#afterburning

There between the bushes, a beautiful bird sat. Red feathers, intelligent eyes. It had discovered her but fearlessly refused to move from its resting spot. Must I shoot it, Mother? She asked. It is so pretty!

Yet that was precisely why that bird was selected for her archery practice. On the field, skill alone would never be enough.

Wanning let the arrow loose, just as a person suddenly emerged from the trees. She stepped between the bird and the arrow and blood splattered across the field of grass, coating vibrant green in sickening crimson. Wanning's hand flew to her lips, pushing back a scream. Deep down, she knew it wasn't reality, and this was yet another nightmare that had found her. Wake up! She willed herself, tears silently trailing down from the back of her hands. Wake up-

They say lady Wanning was recovering well. One of the nobles that had survived with the least amount of damage. Perhaps they were right, but at night, when no one watched, Wanning sometimes found herself fearful of what could have happened. She'd push herself into the very corner of the room, wrap her arms around her shoulders, and crumple up until she was small. One, two, three. She'd count until her eyelids fluttered shut from exhaustion. Count until her mind was empty.

Only once her mental state stabilized did she finally return to her people. A visit to the Zhao estate was necessary because she missed her friends and needed to reassure Keran of the fact she still breathed. Wanning practiced her expression, and rehearsed words of reassurance under her breath in hopes of maximizing comfort for her precious dove. But it was not Keran she saw first, but her older brother, Jiyu.

In the week that follows the night of the blood moon, Geonwoo finds himself a shell of himself — far more still than his typical. The occupation he holds lends him better excuse to ceaselessly wade in the depths of his mind. He thinks he must have been visited by a malignant spirit during the evening. Did he drift off in his wandering around mindlessly? Or perhaps his answers lie with something more concrete and logical.

He steps across the streets of Hari Bulkan, turning corners of the winding walls that line the palace and edge the Red Waste on the other side. The faces of many different people pass him by. Elderly, young, scarred and sorrowful, determined and hopeful. There is an agreed upon level of peace within the heavily guarded area; all the while, behind the scenes dwell machinations and interpersonal politics that make his head spin. ( And it is unexpected he unwillingly joins in. )

Geonwoo crosses a threshold and turns. At the end of the open corridor stand two men facing each other, quite obviously entrenched in some sort of argument. However, it takes little time for it to escalate into a flurry of fists and projectile fire. A guard and a noble of unknown identity tear into each other with a fury not seen since the tournament. It provokes him to act. One breath in and he can feel the blood bubbling underneath his skin growing hot, the breath that flows from his nostrils scalding as steam.

He steps forward with the intent to break up the brawling, but it takes little coaxing to lure him into the desire to ruin. Geonwoo takes particular aim at the guard, fingers digging into the robes that his armor does not touch. Pushed against the wall, he takes no mercy with his throws of punches. Wordlessly, mercilessly.