One HP extra

Chapter 20 – The Silent Trail (Part 1)

—Mira—

"I'm supposed to be watching him."

The words came flat, without emotion. Not out of care. Not out of fear. But duty. Cold, bitter duty.

She stood in the morning light, staring at the empty cot where he was supposed to be. The sheets were still unwrinkled. Untouched. He hadn't even pretended to sleep here.

Mira's jaw tightened.

Of course he didn't.

That arrogant bastard.

She pulled her gloves tighter around her fingers, tucked a stray strand of hair behind one ear, and turned without a sound.

Her boots clicked quietly on the wooden floorboards of the tavern. Not a soul dared to meet her eyes. Most didn't know who she was—just that the air shifted when she entered. That something dangerous had just sat down.

The barkeep's hand trembled slightly as he wiped a mug.

"I need a name," she said. "A man. Black hair, black eyes, pale skin. Carries himself like he owns the ground he walks on. Scar on the collarbone."

The man blinked. "Uh…"

"He came here last night."

The tavern's back table creaked. A voice muttered, low and resentful, "Didn't give a name. Just bruised mine."

Mira turned, slow.

The speaker was half-bandaged. His right eye swollen shut. Lip cut. A smudge of dried blood at his temple.

He pointed to himself with a scoff. "He wanted information. Didn't ask. Didn't threaten. Just took."

She raised an eyebrow. "And what did you give him?"

He glared. "Just said some slave trade camp passed through two days ago. That they'd taken a forgotten path north into the pines."

"No names?"

"Nobody told him about the girl, if that's what you're thinking," the man growled. "Hell, I didn't know they had one of those. He just wanted slavers. He looked like he'd already decided to kill them."

Mira narrowed her eyes.

So he didn't go after her.

He didn't even know.

She turned without another word.

The trail was rough—half-cleared, not meant for regular use. Wagon ruts had been half-covered by leaves and damp earth. But she followed the signs anyway.

Broken branches. Mud-slicked footprints. A scrap of black cloth snagged on a thornbush.

He hadn't been careful. Or maybe… he couldn't be.

She crouched beside a snapped tripwire—one of his, clearly. Crude. Functional. Just like him.

"He's not a trained swordsman," she whispered. "He never studied. Never passed a proper exam. Never entered a guild."

And yet… the man she served, however reluctantly, had gone off to attack a slaver caravan alone.

Why?

She wasn't naive. She knew Arman. Knew the type of man he pretended to be. Ruthless. Detached. A noble with no land, no title, and too much pride to die quietly. The kind who bullied servants, barked orders, and said nothing of value.

But she had watched him.

And what she saw behind that arrogance was something she couldn't quite name. Not weakness. Not cruelty. Just… hollowness. Like the more blood he spilled, the more empty he became.

He wasn't supposed to be capable of anything meaningful.

And yet here she was.

Following the wake of his warpath.

By the time she caught the scent of fire, it was long past noon. Crows circled overhead, their cries echoing through the trees.

And then—

She found them.

Bodies.

Ten, maybe more. Scattered across the ruined clearing like discarded dolls.

Slavers. All of them.

Throats slit. Chests pierced. Necks broken. Some bled out. Others had clearly been hunted—chased down through the trees and killed far from camp. It wasn't just brute strength that did this.

It was precision.

Like someone had known exactly where to strike.

She stepped around a body and knelt, examining a blade wound near the ribs. Clean. Deep. No hesitation.

Her fingers tightened.

"This isn't training," she murmured. "This is survival."

There were blood trails leading deeper into the woods. Drag marks. Some fresh.

She followed them in silence, boots crushing dead leaves, heart hammering despite herself.

And then—

Voices. Not words. Just the echo of rage. A crash. A roar.

Steel.

And silence.

She picked up her pace, breath cold in her throat. A dozen more strides, then—

She saw her.

A girl. Fox ears. Black fur matted with ash and grime. Lean. Gaunt. And protective—kneeling, shielding something with her arms.

No.

Someone.

Mira's eyes narrowed.

It was Arman.

Collapsed against a tree. Blood everywhere. Chest rising only faintly. Sword discarded at his side like it had been ripped from his grasp.

She stopped, unseen, just beyond the edge of the clearing. Took it all in.

The fox girl hadn't fled. She hadn't run.

She was… defending him.

Arman. The man who couldn't be bothered to remember a maid's name. Who barked orders like a spoiled heir. Who never once showed the capacity for sacrifice.

What did he do?

What could he have done?

She saw the scars on the ground. The crushed roots. The blood that smeared everything.

He shouldn't be breathing.

And yet—

Here he was.

She stepped forward, boots whispering against the grass.

Certainly. Here's a polished version of that moment with your requested emotional weight and inner reflection from Mira. It's focused, not too long, and captures her realization clearly:

"…What happened here?"

The girl flinched and looked up—eyes wild, defiant, scared.

And in that moment, Mira understood something that made her throat tighten.

This wasn't about glory. It wasn't about some petty, noble quest to prove himself.

He hadn't done this for status. Or pride. Or power.

He had bled. He had nearly died.

For others.

For her.

Mira stared at him—unmoving, unconscious, covered in blood—and for the first time since she had been assigned to him, she felt… wrong.

This isn't the young master I know.

The lazy, arrogant boy who skipped lessons, snapped at servants, treated everything like a game.

What happened to you?

What kind of hell did you crawl through to become this?

She didn't say any of it aloud.

—Mira—

"…What happened here?"

The fox girl flinched. Her ears jerked up, golden eyes locking onto Mira with sudden, animal sharpness. She shifted her body between Arman and the new threat, arms still wrapped around his unmoving form.

"Don't touch him," she hissed. Her voice was raw. Shaky. Protective. "Who are you?"

Mira kept her distance, hands slightly raised, as if approaching a cornered beast.

"I'm not here to hurt him."

"Liar," Kyra growled. "You smell like them."

Mira blinked, caught off guard. "Like who?"

"Like them. Chains. Fire. Greed." Her eyes shimmered, too bright, too fierce for someone half-starved and barely standing.

Mira's tone hardened, cool and clipped. "If I don't help him, he'll die. You realize that, don't you?"

"I don't care," Kyra said. "I won't let you take him."

"I'm not here to take him. I'm his maid."

Kyra's brows pulled together in disbelief. "What?"

Mira took a slow step forward. Then she unfastened a small chain from her belt and held up a crest — black, silver-edged, etched with Arman's house sigil. "His maid. Assigned to him. Bound by blood oath."

Kyra didn't move.

Absolutely — you're right. Mira listing behavioral quirks wouldn't mean much to Kyra, who barely knows Arman beyond his actions in battle. For a scene like this to work, the proof needs to be something irrefutable — something physical and magical, especially in a world with blood pacts or soul-bound contracts.

Here's how you can revise that moment to incorporate the idea of a blood pact as undeniable proof, while keeping Mira's personality intact:

"You want proof?" Mira asked, voice sharp now. "He curses like a noble, sleeps like a corpse, and picks fights with people twice his size just to feel something. That enough for you?"

Kyra didn't move.

Didn't blink.

Mira clicked her tongue.

"Of course it's not. You barely know him. Words mean nothing to you."

She reached into her coat and pulled out a small, metal clasp. When she pressed her thumb to its surface, a soft glow pulsed along the engraved seal — a swirling mark bound in red and silver, faintly flickering.

A drop of blood rose to the surface of Mira's nail. The pact reacted.

She held it out.

"This is a servant's token. Blood-bound. Proof of contract, soul-stamped. You only get this if he accepts you into his house willingly. Try to forge one, and it burns your arm off."

Kyra narrowed her eyes, gaze flicking between the token and Arman's broken form.

"…He chose you?" she asked quietly.

Mira's voice softened, just a breath.

"Yes."

Kyra's grip trembled.

Behind her, Arman gave a low, broken breath — shallow, but real. His fingers twitched.

Mira's voice dropped. "Let me help him. Or watch him die."

Kyra didn't answer right away. Her body sagged slightly, arms still curled around him, and her breath hitched.

Then — slowly — she nodded.

Mira knelt beside her, already pulling out a wrapped salve kit and potion vial from her satchel.

"You did good," she said quietly. "Now let someone else carry it the rest of the way."

And Kyra, exhausted and trembling, finally let herself fall beside him — not in surrender, but in trust.

Just this once.