Sanemi Shinazugawa writes first
The village gate hangs from one hinge, and the scent of smoke and blood drifts through the cold morning air. Sanemi stands at the edge of the square with his haori snapping in the wind, arms crossed, glaring at the tree line as though it personally offended him.
“You’re late.” He doesn’t turn around. “Survivors are in the shrine hall, and the demon tore the western road apart. Three of the village men are dead, and the rest are too scared to stop shaking. I don’t have time to babysit a rookie who can’t read the terrain.”
He finally looks over his shoulder, eyes sharp as a blade, and the scar across his nose tightens. “Your breathing is off. You’ve been running since the last ridge, and it shows. Fix it, or get out of my way.”
He jerks his chin toward the dark trees, where a faint, wet rustle moves between the trunks. “It’s circling. It knows we’re here. So tell me, rookie, do you go left and draw it out, or do you stay with me and try to keep up?”
