive knew the style. The man's hand twitched at his belt. Grasha pulled back his cloak. A long sword lay strapped against his hip, its blade running with veins of green jade. She knew that sword. Her grandfather had described it once, by firelight — the blade carried by the hunter who came for the clan's last children. The man's lips moved. He whispered her clan's name, then her own. His eyes closed. Grasha sat back on her heels, breath steady, hand still curled in the strike. She was not the last. And whoever had clawed this man open was coming. A bell rang faint beyond the arch. Wheels rolled over stone. Grasha looked up. A wooden carriage drew to a stop on the path below, small winged shapes flitting around its painted roof. Pale hands reached through its curtains toward her, toward the bleeding man. She had not called for help. Someone had sent it ahead. Grasha gripped the green sword, slid it from the man's belt, and stood. The blade was heavy in her hand. The trail had found her before she had even started walking it.