The Masked Legacy

Thorne withdrew his sword from the body of the beast, wiping the blood off on its fur before turning to the carcass. He began to methodically carve out pieces of meat. The soft crackling of the fire beside him was the only sound, save for the occasional snap of a bone as he worked. They needed the food—he and Akira would have to rely on this kill to keep them going.

He glanced over at Akira, who was sitting nearby, cleaning her own blade after having dispatched most of the beasts herself. Her movements were efficient, skilled, but there was a calmness in her demeanor now. She was no ordinary maskless, that much was clear.

Thorne sighed, casting a curious glance toward her.

"Who are you anyway? You took down those beasts like it was nothing?"

Akira looked up, her expression softening just a bit.

"I'm training to be a warrior nun at the Temple of Sango." She said, her voice full of reverence

"A Warrior nun, huh?" he said, a grin tugging at his lips.

"I didn't know I was in the company of such esteemed royalty."

Akira rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress a smile.

"Hardly royalty. It's not like Sango chose me or anything. I've been training at the temple since I was young. It's just what I was taught to do."

Thorne hummed thoughtfully, slicing through a thick tendon.

"Still, the Warrior nuns aren't just anyone. They're the best of the best?"

Akira shrugged.

"That's the idea. We're trained in combat and magic, sure, but it's not all glamorous. It's a lot of blood, sweat, and broken bones."

She glanced down at her hand—or rather, the stump where her hand used to be. Her voice grew quieter.

"And sometimes worse."

Thorne's interest piqued.

"So, you're aiming to be part of this elite group?"

Akira nodded, her face growing more serious.

"Yeah. It's been my goal since I was a kid. I was taken in by the temple at a young age. My parents died when I was little—never knew much about them. The temple became my home, and Sango's flame... well, it became my purpose."

There was a flicker of emotion in her voice, something hidden beneath the confident facade she usually wore. Thorne remained quiet, allowing her to continue.

"It's not just about fighting," she explained, looking down at her hand, flexing her fingers like she was feeling the weight of her missing one.

 "It's about strength—true strength. The kind that comes from within, from Sango's fire. We're taught to channel that power, to protect those who can't protect themselves. I want to be that shield for others... especially now."

Thorne nodded, understanding the weight of her words.

 "So that's why you're here? To prove yourself?"

Akira met his gaze, her expression hardening.

"Yeah. I came to the Garden to find my source, like you. But also to test myself. To see if I have what it takes. Losing my hand… it's a setback for now, sure. Here in the Garden, every injury is a weakness that can get you killed. It's harder to fight, harder to stay sharp. But it won't stop me."

She looked down at her bandaged stump, her lips pressing into a thin line.

"When I get out of here, the healers of Obatala will fix this. They'll reopen the wound and heal it properly. I know that much. But until then…" Her voice trailed off as she flexed her remaining hand.

"Until then, I have to adapt."

Thorne admired her resolve. Despite her loss, Akira refused to let it define her. There was something inspiring in the way she handled herself, a strength that ran deeper than her wounds. Considering the grueling training the battle nuns of Sango endured, Akira wasn't even one of them yet—and still, her body was already a testament to the life she led. Scars crisscrossed her arms and legs, each one telling a story of survival.

Thorne could only imagine how brutal a wound had to be to leave such a mark, even after the healers' touch.

He crouched over the slain beast, wiping his blade clean on the grass before placing the last of the carcass into his ring.

The meat would sustain them for a while, but they couldn't linger. The sun was climbing higher, and the air had grown thick and humid. The Garden of the Gods was alive around them—the sway of the trees, the distant chittering of unseen birds. But it was a deceptive peace.

After a moment, he straightened and turned to Akira.

"Let's go. We need to keep moving," he said, his tone firm but not unkind.

Akira looked at him, her mouth set in a determined line as she adjusted her grip on her sword.

"Right. No point in standing still."

Thorne led the way, using his senses to navigate through the dense foliage. The second location they were headed for wasn't far now, and he could feel a subtle shift in the air as they drew closer. There was a pull, something intangible but unmistakable—the Garden itself urging them onward.

The heat pressed down on them, making each step heavier, but neither of them complained. They had no choice but to push forward. Thorne's thoughts flickered to his own goal, the reason he had ventured into this sacred, dangerous place.

 His mask—he had to carve it, to finish what he had started. The wood he'd chosen felt heavy in his ring, a constant reminder that his journey was far from over.

And Akira? She walked beside him, her injury slowing her only slightly, but her spirit unbroken.

They were both out here for the same thing—survival, strength, a future beyond their limitations.