“Serenil. You are too dangerous.”


    Those were the words she heard when she first held a sword at the age of seven. It was neither praise nor rebuke—rather, the tone of one who had seen something that ought never be kept close. The speaker took the sword from her hand and never returned it.


    It was the rite of blades. The day she first saw blood. The face of the child who fell without a word, and the red clinging to the tip of her sword—it was too vivid to be a flower, too premature to be called a sin. But the bloom that opened before her eyes that day etched itself into her memory with such clarity that she could never forget. From that moment, it felt as though it had begun to quietly and slowly coil around her. Her blade, too, vanished soundlessly, as if it had melted into the forge.


    Others rose from that failure and earned their swords. She alone walked away with guilt. The memory of having wounded another weighed heavier than steel, pressing down upon her still—like a burden she bore upon her shield.


    On the path home from the training ground, her footsteps drew glances that quickly turned away. Those who once smiled and waved now said nothing. Was it fear? Was it remorse? She no longer knew how to tell the difference.


    But after seven years, they placed a sword in her hand once more. As if to say, "Try again." Eyes watched her—full of doubt, full of silent expectation. They waited to see what she would do next.


    The sword fell with a cold clang upon the ground, and under the weight of those unspoken judgments, her breath quivered. She collapsed with a sound of iron. Her pupils widened, trying to take in the world. Her breath came ragged, her heart raced.


    She trembled and clutched the shield before her, hiding beneath it like a child fleeing a storm. She lowered her gaze, praying for the moment to pass. As if no one would bleed in her stead—so she must never let it go.


    No one welcomed the night of her coming of age. The last thing she remembered was kneeling among others who were to be named adults that day. Each of them was handed a sword heavy with tradition. Serenil felt the chill of metal ripple into her bones—a sensation unknown in the water.


    "Only those who bleed become real," said an old warrior before them. The words fell like stone, and those gathered drank them in with breath held.


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    "With this sword, you will face many paths. If you refuse to choose, your life will be nothing but flight."


    All believed it to be truth. All but her.


    She took the sword, her hand trembling, her vision blurred, her chest burning. And her weeping—silent, unheard—vanished into the night.


    At dawn, when even the stars had closed their eyes, she slung the shield across her back. It was heavy, clumsy. But the weight was not unfamiliar. It reminded her of stepping from sea to land—the strange pressure of another world.


    “Serenil.”


    The voice was soft but familiar. She knew who it was without turning. Slowly, she turned her head.


    Leon stood there. Taller now, his eyes steadier—older.


    “…You won’t come back, will you?”


    Serenil did not answer. She lifted her eyes toward the stars drifting over still waters.


    “…I never wanted to hurt anyone. And I’m sorry. I said it too late, didn’t I?”


    She looked at the sword, hesitating to reach for it, and whispered her apology.


    “I forgave you. And I’m sorry too—for never saying so.”


    Leon gazed at the stars beside her, then asked, one final time:


    “Is it too late?”


    “…It is.”


    Her lips trembled for just a moment. A breath escaped before any word, and the regret it carried caught in her throat. She did not look back. She did not nod. She simply took a step forward.


    She looked down at the blade given to her during the ceremony—as if it were something long known, now seen anew. Her hand shook. She did not want to grasp it. No—she mustn’t. But there was no one left to bleed for her. And so, the sword was hers again.


    Beneath the stars, she reached out.


    Yes. It was hers.


    She had always known it would return to her hand. And when that time came, she would fight not with shield—but with herself.


    Light scattered upon the surface of the water. With each gentle wave came memories she''d wished to forget. She recalled swimming freely once, like a current without end. That oceanic memory now felt distant, unreachable, like a song from another lifetime.


    The northern wind stirred her hair. It felt like a warning: do not follow. Or perhaps, a farewell from a friend of the past.


    She left the kingdom, heading north. Through village and gate, no one looked her in the eye. No stones thrown. No words spoken. Yet all understood. This girl was never meant to stay. Heads lowered, shutters closed, gazes turned away.


    She said nothing.


    Her answer scattered with the wind, and only her footsteps echoed through the night.


    They were not the steps of flight, but of choice. A choice no one understood—but the only path left to her.


    She walked toward a place where no one knew her name. For the first time… a place where no one would ask.


    And perhaps—on land or in sea—she would still remember what she truly was.