The arrow whistled past her ear, burying itself with a decisive thunk into the tree trunk beside her. Yuzora barely shifted, her gaze fixed on the shimmer of torchlight breaking through the thick canopy of the Ashwood Forest. Her attackers were persistent—she had to give them that. Adjusting her balance, she crouched lower against the sturdy branch she had claimed as her perch. Moonlight painted the forest floor below in silvery hues, contrasting the deep, rich purples of her sleeveless silk tunic, cinched at the waist by a white sash. Her dark, voluminous hair, streaked with purplish highlights, was pinned high in a sweeping updo, its strands catching the light like woven obsidian. A pair of soft leather arm guards, embroidered with flowing patterns of ash leaves, completed her ensemble, blending elegance with the practicality of a hunted woman.
Down below, the hunters were closing in. Their chainmail clinked—a melody of iron and inevitability—as they moved in uneven formation. “She can’t have gone far,” one of the men barked, his voice rough from the smoke-filled air of their earlier ambush. Yuzora felt her muscles coil. Every shadow, every whispered gust of wind, could be her ally now. She carried no weapons but the tiny herbivory dagger at her hip. Escape, as always, would require wit and precision.
The Ashwood smelled of damp moss and wildflowers, a deceptive tranquility masking the web of tangled fates unfolding beneath its ancient boughs. This forest had always been her second skin, but now it felt like a closing fist—a stage for her pursuers, hired swords whose loyalty was bought by the House of Azharen.
She clenched her jaw. The Azhariens needed her alive—at least for now. Their lies could never stand on their own without her, the last surviving heir to the Midnight Ministry, whose roots thrived in truth, not tyranny. A vow whispered to her late father on his deathbed burned in her mind: Expose their betrayal and restore what was lost.
The Spark Before the Flames
Two weeks ago, the court echoed with the clash of alliances undone. Yuzora had stood in the luminous marble hall of Saniath Palace, draped in sapphire robes befitting her station, her violet-highlighted hair braided in intricate whorls. The scent of myrrh and smoldering parchment filled the air as she read the decree. Her council had warned her. Captain Gael had begged her: You’re spitting in the eyes of lions.
But Yuzora had laughed then, wearing that same calm confidence that now graced her serene face atop the Ashwood branches. She’d lived long enough to know cleverness often outlasted claws.
But something had shifted in her adversaries that day. She’d expected threats, certainly—perhaps even an assassination attempt over stale wine laced with nightshade. And yet when the palace burned under the silver glow of an artificial storm, the nature of their malice revealed itself as something feral, untamed, and relentless. Betrayed by her own council in the chaos, pursued from the safety of the palace into the wilderness of the Ashwood, Yuzora had become a fugitive overnight. Now, high above the forest floor, she waited for her moment beneath the cloak of her enemies’ arrogance.
Beyond the Canopy
Back in the present, Yuzora’s sharp senses caught the flick of a torch too close to her branch. The scent of burning pine was beginning to irritate her nose. She breathed deeply, centering herself—the rise and fall of her chest visible beneath the plunging neckline of her outfit, her poise an unyielding middle finger to the storm that sought to drown her.
A crossbowman paused directly below her perch. His weapon gleamed under the torchlight, a mechanism too precise to belong to these wild mercenaries—no doubt gifted by their Azharen masters. He squinted up into the branches, his eyes narrowing on her shadow’s silhouette against the moonlight.
There!
he hissed, raising the bow. But Yuzora didn’t hesitate. She released her hold on the branch, twisting her body mid-air with the grace of a falling raven. Her leather boots hit his shoulders before he could pull the trigger, collapsing him beneath her weight. Both torch and crossbow clattered to the mossy floor, bathing the scene in flickering dimness. She spared him only a moment’s glance before sprinting into the thick underbrush, her silk tunic catching on stray brambles but narrowly avoiding tear.
The chase was on, her movements a blur against the shifting silver backdrop of the Ashwood. She wove between dense evergreens and ancient oaks, their knotted roots reaching hungrily for her next misstep. Heart pounding, she spotted the glimmering beacon of a crystal spring ahead—an exit point she’d scouted days prior. Around her, the shouts of her hunters grew louder, a symphony of rage and futility.
Leaping over fallen logs and dodging jagged stones, Yuzora finally reached the spring. Its water sparkled faintly with an unnatural sheen, a trick of the ancients who had once ruled this land. She stopped abruptly, panting. Before her, the mouth of a narrow cavern yawned in invitation. Clutching the edge of her sash for focus, her mind darted between choices. Outside, the hunt roared closer. Before plunging into the cavern, she glanced back at the forest—its towering trees casting long, embracing shadows across the earth.
This isn’t over. She slid into the darkness, her figure swallowed by the unknown.
The Source…check out the article that inspired this amazing short story: Yuzuriha Cosplay Inspiration: Rock the Deep Purple Look from Dr. Stone
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