Samiya

When the last cherry blossom finally fell from the branches lining the avenue, Samiya cornered the three assassins on a high rooftop. The freezing wind whipped at their adventurer’s pack, but they felt none of the chill. They were not from this city of purple skies and ever-present bamboo, but they had made a life here. Before, they were a wanderer, defined only by the war paint on their face and the miles under their feet. Then they met Shinka, whose gentle hands could mend pottery and whose quiet presence could mend a traveler’s soul. Samiya found a reason to stop roaming. The assassins wanted a map Shinka had unknowingly acquired. A faint smile played on Samiya’s lips. They had mistaken a petal for something fragile.