Robin’s grip on the hilt tightened, leather biting into her palm. The blade gleamed like a captive sunbeam, poised just above her shoulder, a promise of violence she couldn’t quite make good on. Not yet. Not when those eyes held her steadfast.
For a heartbeat, she forgot the cold biting her cheeks. Forgot the ache of the long hunt that led her here. All she felt was the unnatural stillness between them. The ice hiding the swells of a lake-bed below, endless and dark.
Robin exhaled, slow through her nose, a thin cloud unraveling into the blue-black air. Her smirk, small and wolfish, tugged reluctantly.
“Strike winter?” Her voice rasped, soft yet sharp, repeating the Queen as if tasting the words for the first time. “Sounds like a poetic end. Tragic, even.”
The tip of her blade dipped an inch—not surrender, never that—but enough to whisper uncertainty. Or maybe temptation.
“Tell me something first,” Robin murmured, her eyes narrowing, not in threat but in hunger for knowing. “What do you want here? You are no Yuki-onna, this I can sense. But... Even I am unsure what ground I am on in your presence.”
The wind caught then, sweeping her haori like a dark wing, her body poised between attack and something far more dangerous: fascination.
