The smell of ash hit Kenshi first—acrid, thick, and choking. It invaded his senses before the vision even fully formed.
In his mind's eye, the sky was a bruised purple, lit from below by the inferno of a burning village. The roar of the fire was deafening, a chaotic symphony of collapsing timber and the wailing of the dying.
A single man—a villager with wild eyes and soot-stained clothes—was sprinting away from the carnage. He scrambled over roots and rocks, his breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps. He burst onto the main road and froze, his legs giving way.
The thunder of marching boots stopped him.
An army stood in disciplined formation, a wall of steel blocking the path. At the head of the column sat the General, mounted on a massive black warhorse. He was a statue of iron and silence, his face entirely obscured by a heavy, ornate helm. He did not move, did not breathe visibly; he simply existed as a focal point of crushing gravity. The air around him seemed colder, heavier, silencing the wind itself.
The frantic villager threw himself at the horse's hooves, clutching at the stirrups.
"General! You must act!" the villager shrieked, his voice cracking. "It is the Vanguard of Kalinga. The Kingdom has breached the border!"
The General did not look down. He stared straight ahead at the rising smoke, his posture unyielding. His silence was louder than the fire, a pressure that forced the soldiers behind him to tighten their grips on their spears.
"They are butchering everyone," the villager sobbed, pointing a trembling hand back toward the flames. "Women, children... they are burning them in the temples. Please... my daughter is still inside."
The General slowly tilted his head. The movement was measured, hydraulic, precise. He looked at the villager, then back to the fire. There was no need for questions. The specific cruelty described—burning the temples—bore the signature of their ancient enemy.
He drew his blade. The sound of the steel leaving the sheath was a long, singing note that cut through the chaos. He raised the sword, the tip pointing toward the heart of the fire.
He spoke only once, his voice a low tremor that vibrated in the chests of his men.
"Advance."
Kenshi woke with a sharp intake of breath, his hand instantly gripping the hilt of his sword.
The roar of the fire and the screams of the dying vanished, replaced by the hollow silence of the ruins they had taken shelter in. It was pre-dawn; the light was grey and thin.
He sat up, his heart hammering against his ribs, shaking off the phantom pain of the spear in his chest. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw her.
Himawari was already awake. In fact, it looked like she hadn't slept at all.
The little girl was moving with a frantic, silent energy. She had cleared a small circle in the rubble, sweeping away dust and sharp stones with her bare hands. A small, neat pyramid of scavenged twigs was stacked ready for a fire she didn't have the flint to start. Beside it, she had arranged three flat stones like plates, and she was currently trying to scrub mud off a discarded, broken canteen using spit and the hem of her tattered dress.
Her fingers were raw and bleeding, covered in small cuts from the debris, but she didn't seem to notice. Her eyes were wide, darting around the camp, checking and re-checking her work.
"Himawari?" Kenshi's voice was rough with sleep.
She didn't flinch away or cower. Instead, she spun toward him with a speed that spoke of panic. Her eyes weren't filled with fear of him, but with a desperate, wide-eyed relief that he was still there.
"I'm useful!" she blurted out, her voice high and cracking. She scrambled to her feet and ran to the small pile of supplies she had gathered, pointing with trembling fingers. "Look! I found dry wood. I organized the food. I can carry the heavy pack today, I promise I can!"
She rushed over to him, dropping to her knees and gripping his sleeve with both hands. She wasn't hiding from him; she was clinging to him, her knuckles white.
"I didn't sleep," she stammered, tears welling up in her eyes and spilling over her dirty cheeks. "I watched the entrance. I made sure no one came. You need a guard, right? I can be a guard. I can wash clothes. I can cook."
Kenshi stared at her, the tragedy of the sight hitting him harder than the nightmare he had just escaped.
She wasn't begging for her life. She was negotiating for it.
The war didn't just take her parents, Kenshi thought, a bitter taste rising in his throat. It hollowed out the very concept of childhood. She looks at me and doesn't see a guardian; she sees a master. She thinks care is a wage paid only for labor. She believes that the moment she rests, she ceases to exist.
It was a reflection of the General he had seen in his dream—a life defined solely by utility, by the ability to hold a line or swing a sword. But she was not a General. She was a child whose hands were too small to carry the weight of her own survival.
Himawari was still babbling, her voice rising in pitch, listing chores she could invent just to stay relevant. "I can fix the straps on your bag! I can—"
"Himawari," Kenshi cut in. His voice wasn't loud, but it had a weight that sliced through her panic. "Come here."
She froze mid-sentence, her mouth snapping shut. Her eyes widened, the pupils trembling. She took a half-step back, her hands twisting into her dress.
"Did... did I do it wrong?" she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I can fix it. Please, I can fix it."
"You didn't do anything wrong," Kenshi said, his tone softening, though his expression remained solemn. He uncrossed his legs and opened his arms slightly. "Come here."
She hesitated, her body rigid with the instinct to flee, warring with the desperate need to obey. She shuffled forward, her movements stiff and jerky, like a marionette with tangled strings. When she was within reach, she stopped, waiting for a command, waiting to be inspected like a tool.
Kenshi didn't inspect her. He reached out, wrapped his arms around her small, trembling frame, and pulled her into his chest.
It wasn't a casual hug. It was a barrier. He held her with the firmness of a shield wall, burying her face against the rough fabric of his tunic.
"You don't have to earn your place here," Kenshi murmured into her hair.
She is so light, Kenshi thought, feeling her ribs expand and contract with her shallow, terrified breathing. She is nothing but bird bones and terror. How heavy must the air feel to her?
"But... Papa said..." she mumbled against his chest, her voice muffled and wet. "If I'm not useful..."
"You are not a tool, Himawari," Kenshi interrupted, his hand moving to cradle the back of her head, pressing her closer as if to physically squeeze the fear out of her. "You are not a soldier. You are alive. That is the only requirement."
For a second, she went rigid. Then, the fight left her.
It happened all at once. Her knees buckled, and her entire weight slumped into him. Her hands, which had been hovering uncertainly, clutched at his back, gripping his clothes so hard her knuckles turned white. A wail tore itself from her throat—raw, ugly, and heartbreaking.
She broke down completely, the facade of the "useful guard" shattering to reveal the terrified orphan underneath. She screamed her grief into his chest, soaking his tunic with tears, snot, and the dirt from her face.
Kenshi just held her, resting his chin on the top of her head. He stared out at the grey, indifferent sky through the ruins of the temple roof.
I couldn't save the village in my memories, he told himself, the image of the burning temples flashing behind his eyes. I couldn't save the General from his duty. But I can hold this. I can hold her.
He waited until her screams subsided into exhausted, hiccupping sobs. The silence of the ruins returned, but it felt less oppressive now, shared between them.
"In the land of my ancestors," Kenshi began, his voice a low rumble against her ear, meant to ground her drifting spirit. "In ancient India, there is a story of a princess named Savitri."
Himawari sniffled, lifting her head slightly from his chest. The change in his tone caught her attention.
"Savitri fell in love with a man named Satyavan," Kenshi continued, looking out at the grey dawn. "But a seer told her that Satyavan was destined to die in one year. Everyone told her to leave him, to find someone with a long life so she wouldn't be left alone. But she refused."
Himawari wiped her eyes with the back of her dirty hand. "Did she fight the bad guys?"
"No," Kenshi said softly. "She fought something much stronger. She fought Destiny."
He tightened his hold on Himawari slightly as he spoke, painting the image with his words.
"When the Lord of Death, Yama, came to take her husband's soul, the air turned cold enough to crack stone. He was not a monster, but something far more terrifying. He was absolute. He had skin like storm clouds and robes of crimson, and in his hand, he held the Noose of Time. He pulled the soul from Satyavan's body and turned toward the dark lands of the South, walking into the Void where no living thing can breathe."
Kenshi's voice dropped an octave, imitating the weight of a god. "Savitri did not draw a sword. She simply followed. She walked into the dark, where the ground is made of silence and the wind steals your memories."
"Wasn't she scared?" Himawari whispered.
"Terrified," Kenshi admitted. "But she kept walking. She walked until the land of the living was a speck behind her. Finally, King Yama stopped. The earth shook as he spoke, his voice like grinding tectonic plates."
Kenshi closed his eyes, recalling the old verses.
"'Turn back, daughter of the Earth,' Yama thundered. 'The path of the dead burns the living. You have no power here. Go back to your grief, for it is the only thing the dead can leave you.'"
Himawari shivered, pressing closer to him.
"But Savitri stood her ground against the God," Kenshi said. "She did not beg. She spoke to him of Dharma—of duty and right action. She told him that a life lived without love is a dereliction of duty. She matched his cosmic wisdom with her human will. Every time Yama offered her a boon—riches, kingdoms, power—to make her leave, she took it, but she took another step forward."
"She tricked him?"
"She outlasted him," Kenshi corrected. "She walked until her feet bled, until her skin cracked from the cold of the underworld. She stood as a candle flame against a hurricane, refusing to be blown out."
"Did... did the God win?"
"No," Kenshi said. "Yama stopped. He looked at this small, fragile woman who had walked into hell itself. He looked at her, not as a nuisance, but with awe."
Kenshi softened his voice, channeling the moment the Great God yielded.
"Yama said to her: 'I have taken kings and sages, the brave and the timid. I have unmade stars and swallowed oceans. But I have never seen a will like yours. You stand before Death, not with steel, but with love. Take his life, Savitri. For even Death cannot sever a bond this strong.'"
He looked down at the little girl, brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead.
"He returned her husband's life, not because she was strong, or useful, or a great warrior—but because she refused to let go." Kenshi looked into her wide, teary eyes. "If you believe in something hard enough, even gods must step aside."
Himawari stared at him, her lip trembling. The story seemed to settle something inside her, loosening the knot of terror in her chest. She realized she didn't need to be useful to be kept; she just needed to be held.
"Who are you?" she asked softly, her voice barely a whisper.
"Kenshi," he replied. "My name is Kenshi."