"I am not letting him go," I say quietly into the darkness.
My voice stays steady, even as something tightens deep in my chest with every breath. Once the words leave me, they settle heavily into the silence, like a decision that cannot be taken back.
"I will go instead."
The room offers no resistance. There is no argument, no hesitation—only stillness that accepts what I have already chosen.
I rise from the bed and reach for my bag, my hands moving with purpose before doubt has a chance to catch up.
A few sets of clothes go in first, folded without care. I pack only what I need, nothing more, because anything unnecessary will only slow me down.
When I step into the hallway, the house is quiet in a way that feels forced, as though sleep has been chosen simply because there is nothing else to do.
My father's door is slightly open.
I push it just enough to slip inside.
The familiar scent of herbs lingers in the air, steady and grounding, but it does little to ease the tightness in my chest.
He lies on his side, his breathing even, his injured leg positioned carefully as always. Whether he truly sleeps or only pretends, I cannot tell.
I do not allow myself to linger.
My attention shifts to the table beside his bed, and I move closer, reaching for the hairpin resting where he always leaves it.
The stone is smooth beneath my fingers, its deep brown surface calm and unchanging, like still water that hides its depth.
I take it without a sound.
The recruitment document lies neatly beneath a small weight, already prepared as though he accepted his fate the moment the order was spoken. I slide it into my sleeve, careful and precise.
For a moment, I almost look at him again.
I stop myself.
If I do, I might hesitate.
So I turn and leave as quietly as I came.
Back in my room, I close the door and rest against it briefly, my breath uneven now that no one is there to see it.
The weight of what I am about to do presses in from all sides, but I refuse to let it settle.
There is no time for fear.
I move quickly, pulling off my clothes and letting them fall where they land. The cold air brushes against my skin, but I barely notice as I reach for the strip of cloth hidden away.
I begin to bind my chest.
Each wrap pulls tighter than the last, pressing down until breathing becomes shallow and restricted.
The discomfort builds quickly into pain, sharp and insistent, but I do not stop. I continue until there is nothing left to give shape to what I must hide.
It has to disappear.
When I finish, I secure the binding firmly and dress again, layering my clothes with care this time, adjusting them until my figure is obscured beneath straight lines and heavier fabric.
The weight feels unfamiliar, but it is necessary.
Then I pick up the jade pendent.
For a brief moment, I hesitate.
My mother's voice echoes faintly in my memory, calm but firm, repeating the same words she has told me since I was young.
Keep it safe. Do not lose it.
The jade pendant she gave me is old, older than anything else I own, its surface worn smooth with time. I never take it outside, always leaving it behind where it cannot be lost.
But tonight is different.
I reach into the small wooden box and take it out, the faint engraving catching the dim light. It feels heavier than usual in my hand, as if it understands the choice I am making.
Carefully, I place it into my bag instead of wearing it.
If I am going to war, I will not leave it behind.
My fingers linger for a moment before I close the bag.
Then I gather my hair and twist it up, securing it with the hairpin. The motion is familiar, something I have watched countless times, but the result feels different now.
When I lower my hands, there is nothing soft left in the reflection before me—only something restrained, controlled, and harder than before.
I do not look for long.
This is no longer about who I am.
It is about what I must do.
I open my bag again briefly, checking its contents out of habit. The mask lies folded inside, light and simple, a gift that was never meant for anything serious.
Beside it rests my dagger, its weight steady and reassuring.
My hand brushes against empty space at my waist.
For a moment, I frown slightly before remembering.
The other pendant—the one I bought with the first money I ever earned from treating a patient—is gone.
It had been small, beautifully carved, something I chose for myself as proof that I could stand on my own. I wore it often, more out of quiet pride than attachment.
Now it lies somewhere in the forest, lost during the fight with that man.
My jaw tightens briefly, but I do not dwell on it.
There is nothing I can do about it now.
I close the bag and take a slow breath, steadying myself.
If I am discovered, there will be no forgiveness.
Not for me.
Not for them.
The thought settles heavily, but I push it aside before it can take root.
There is no other path.
When I step back into the hallway, the silence greets me once more.
I walk toward my parents' room, slowing as I approach. The door is closed now, but I can hear the faint rhythm of their breathing through the wood.
I stop just outside.
For a long moment, I stand there without moving.
Then I step closer and rest my hand lightly against the door.
I can picture them clearly without seeing them—my mother turned slightly toward him, my father lying still, both unaware of what I am about to do.
My vision burns.
I close my eyes, but it does nothing to stop the tears that slip through, quiet and uninvited.
"I am going," I whisper under my breath. "Take care of yourselves."
The words feel small compared to what they carry.
I lower my hand.
Turn.
And walk away.
---
The night air is cold when I step outside, the wind sharp as it presses against me. The house remains quiet behind me, unchanged, as though nothing has happened at all.
I stop at the gate and glance back.
The door stays closed.
No light shifts.
No voice calls me back.
"I will come back," I murmur softly.
Whether it is a promise or a lie, I do not know.
I turn before I can think further and begin walking.
The road stretches ahead, dark and uneven, and I move quickly, determined to put distance between myself and the village before dawn arrives.
After some time, I slow.
A realization settles in, sharp and immediate.
My monthly bleeding is close, and I did not bring anything to manage it or conceal it if necessary. The mistake is small, but in a situation like this, it could become dangerous.
I tighten my grip on the strap of my bag, irritation rising.
"Careless," I mutter quietly.
Without hesitation, I turn back.
The village comes into view again sooner than I would like, shadows stretching across familiar ground.
I slow as I approach, something uneasy settling in my chest before I fully understand why.
Then I see them.
Men in dark clothing stand around my house, too still to belong there, their presence wrong in a way that sends a chill down my spine. The wind pulls at their garments, but they do not move with it.
Swords rest in their hands, loose but ready, as if they are waiting for something—or someone.
My breath stills.
Who are they?