Chapter Text
RUMI
Rumi thinks about death just about every day.
Not exactly in a longing way, really—she’s pretty sure she doesn’t want to die, at least not anytime soon, and there’s so many things she has to do before that can happen anyways—but she can’t help thinking about it, not when she’s been surrounded by death in one way or another her entire life. She grew up in a grand old house on a huge, sprawling piece of land on the outskirts of Seoul. A vast graveyard sits on the grounds, where countless generations of Hunters have been laid to rest. Her own mother is among the fallen—she died when Rumi was only a baby.
The knowledge that one day she’ll join them, join her, has always lingered at the back of her mind, as ever-present as the threads of the Honmoon, flowing and singing around her, or the sting of the marks that brand her skin. Always there. Haunting her.
She’s a Hunter, after all, or she will be someday, and Hunters lead dangerous lives. Many have grown old over the centuries, of course, but still others have died young. It’s a likely scenario, one that Rumi ponders endlessly.
There was never any question that Rumi would lead the next generation of Hunters. No other option but to follow in her mother’s footsteps. No choice but to do as Celine told her, to hide the patterns, the shame of what she came from, and live up to her mother’s legacy. But she doesn’t even know what her mother was like. Celine hardly ever talks about her. Honestly, Rumi can count the number of things she knows about her on one hand:
One. Her name was Ryu Miyeong.
Two. She died when Rumi was just a baby.
Three. She usually wore her hair in a long braid. It's the same way Celine has always done Rumi’s hair — practical, keeping her hair out of her face on stage and on the battlefield.
Four. She was a member of the Sunlight Sisters, the most renowned k-pop girl group of the ‘90s and early 2000s. Rumi knows her face only from photos and album covers and old magazines, her voice only from surviving interviews and listening to their greatest hits, which still play on the radio seemingly frequently enough to ignite the souls of their fans and keep the Honmoon from deteriorating as much as it might have over the last fourteen years.
Five. She was a member of the Sunlight Sisters yes, and the world had known her solely as a pop star, but she had been much more than that—a Hunter, chosen by the Honmoon to protect the world from demons that seek to destroy everything. In spite of that calling, she somehow managed to fall in love with a demon. Rumi’s father. And she paid the price for that mistake with her life.
Right now, though there’s no demons in sight—well, no other demons, but Rumi doesn’t count, right?—death feels a little closer than usual. A Hunter is swinging her blades at her, hard and fast, as though she’s forgotten this is supposed to be a training session, not an actual fight, brandishing the weapons like they’re a natural extension of her arms.
Maybe death would be preferable to this.
The ferocity in her not-quite-mother’s expression makes Rumi want to shudder. The gray streaks in Celine’s dark hair gleam silver in the dying sunlight, but she’s still every bit the formidable warrior she was in her youth, grace and power rippling with every movement of her lean, lithe body. Even in the crisp black sweatpants and loose white tank top she usually dons for sparring, she looks effortlessly glamorous, not even a hair out of place. At fourteen going on fifteen, Rumi is probably as tall as she’s going to get, slim and athletic in build, but although she’s been training with Celine for pretty much her entire life and has the muscles—and the scars—to prove it, she still feels awkward and scrawny in comparison. She doesn’t think she’ll ever measure up to her regal, sophisticated, impossibly perfect mentor.
Though the sun is slipping down towards the horizon, it’s still warm and muggy out. Even Rumi, who gets cold easily, is miserable, nearly suffocating in the heat of her faded blue Sunlight Sisters 1999 World Tour hoodie, and beneath it, the patterns across her shoulders are stinging in warning, like they know she’s a demon and Celine is a Hunter and that she should probably run or dodge or fight or do something. Danger! Danger! they seem to scream. She’s going to kill you!
Maybe this is how she dies. She’s imagined it this way before, though only a handful of times. Maybe one day Celine will do as she probably should have all those years ago, rid the world of another demon as is her duty.
No, I’m not one of them, Rumi thinks defiantly, as if the thought alone could vanquish the patterns and the pain and her own dark thoughts. I’m a Hunter—
“Feint to the left! Roll to the right!” Celine’s voice slices through her thoughts as she lunges toward her. She’s equal parts regal and ruthless, and she doesn’t hold back.
Rumi stumbles into action, trying to duck under her mentor’s attack but going the wrong way. She only barely manages to twist out of the way, blocking the oncoming blow with her own blade. The force knocks the saingeom from her hands, but it dissolves into stardust before it can hit the ground.
“Which left was that?” Celine snaps, venom dripping from her voice. “If I were a demon, I’d have taken your soul by now!”
“Sorry, Celine,” Rumi says, standing up straight. Her body trembles, and she forces down a few deep breaths, trying to calm the frantic beating of her heart. She’s not supposed to make these kinds of mistakes, or really any mistakes like, ever. Not when she already is one, when her very existence, every step that she takes and every breath that fills her lungs goes against everything that generations of Hunters have stood for. But if she could just get everything else right, maybe—just maybe—it could be enough to make up for it.
The Honmoon chose her, after all, in spite of what she is. She remembers it somehow, how it felt when the Honmoon chose her, how it wove her soul into its threads when she was only a baby, newly orphaned and crying in Celine’s arms. She shouldn’t remember it—she certainly doesn’t remember anything else that far back—but she does, she can still feel it in her bones, in her soul, hear the song it had whispered around her, singing you are chosen, you are wanted, you are loved.
She doesn’t feel particularly loved right now.
“‘Sorry’ won’t save any souls, Rumi,” Celine says, her voice cold but fierce. “The world relies on us to keep the Honmoon strong and slay any demons that make it in. In battle, you won’t have the luxury of making mistakes. Let’s try this again.”
“Yes, Celine,” Rumi says shakily, summoning her saingeom from the threads of the Honmoon once more as shame washes over her. She should be—no, she is—grateful that Celine spared her life, that she’s given her a chance at a grand destiny, a chance to make up for her mother’s mistake. But her patterns burn, clawing their way deep into her flesh. Her muscles are sore, screaming for a break, and her stomach is growling. The last thing she wants after a day of voice lessons and dance classes and recording sessions is to keep battle training.
But she doesn’t dare argue. She refuses to embarrass herself any more than she already has today.
Focus, Rumi, she thinks, taking another long, deep breath as Celine lunges at her once more. You can turn this around. It will be over soon, and then you can go and get something to eat.
There’s no room for error, no mistake left unpunished.
Blades clash and slash.
Cuts and bruises spread across Rumi’s skin, but she doesn’t flinch, doesn’t acknowledge the pain, and neither does Celine whenever Rumi gets a hit in.
They don’t hold back—Celine has never held back, her verbal critiques just as sharp as her blows. Rumi knows she means well, though. It’s just that this training is important. She has to push her to be the best Hunter she can be, even if it means being a little mean sometimes.
Rumi ducks, feeling the breeze as one of Celine’s blades slices the air where her head just was, then in one fluid motion slips between her mentor’s legs and sweeps her off-balance, sending her crashing to the ground in an unmoving heap. Just as swiftly, Rumi pounces on her, muscles tense as she awaits a reaction from Celine.
“How was that?” she asks, unable to help the thin tendril of hope that slips into her voice.
“Get off of me!” Celine cries, though Rumi thinks there might be a hint of amusement in her voice. That has to be a good sign, right? Something akin to a smile graces Celine’s features as Rumi rolls off of her and bounces to her feet, though she ignores Rumi’s outstretched hand and gets to her feet on her own. “Not bad,” she says, brushing herself off.
Not bad? Rumi’s heart leaps into her throat. It’s the closest thing to praise that she could hope for, but… she’s sensing there’s a but.
“But,” Celine says carefully, and it takes everything Rumi has in her to keep her shoulders from drooping as her hopes come crashing down and that glint of approval fades from her mentor’s eyes, “You have to stay focused. You cannot zone out like you did in a real fight or you will not survive your first hunt.”
Rumi stares at the ground, fidgeting with the end of her long violet braid. “I know,” she says, searching for a way to explain herself that doesn’t involve admitting she was daydreaming that Celine was going to kill her. “It’s just… it’s the patterns, they were hurting me, and I—”
“We don’t talk about them,” Celine cuts her off, her voice cold and sharp, like ice. “You cannot let them have any control over you, Rumi, you know that. When you and your Hunters turn the Honmoon gold, they’ll be gone, and we’ll never have to worry about them again. But until then, we pretend they don’t exist. We are Hunters, our—”
“Faults and fears must never be seen, I know,” Rumi says, her voice soft but defiant. Bile rises in her throat. It’s like this any time she brings up her patterns or anything to do with her… heritage. She’s not even sure why she bothered to try.
Celine watches her with a critical eye, her expression unreadable. Then her gaze softens, if only slightly, and she puts her hand on Rumi’s shoulder, so light she can hardly feel it under the fabric of the oversized hoodie. “It’s for your own good. For everyone’s good. Hiding them will keep you safe.”
Rumi stares at the ground, her eyes stinging with tears, but she will not cry, not in front of Celine. Never in front of Celine. She hardly realizes what she’s doing as she rolls up her hoodie sleeves to her elbows, way before where the patterns stop, and digs her nails into her forearms in a desperate attempt to distract herself from the familiar burning that zigzags across her shoulders. “And keep everyone else safe from me, right?”
Celine hesitates. “Our faults and fears must never be seen,” she says, not answering the question. Still, she straightens Rumi’s sleeves and takes her hands in her own to keep her from hurting herself, staring into her eyes. “It’s the only way to protect the Honmoon — that will keep everyone safe.”
And the Honmoon needs protecting, she doesn’t say out loud, but Rumi knows it just the same, can feel the words unspoken pulsing through the Honmoon’s starry threads. Now more than ever.
There are shadows beneath Celine’s eyes, darker than usual. She must be exhausted, Rumi realizes with a twinge of guilt. Celine is a Hunter in her own right, and the last of her generation both alive and willing to fulfill her duty. She’s been slaying demons on her own for the last fourteen years, and though three were needed to strengthen the Honmoon, she’d kept up a successful solo career in hopes that would keep it from falling apart until she found Rumi’s Hunters.
Her Hunters. The thought sends a thrill running down Rumi’s spine as brilliant as the Honmoon’s light. Celine always says that there’s no stronger connection than the one between Hunters of the same generation, that they share a bond so deep that they’re practically three pieces of the same soul. Celine lost hers a long time ago, of course, and it’s too painful for her to talk about—not that she would ever admit that. But Rumi is sure that’s why she’s so closed off a lot of the time.
Soon, soon, soon, Rumi shivers as the Honmoon whispers a quiet message around her soul. Rumi knows it like an old friend. Sensing it is second nature to her, as essential as breathing. She knows it is a fragile, delicate thing, that the ancient barrier is wearing thin in places, weakening, falling apart. That Celine can’t do everything on her own much longer. Soon you’ll be together…
The song gives her hope.
One day, Rumi will find her Hunters, the pieces of her soul, and once they’re trained they’ll be able to fulfill the duties Celine can’t, and then Celine won’t have to be so busy and stressed all the time.
And maybe, just maybe, she’ll be proud of her.
“Celine?” Rumi asks, words tumbling out of her mouth before she has the chance to think about them. “What if we looked for the others now? The sooner we find and train the other Hunters the sooner we can really help.”
Celine smiles sadly. “Believe me, I am trying, but it’s easier said than done. We must trust that the Honmoon will bring you three together when you are ready and not a moment sooner.”
“Yes, Celine,” Rumi says, her voice steady despite her disappointment.
“We’re done for the day,” Celine says with a sigh, squeezing Rumi’s hands once before letting go and heading for the house.
Rumi trails after her, trying desperately to hold onto the Honmoon’s song. Soon, soon, soon, it seems to whisper in her ear, chasing away the sense of dread that usually clings to her chest. The time is coming.
Soon she’ll find her Hunters, the other pieces of her soul.
Soon she’ll figure out a way to fix everything, fix herself.
Soon she’ll be free.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ* ﾟ･✧*:ﾟ･✧
Rumi watches her reflection in the foggy mirror with a long, heavy sigh as she begins the arduous task of brushing her long, damp, naturally-unnatural violet hair, taking in the bags under her tired eyes. It’s been a long, busy day, but the hot water from her shower had soothed her aching muscles and washed away the blood and sweat and dirt from her body, and she feels refreshed and almost energized despite needing to get ready for bed.
In the privacy of the bathroom, she’s free to wear one of the few remaining tank tops she owns. It’s a double-edged sword—she’s not overheating in the longer sleeves she usually wears, but she’s also not covering her patterns. Her shower had not, unfortunately, washed those away. There’s a part of her that always foolishly hopes it will, that if she scrubs at them hard enough eventually they’ll go away. But no, they’re still there, marring her shoulders and upper arms, the jagged stripes gleaming a dark, sickly shade of purple under the harsh bathroom lights. She hates them, hates even looking at them, but she’s always had a hard time tearing her gaze away.
That’s how she notices they’ve grown. Not too far, but enough that she notices. Enough that Celine will surely get rid of everything she owns with sleeves that aren’t long enough to cover it.
A burning sensation pulses beneath the markings, and she sets the brush down to massage her shoulders in an effort to force the pain away. It doesn’t help, and she lets a soft, pained whimper escape as she chokes back a sob.
Stop that! Rumi mentally scolds herself, fighting back tears. Your faults and fears must never be seen—they probably shouldn’t be heard either.
There’s a gentle knock at the door. “Rumi?” Celine calls, her voice slightly muffled. “Is everything alright in there?”
Rumi hesitates. She could lie—Celine hates hearing about her patterns. But she can’t think of a good enough excuse for crying in the bathroom fast enough. “…Th-they’re growing again,” she says miserably, sniffling as she unlocks the door and braces herself for Celine’s reaction. She knows she doesn’t need to elaborate. “I’m sorry, I-I can’t help it…”
Celine opens the door and steps into the bathroom, her expression hard to read. “It’s alright, Rumi,” she says in a low, hushed tone, glancing around as if there’s anyone else in the house that could overhear. She grabs a towel and drapes it over Rumi’s shoulders like a cloak. “Here. We’ll get you some longer sleeves and cover them up just like we always do.”
Rumi sighs softly. Just once, she wishes Celine would realize that covering her patterns doesn’t make her feel any better. The markings hurt, a constant, painful reminder that they’re there, staining her skin with her mother’s mistakes. But she doesn’t argue. She never does.
“O-okay. Thank you,” she says quietly, avoiding her mentor’s gaze as she reaches for the hoodie she’d brought to put on when she was finished and slips it over her head.
“You’re welcome,” Celine says, picking up the hair brush and twirling it around in her hand. “Now let’s get that hair of yours sorted out, shall we?”
That makes Rumi perk up. She’s perfectly capable of doing her hair herself, but she likes it more when Celine does it. “Okay!” she says, trying to contain her excitement as she follows her mentor down the hallway and into the living room.
Celine sits down on the couch and motions for Rumi to sit in front of her. Rumi plops down on the floor at her feet, her back leaning against her mentor’s legs and her knees pulled up against her chest. She brushes through her long purple hair until there’s not a single knot or tangle, then sets to work braiding her hair, softly humming a familiar, nostalgic tune as she works. Rumi can’t help it—she lifts her voice and sings along;
“We are hunters, voices strong
Slaying demons with our song
Fix the world and make it right
When darkness finally meets the light.”
Celine joins her on the last verse like she always did when Rumi was little, their voices harmonizing perfectly together.
Rumi lets out a soft, almost… content sigh, or at least the closest thing to content she’s capable of being. Something doesn’t sit right with that song anymore. How is she supposed to “fix the world and make it right” when everything about her is wrong?
She shifts awkwardly as Celine finishes her braid, as if she could shake away the unsettled feeling twisting her insides. A feeling of dread creeps over her, crawling up her back.
Celine stiffens—can she feel it too?
Then the Honmoon shivers, rippling with the vibrant, reddish-pink hue that means some part of it has weakened enough to let demons through the veil.
“There’s been a breach,” Celine says as if Rumi can’t sense it too, her voice tinged with quiet urgency as she heads for the door. “I have to go.”
Go, go, go, the Honmoon whispers in Rumi’s ears, and before she knows what she’s doing, Rumi is scrambling to her feet too. It’s time, it’s time, it’s time…
“Celine, wait!! Let me come with you!” Rumi cries.
Celine stops in her tracks. The Honmoon is whispering to her, too, Rumi can feel it. She knows Celine won’t refuse its call.
“Okay,” Celine says almost reluctantly, frowning. “But you have to keep up.”
“I will, I promise,” Rumi says, excitement bubbling up inside her as she follows her mentor out of the house and into her destiny.
True to her word, Celine makes no allowances for Rumi, her pace barely slowing as she leads her into the city, leaping from rooftop to rooftop, some that she can clear in a single leap but which Rumi has to scramble across step by step.
Though she struggles to keep up, exhilaration pulses through her. She lifts her head and takes in everything—the neon lights that shine like stars, the skyscrapers rising high in the distance, silhouetted against the endless horizon, the wind rushing through her hair as she bounds across the city. The Honmoon surges around her, through her, carrying her faster than she should be able to move, pushing her mind and body to the limits to bring her where she’s meant to be.
Up ahead, Celine has paused, crouching on the edge of a rooftop. Around her, the Honmoon glows with that sickly pinkish-purple, its threads torn in places. Rumi can feel its pained cries echoing in her ears, and her stomach coils as she lands beside Celine.
This is where the demons made it through to the human world.
This is where her first hunt truly begins.
“Stay quiet and follow my lead,” Celine says, her voice low and stern. She doesn’t take her eyes off the alley below. “We assess the situation before we act.”
“Yes, Celine,” Rumi says softly, trembling as she follows her mentor’s gaze.
There’s a swarm of demons in the alley, maybe a dozen of them in different shapes and sizes—ones with horns, ones with tusks, ones with two eyes, ones with one eye, claws and clubs and everything in between. What unifies them are the patterns that ripple across their skin. Rumi forces herself not to recoil in horror, her chest tightening in panic. No, no, no, I’m not one of them, she thinks, her heart pounding in her ears. I will never be one of them.
She sucks in a deep breath. Focus. You are a Hunter! Your faults and fears must never be seen! This is what you’ve been training for all this time!
Something else in the alley catches Rumi’s eye.
Her heart leaps into her throat.
There’s a girl about Rumi’s age, tall and lithe and willowy, with a distinctive angular face complimented by round glasses that gleam golden in the low light. Her hair is dyed a violently bright shade of pink, dark hairs showing along the roots.
What’s most striking, however, is that while she’s clearly—and reasonably, given she’s surrounded by demons—scared out of her mind, she looks more angry than anything. The biggest demon has her pinned against the far wall, grotesque jaws already agape, but she struggles in its grasp, seemingly unwilling to give up her soul without a fight.
No! No! No! the Honmoon screeches suddenly, wailing in Rumi’s ears, so loud and pained that she nearly falls off the roof. They cannot have this one!
She doesn’t stop to think, doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even realize what she’s doing until her saingeom is in her hands, shining like starlight in the darkness, and then she’s leaping off the rooftop like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like she’s been doing this her whole life.
“Rumi, wait!” Celine screams, but Rumi is already mid-air—it’s far too late to stop. She brings the blade down with all her strength, the demon dissolving into dust around them as she lands right where it just stood, right in front of the girl, who stares at her with wide eyes.
Time freezes as Rumi meets her gaze. Something inside her clicks into place.
Oh.
The Honmoon shines brighter than she’s ever seen it before, singing of love and laughter and belonging as its threads twist around the two of them, weaving them together. Rumi’s own soul cries out in response. Something fierce and warm and powerful rises in her chest, filling her with light.
This is the first of her Hunters. A third of her soul.
Right here, right now, she’s found her.
Together, together, together at last, the Honmoon sings, sending a shiver down Rumi’s spine. This is the beginning of everything.
The girl must feel it too, though she probably doesn’t understand the weight of what’s happening like Rumi does, doesn’t see the Honmoon’s threads or the faint glow of their souls in their chests. She looks confused and scared and awestruck all at the same time, her eyes darting from Rumi to Celine, who’s swinging her blades, taking out demons two at a time—when did she get down here? Rumi wonders but doesn’t put much thought into it—to all the demons surrounding them.
Are you okay? Rumi tries to ask, but what actually comes out of her mouth is a string of unintelligible sounds that she’s pretty sure she’s never made before and probably couldn’t repeat even if she tried. Great job, Rumi, she thinks, a spark of pain flickering over her patterns. Way to make a first impression!
“What’s going on?” the girl asks without batting an eye at Rumi’s strangeness. Her voice is deep, rough around the edges, but surprisingly steady despite, well, everything. Rumi opens her mouth to respond, but the words catch in her throat and in any case, the shout that follows would have drowned them out—“WATCH OUT!”
The girl surges forward, shoving Rumi out of the path of the demon that had been about to attack. The tips of its claws still manage to rake Rumi in the side and she remembers with a jolt that oh, right, there’s a battle going on and manages to tear her eyes away from the newfound piece of her soul and slash her saingeom at the offending demon with a satisfying spray of dust.
“Th-thank you,” Rumi stammers, trying to remember how to breathe.
“I think I should be the one thanking you,” the girl says with a shrug, surprisingly nonchalant given what’s going on. “You saved my life.”
Adrenaline courses through Rumi’s veins as she fights, sharpening her reflexes, strengthening her muscles. The persistent pain in her markings dulls. She can barely feel the scratches that adorn her side. Her body, honed through years of training for this, knows just what to do, how to move, how to end any demon in her path.
She falls into step with Celine, fighting side-by-side, watching each other’s backs, keeping each other safe. The blade of her saingeom gleams as it slices through her enemies, her movements focused, fluid, precise, everything she’s been training to be her to be.
It feels like this is what she was made for.
She almost doesn’t want it to end.
It ends, of course, as good things always do. Celine throws her blade like a boomerang, catching the last demon in the back of the head before it even knows what hits it, and then the alley is still and quiet save for their heavy breathing.
We did it! I did it! Rumi thinks. I killed my first demons! I survived my first hunt!
“What happened to assessing the situation before we act?” Celine snaps, shattering the silence and Rumi’s excitement in one breath.
“But I did assess the situation,” Rumi protests, shrinking in on herself. “The assessment was ‘this girl is going to die if I don’t do something right now!’ A-and the Honmoon, it was screaming…” she lets her voice trail off, patterns burning in shame as she stares into her mentor’s disappointed eyes.
“You could have died!” Celine cries, and Rumi realizes with a jolt that the disappointment and anger in her eyes is mixed with fear. She’s never seen Celine look scared before.
“I could have died, but she would have,” Rumi says guiltily. She never argues with Celine, would usually never dream of it, but this feels different. This feels important. If she’s going to lead her own Hunters someday, won’t she have to be able to make those kinds of decisions, those kinds of sacrifices? Though, as much as Rumi is convinced this line of work has her destined to die young, she can admit it would have been pretty embarrassing to let it happen on her first hunt.
Celine relents, a fragile, wavering smile softening her features as she takes a deep breath. Her fingers brush the curve of Rumi’s cheek, the touch soft and feather-light. The Honmoon hums around her as Rumi lifts her head to meet Celine’s eyes, its song low and mournful but with a faint undertone of hope. For a moment she can almost forget the tightness in her chest and the rapid beating of her heart, almost remember how to breathe again.
“Rushing headfirst into danger, just like your mother,” Celine says, her voice so quiet Rumi can hardly hear it. “You nearly gave me a heart attack, but… you fought well, Rumi.”
Rumi perks up, her heart soaring. Even the Honmoon hums its approval, and she thinks she just might melt. “Thank you!” she says breathlessly, a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth.
The girl clears her throat, drawing their attention back to her. “I, for one, am okay with the me-not-dying option. I prefer it, actually,” she deadpans, crossing her arms and leaning against the wall. “Now, are either of you going to explain what just happened or should I pretend that it was a fever dream and go home?”
“No! Don’t go!” Rumi blurts out without thinking. Celine glances at her and she straightens up. “Um, I mean, we’ll explain everything, I promise.”
“Okay, okay. Rumi, right?” the girl asks, studying her, her gaze lingering on the long, vibrant purple braid that cascades down Rumi’s back. “… I think I know you from somewhere,”
“You probably do. I uh, guess I’m sort of… famous,” Rumi says awkwardly, hoping it doesn’t sound like she’s bragging because really she’s not, she just… is. She’s never been allowed not to be. She’s the daughter of Ryu Miyeong, beloved member of the Sunlight Sisters, after all. She’s been in the public eye to at least some degree her whole life, more so since starting her YouTube channel—Celine’s idea, to get her connected to a fanbase ahead of time and perhaps stave off allegations of nepotism. Either way, it’s entirely likely that this girl, this stranger, this piece of her soul has seen her before.
She glances at Celine for help or reassurance or something. Several emotions flash through her mentor’s eyes at once—surprise and excitement and longing and grief—then her face settles into a pleasantly neutral expression.
“It seems we’ve found another Hunter,” she says, sounding slightly strained. “What’s your name, child?”
The girl hesitates. “… Mira,” she grunts, staring at Celine as if she’s trying to place where she knows her from.
Mira! The name reverberates through Rumi’s soul as she commits it to memory. She bounces up and down on her feet, hardly able to contain her excitement. Then Celine catches her eye and she stops, clasping her hands together and trying to stay still. Her hoodie is tattered and stained with the blood that oozes from the claw-wounds on her torso. Her legs are trembling. She feels lightheaded, dizzy with adrenaline and excitement and anxiety and maybe some blood loss.
Mira watches them through narrow, suspicious eyes, her expression hard to read, but Rumi can tell the exact moment it registers who she’s talking to—her eyes go wide, and a soft gasp escapes her lips.
“Wait, you’re—”
“Celine, yes,” Celine interrupts her with a wry smile, though her tone is remarkably gentle. She sucks in a deep breath. “There’s… a lot we need to talk about, Mira. We are about to change your life.”