Throne of Ash and Blood

Chapter 12 Shadows in the Smoke

The fight pressed in from every side. The street was too narrow, the enemy too many. Alphonse’s grip on his magic tightened, power thrumming in his veins like a heartbeat. Fire coiled in his palm, licking at his fingers, begging to be unleashed.

But he hesitated.

The clash of steel was everywhere—Throkreat’s hammer just a step to his left, Salish hurling shadows barely a pace ahead. There was no open space, no clear line. If he threw a fireball now, he’d torch them all. The flames pulsed, eager to feed, but he clenched his jaw and held it back.

A shadow flickered in his peripheral vision. Movement—fast, sharp—high above.

Before he could register it, a thief just feet from him screamed as his body was yanked sideways into the darkness between two buildings. The scream cut short with a sickening crunch.

Then—there.

A hooded figure dropped from the rooftop, the glint of a blade catching in the dim light. They drove it clean into a thief’s back with brutal precision, then vanished as if swallowed by the air itself.

Alphonse’s brows drew together. Teleportation?

The figure reappeared behind another attacker, their dagger flashing in an elegant arc that slit the man’s throat before he could even gasp. Then—gone again.

They danced in and out of the fray, each appearance as brief as a heartbeat, each strike ending a life. The movements were flawless—fluid and efficient, not a single wasted step. Each kill was clean, almost artful.

And there was something about that grace, that deadly economy of motion, that pulled at the edges of Alphonse’s memory.

So familiar.

Too familiar.

The bandits didn’t stand a chance. One after another, they fell beneath the hooded figure’s silent assault. In less than a minute, half the attackers lay sprawled and bleeding on the cobblestones. The rest faltered, their bravado broken, and with a final desperate glance toward the caravan, they turned and fled into the warren of alleys.

The sudden silence was deafening.

Throkreat stepped forward, breathing hard, resting his hammer against his shoulder. He took a few cautious steps toward the stranger. “Whoever you are, thank you for—”

The hooded figure turned toward him. The hood shadowed their face, but the voice that slipped out was smooth, silky… and female.

“This is your caravan?”

Throkreat nodded. “Aye, and we—”

The words cut off in a grunt as the figure moved. One second she was standing still, the next her blade was a silver flash aimed at him.

Alphonse’s eyes widened.

She was attacking.

The hooded figure moved with a predator’s ease, her blade flashing in the dim light as she closed the distance. She didn’t charge headlong—no, she circled, weaving in and out between them like she was toying with her prey. Every strike was precise, measured… playful.

Throkreat roared and swung his hammer in a heavy arc. She slid past it like water, her boots barely whispering against the cobblestones. Then, with a deft twist, she swept his legs from under him. The giant hit the ground with a grunt, face-first in the dust.

Salish hissed and summoned a writhing knot of black vines from the ground, the magic snapping and curling toward the intruder. The figure didn’t even flinch—she stepped straight into the trap, and before Salish could tighten the snare, the vines twisted back on themselves, tangling around their caster’s arms and waist. Salish cursed as she fell hard to one knee, bound by her own spell.

Thomme stepped in, sword raised high. He struck in a clean, lethal line toward her throat—so close the blade’s edge would have kissed her skin. But at the last instant, she bent backward in an impossible arch, the steel missing her by mere inches. She snapped back upright with a smirk in her stance, no trace of fear in her movements.

That was when Alphonse saw it.

Just for a moment, as she spun past Thomme—there, swaying like a whisper in the chaos.

A silver tail.

A beast person?

She danced around Thomme’s guard, her dagger flicking in a sudden feint. In one smooth motion, she hooked his wrist, twisted, and sent his sword clattering to the street. He staggered back, clutching his hand.

Then her golden gaze locked on Alphonse.

She vanished.

His head whipped left, then right. Teleportation again? The air seemed to warp at the edge of his vision, and then—out of the corner of his eye—he caught her reappearing.

“Ignis,” she whispered.

The small fireball she hurled was fast, aimed to kill. Instinct took over—Alphonse summoned a wall of flame to meet it, the two bursts colliding in a spray of sparks.

Before the light had even faded, she was on him. She hit him low, hard, driving him back in a tumble across the cobblestones.

But instinct met instinct.

Alphonse rolled with her momentum, his hands finding purchase at her wrists. Using raw strength, he twisted, reversing their positions. In the next breath, she was on her back, his weight pinning her to the ground, her dagger clattering from her hand.

Her hood slid back.

Silver hair spilled free, catching the light. Two sharply pointed fox ears twitched atop her head. Her eyes—bright, molten gold—locked on his. Her skin was sun-kissed, smooth, without a mark.

Alphonse’s breath caught in his chest.

“…Emiko?”

Emiko tilted her head slightly, her golden eyes narrowing in faint confusion.

“…Alphonse?”

He couldn’t help it—despite the fight still ringing in his ears, despite the bruises forming on his ribs, a slow smile broke across his face. A laugh, half relief and half disbelief, slipped past his lips. He loosened his grip on her wrists, letting them fall free, and before he even thought about it, he was pulling her into a fierce embrace.

She stiffened, her muscles coiled to resist.

Then his scent hit her.

Musky, spiced… and something warm, unmistakable, something uniquely him. A memory buried deep in her bones. Her breath hitched. It was Alphonse. Her Alphonse. The tension bled from her body and she let herself sink into his arms, wrapping her own around him with sudden, desperate strength.

“You’re alive,” she whispered, her voice breaking on the last word.

Alphonse closed his eyes, pressing his face against her hair as he took in her scent. Snowberries and pine—fresh, wild, and soothing all at once. Just like the winters of his childhood.

It was her. His Emiko.

She was alive.

The rest of the group stood frozen in the aftermath of the skirmish, weapons still in hand, eyes darting between Alphonse and the hooded woman now in his arms.

Throkreat pushed himself up from the ground, brushing dirt and grime from his armor. “Uh… am I the only one seeing this?” he muttered, narrowing his eyes. “Because five minutes ago, she was about to kill us, and now you’re hugging her?”

Thomme winced, flexing his sore wrist as the healing charm settled into his bones. “Yeah, I’d like to know why exactly she attacked us,” he added, his tone edged with irritation.

Alphonse released Emiko enough to take her hand and pull her to her feet. “It’s… complicated,” he said simply, glancing at her with a look that silenced further questions—for now.

Emiko’s foxlike ears twitched at every sound around them, her golden gaze flicking briefly to the shadows before settling back on Alphonse. “Do you have any idea what you’re carrying in that caravan?”

Alphonse frowned and shook his head. “No. We were given strict orders not to open it. We don’t even know what’s inside.”

Her ears flattened slightly, golden eyes narrowing in something between frustration and pity. Without another word, she strode toward the cart, her tail brushing against the air like a silver streak. Kneeling by the heavy lock, she worked her tools with quick, precise motions. The click of tumblers falling into place came in less than a heartbeat.

The lock fell away.

With a sharp breath, she threw the latch and swung the doors open.

Alphonse and his group stepped forward, their curiosity turning to shock in an instant.

Inside, huddled together in the dim light, were beast-children. But not just any beast-children—small horns curled from their heads, faint scales glinted under the grime of travel, and their eyes… those unmistakable slitted pupils burned with fear and defiance.

Dragon children.