~A Song for the Reaper~
~XxX~
Ichigo took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure after the ordeal. The air in Drogo's tent was stale, but carried a strange, welcoming calm. He ignored his sisters' worried looks for just a moment to gather his thoughts.
"How'd it go?" Karin, ever the curious one — and never good with silence — finally broke.
"I don't know," Ichigo said with a shrug. "I laid down the law as best as I know how, but it's anyone's guess if those assholes will actually listen to me."
"Well, they better. If not, you just have to kick their asses again until they do," Karin huffed, crossing her arms. It was obvious to Ichigo that his sister was still fuming from their earlier conversation with Sarea.
Not that he blamed her. Anger was a good response to what they'd heard — better than fear or dread, at least.
Still, he had to set his little sis straight.
"Karin," he began, voice calm but firm, "as much as I'd love to agree with you, beating the shit out of people isn't a sustainable strategy for governance. Fear doesn't hold forever. To keep the Dothraki afraid of me, I'd have to get more brutal over time. I already had to break bones just now. What's next? Cutting off limbs? Torture? Violence might bring order, but it won't bring change — not the kind that lasts, or the kind worth having."
Karin shrunk back a little, and Yuzu paled. Ichigo had no doubt his smart sisters had plenty of historical examples swirling in their minds to back up his words. The human brain adapted — that was the scary part. What felt horrifying yesterday became bearable today and normal tomorrow.
And that wasn't even touching on the bigger concern — the danger of exposing a people as violent as the Dothraki to his Reiatsu. The last thing he needed was a bunch of superpowered savages running wild.
"Then we'll think of something else," Yuzu said, quiet but firm — her 'mother voice' in full effect, the same one that could tame the entire Kurosaki household in a heartbeat. "We may have come here by accident, but now that I've seen how they live — now that I've heard how they treat others — I won't stand for it. Not if I can help change it."
Ichigo and Karin exchanged a look — a silent agreement — before turning to their youngest sibling.
"Understood," Ichigo said.
"Right, sis," Karin added, a smirk tugging at the corner of her scowl.
And yet, none of them had a clue where to even begin. How do you change a people?
Ichigo ran a hand through his hair. It had been a long day, and pondering questions with no answers didn't feel like a productive use of time.
"Alright. We've decided on a course of action. That's something. But a lot of shit's gone down today, and I'm tired. Tomorrow, we learn more about the Dothraki — maybe get Sarea to tell us everything she knows in detail. Then we take stock of what we've got — how many people, any resources or funds, how their logistics work. For now? Bedtime."
"But Ichigo, I'm not tired!"
"Ichi-nii!"
"None of that now," he said, shooting down the whining with a stern glare and a nod toward the bedding of furs and silks. "You both want to be princesses? Then you need your beauty sleep."
Karin sputtered and Yuzu blushed. "Princesses!?"
Ichigo grinned. "Well, you want me to rule the Dothraki, right? That makes me something like a king. And what are the king's siblings…?"
Karin let out something between a strangled whine and an enraged snarl, while Yuzu looked down at her folded hands, twiddling her thumbs — a soft, girlish grin creeping across her face.
"No!" Karin shouted. "That's not—I'm not a princess! Fuck it, you can go be a hermit somewhere, Ichi-nii! I'll take over myself!"
"As a warrior princess or a queen?" he teased, still grinning.
That was all it took — Karin launched herself at him with all the fury and weight of her 60-pound frame.
"Shut up, dumbass!"
~XxX~
The tent was quiet now. The only sounds were the soft rustle of furs and the steady, shallow breathing of his sisters, curled up against either side of him. Karin, ever the fighter, clung to his arm like she was guarding it. Yuzu, gentle and warm, had her head on his chest, the rise and fall of her breath syncing with his own.
Ichigo stared at the ceiling — the soft sway of the tent above — but he wasn't really looking at it.
He was inside, deeper than that. Breathing slow. Releasing everything. Letting the physical world drift away as he dropped into the storm.
Jinzen.
The shift came with pain — always did now. A sharp twist in his chest. A burn behind his eyes. His body rebelled against it, his soul too large, too heavy for the flesh that contained it. But he bore it silently. For now, at least, he could manage.
The moment stretched — and the world changed.
The roar of waves.
The scream of wind through steel.
He stood again at the edge of his inner world — a shattered city floating atop a black sea, skyscrapers leaning at impossible angles, the sky torn between stormlight and void.
Two figures waited for him.
The old man — regal, unmoved, eyes like burning coals — Zangetsu.
And beside him, crouched atop a crumbling streetlight, wild grin splitting his pale face — Shiro Zangetsu, the hollow.
"Well, well, Kingy," Shiro sneered, sharp teeth gleaming in the broken light. "Finally had enough of playin' diplomat? I already told you — let me take over and I'll slaughter those people like the animals they are. It's nothin' less than they deserve, no?"
Ichigo didn't respond. Not to him. Not yet.
Instead, his gaze swept across the ruined remains of his soul. The cityscape was distorted, wrong. Shadowed. The ocean below was pitch black, and the constant shriek of the wind made the skyscrapers groan like wounded giants.
What had happened here?
"When you fought Aizen," Zangetsu said, voice calm as ever, "you sacrificed your own soul to access power you were never meant to wield. There was nothing left of your Inner World as you knew it — until you met the Fullbringers. Ginjō Kūgo. Their influence helped you rebuild. And Rukia Kuchiki... she completed that rebirth."
"But now it looks so... dark," Ichigo murmured. "So eerie."
He didn't need to voice the thought. They could read his mind as easily as he could.
"It's this world," Shiro cackled, golden eyes scanning the black sea. "There's something old here, King. Something real old and real dark. The air's full of it. Feels like Reiatsu, but it ain't. Not quite."
He tilted his head, grin widening.
"And it noticed you."
Ichigo's brows furrowed. "What does that mean?"
Shiro's grin only grew sharper.
"We don't know yet. Could be bad. Could be fun. But whatever it is, it's watching now. And it's hungry."
"Of course…" Ichigo muttered and stepped up to the edge, looking down into the twisting dark see. "It would have been to easy to just be dealing with a bunch of degenerate horse raiders."
"It was to be expected. Where there is life, there is death, and there is energy. It was just a manner of questioning where that energy originated from."
"Is it dangerous?" Ichigo asked, turning to the old man.
He got a blank look in return for a while until the spirit of his blade deigned him with an answer, "I cannot say. After the energy has been absorbed by you, it feels no more dangerous than the Reiatsu I am accustomed too. But before that, when it's just out of reach of us, it feels as if it is jealousy guarded by a master who does not wish to share with anyone."
The ocean below seethed—not with waves, but with motion. With intent.
The black water churned as if something massive stirred beneath the surface, eyes hidden just out of sight, watching.
Ichigo stared down at it, arms crossed over his chest, his face half-lit by the flicker of stormlight.
"If something's watching me," he said, voice low, "why hasn't it done anything yet?"
"Maybe it's still curious," Shiro murmured, softer now, almost reverent. Then he shrugged. "Maybe it can't. Maybe it wants to see what you'll do. What you'll become. We ain't from here, Kingy. And I imagine that we must be quite the spectacle to the powers that be." He grinned lopsidedly.
Ichigo's scowl deepened as he turned to face the old man.
"You said this world has its own kind of energy. That it feels different. So what happens if I keep drawing on it?"
Zangetsu didn't answer right away.
He turned away, his gaze drifting toward a collapsed skyscraper sinking into the sea, its windows faintly aglow with something not-quite-light.
"This world's energy is nothing like the one we know from back home," he said at last, his voice steady, honed like a blade. "It is raw. Unshaped. Old—so much older than spirit particles. Soaked in sorrow like nothing I've ever seen. And it resonates with you... too well."
Ichigo frowned. "What do you mean, too well?"
"You absorb it," Zangetsu said. "Even without meaning to. Your body and soul don't reject it. You don't have the necessary control to attempt to force it out. And the energy... it's eager. Yet held back. There's something ancient—something trying to hold it in place. But it won't obey. Not anymore. The energy, it wants you, Ichigo."
Shiro dropped from the streetlight, boots cracking the concrete as he landed.
"You're like a sieve wired to a battery," he said, gesturing to the sea. "The power flows in, leaves the nasty shit behind—" he pointed at the black water, "—and comes out cleaner, stronger. You're soaking it up like a sponge. Might kill you, might not—but it's gonna change you."
Ichigo's breath caught. His heartbeat kicked up. "Change me how?"
Zangetsu turned, cloak fluttering in the stormwinds of Ichigo's soul.
His eyes met Ichigo's, sharp and solemn. "It's time you understood," he said. "Truly understood."
Even Shiro stilled. The wildness drained from his expression, replaced by something harder. Older.
"You are not just a Soul Reaper, Ichigo," Zangetsu said. "You never were."
The words hit like a blade between the ribs. Ichigo felt them echo all the way to his bones.
"You are a soul born of contradiction," Zangetsu continued. "A human with the soul of a Shinigami. The body of a Quincy. Tainted by a Hollow. And through luck or perhaps fate, made a Fullbringer. You are a hybrid of opposing forces—of life and death, rage and order, sin and absolution. A paradox that should not exist."
Ichigo didn't move. The truth didn't feel like a surprise—it felt like the end of a question he'd been too afraid to ask.
Zangetsu's voice rolled on like thunder.
"You were never meant to be just a soldier, Ichigo. You were meant to be my child born of darkness. A rift between realms. A bridge... or a blade."
Ichigo turned toward him, slowly, and Zangetsu inclined his head.
"You heard me," he said. "My child. Born from the black. My name is Zangetsu—but I wear the face of Yhwach. The Almighty. The First Quincy. I have never been your Zanpakutō. I am the manifestation of the Quincy power given to you by your mother."
"All this time..." Ichigo's voice was barely a whisper. "You lied to me."
He looked to Shiro. "The both of you."
They nodded.
"I am your Quincy blood," said the old man. "I took the shape of your Zanpaktuo to become the blade you needed."
"And I'm the Shinigami and Hollow inside you," Shiro added, expression unreadable. "I let him take the lead because I couldn't be what you needed. Not then. Zangetsu—the blade you knew—was never real."
"It was a construct," the old man said. "Formed of ambient spiritual energy. Molded by my hands. A tool to help you survive."
"A real Zanpakutō," Shiro said, "needs something else. Something called a Asauchi. A nameless blade to bond with. Feed your soul into."
"Hat'n'Clogs knew," he added. "He had to. Makes no sense if he didn't. But he never gave you one. Never told you. So we made do. Lied. Faked it. Because if we didn't... you'd be dead."
Zangetsu's voice lowered again, as if speaking more to the wind than to Ichigo.
"Back in our home everything you are is a contradiction. The pieces that you represent were never meant to fit into the same picture, but you forced yourself firmly into place. And yet here, in this world," he murmured, "everything you are—every contradiction, every fracture—resonates with the power that is."
He looked back toward the black sea, stormlight casting strange glows across the water.
"It doesn't reject you. Doesn't question you. It welcomes you. As if it's been waiting."
Shiro's golden eyes narrowed. His grin was gone. "And that's what's got me worried, Kingy. Power that wants you? That fits you too well?" He glanced back at the ocean.
"It never comes free."
~XxX~
The fool capered along the twilight shore, feet splashing through the shallows as the last light bled from the sky.
Patchface wore his usual crown of driftwood antlers, hung with tiny bones and rusted bells that clattered with every jerking movement. Strips of seaweed clung to his pale face, smeared with streaks of ash like war paint. His eyes — wide, unblinking — stared somewhere far beyond Shireen, as if watching a world only he could see.
He danced with the lurching grace of a marionette cut loose, arms swinging in erratic arcs, voice lilting and broken as he sang to her:
"Under the sea, the stars are red,
The stranger sleeps in the coral bed,
He walks on waves with no wet feet,
And hums a tune with no heartbeat!
The sword he bears is not a sword,
The sea he drinks is not ignored,
He sings the storm, he eats the flame—
He has no face, he has no name…"
Shireen stood motionless in the sand, her arms wrapped tightly around her small frame, half-hidden behind a dune where shellgrass shivered in the wind. The scarred skin on her cheek prickled as if touched by ghost fingers. She'd heard his rhymes before, but this one tasted different — metallic and cold, like blood in seawater.
The bells in his antlers fell silent, all at once.
Patchface stopped.
And smiled.
~XxX~
The peace of night didn't last.
Morning came early—bright, loud, and chaotic.
Ichigo didn't know which sister screamed first, but the sharp, furious "Who the fuck are you!?" was unmistakably Karin.
Adrenaline slammed into him like a freight train. He shot upright, heart thundering, fists already clenched—ready to hurt whoever was stupid enough to threaten his sisters—
And froze.
Yuzu was huddled behind Karin, wide-eyed and pale, peeking from behind her shoulder. Karin stood like a guard dog, bare feet planted, arms raised like she was ready to punch someone's teeth in.
And standing before them, just inside the tent flap, were two unfamiliar girls.
Ichigo's breath caught.
They were young—barely older than his sisters, if that. That should've made this easier. But he was still a healthy, hormonal teenage boy. And the girls were bare from the waist up, their breasts full and high, nipples hardened from the morning chill. Their lower halves were wrapped in fine, sheer silk, the kind that clung more than it covered.
They weren't afraid of their nudity. Or ashamed. But they weren't exactly relaxed either.
They flinched under Karin's glare, their eyes darting between the sisters nervously. One clutched a tray piled high with roasted meats, dates, figs, and fresh flatbread. Steam still rose from the food. The other held a copper basin of hot water, its scent faintly herbal and smoky.
He closed his eyes for a beat and swore under his breath, trying to will away the unfortunate morning wood under his blanket. Naked girls and sunrise wood: not a great mix when your sisters were shrieking bloody murder beside you.
He cleared his throat.
"Karin. Yuzu. Calm down."
He shifted in the bedroll, careful to keep the blanket pulled over his lap. Anywhere but the breasts. Focus on their hands. The tray. The basin. Not the breasts.
"They're not enemies. They're just bringing us breakfast."
"With their tits hanging out?" Karin snapped, rounding on him like a woman betrayed.
She gave him a look so withering it could've stripped flesh from bone.
"You enjoying this, huh? Meat, fruit, half-naked slave girls? What's next—grapes peeled by hand? A throne made of gold?"
Ichigo groaned, dragging a hand over his face. "Jesus, Karin—"
But Yuzu, sweet and trembling, spoke before he could finish.
"Are they cold?" she asked softly. "Should I get them something to wear?"
That gave him pause.
He glanced again at the girls. The one with the tray was trying not to tremble, arms shaking under the weight. The one with the basin had gone utterly still, clutching it like a shield.
"I… I don't think they're allowed to wear more," Ichigo muttered.
Karin's mouth opened, ready to argue—but her jaw faltered, remembering what Sarea had said the night before.
Still, her voice came out stiff. "It's creepy. And gross."
The girl holding the tray finally spoke, her accent thick but words clear.
"We serve. You are… Khal?"
Ichigo blinked. It wasn't perfect English—but it was close enough.
"You understand me?"
The girl nodded slowly. "Little. I learn. For… Khal's wife. Some speak Common."
The second girl murmured something low and fast in Dothraki. The first girl replied in kind, then looked back to Ichigo.
"She no speak your words."
"Right." He ran a hand through his hair. "What's your name?"
The girl hesitated. "Nava."
He nodded. "Okay, Nava. Could you tell her… she's not in trouble. No one's angry. Just surprised, that's all."
Nava turned and murmured something in Dothraki. The second girl gave the barest nod, her expression wary but calmer.
Yuzu stepped forward, always the peacemaker. "Do you want a blanket?" she asked softly. "You look cold."
The other girl didn't understand, but the tone was enough. She offered a shy, uncertain smile.
Nava took a step forward then, bolstered by Ichigo's calm voice, encouraged by Yuzu's gentleness, though still casting wary glances at Karin. She approached Ichigo, bent, and set the tray of food in front of him—not between them all, not before his sisters, but before him.
Then she dipped the cloth into the basin, wrung it out, and—without asking—knelt before him and began to clean his hands.
Ichigo blinked, then looked at his sisters, completely lost for words. Yuzu's eyes were wide. Karin looked like she wanted to kick Nava in the teeth.
But Nava wasn't finished. The warm cloth trailed over his wrists, his forearms… and then down.
Lower.
It moved to his chest. His belly. Slipping beneath the blanket.
"W-Whoa, hey—wait—waitwaitwait—!" Ichigo sputtered, jerking slightly and trying to intercept her hands without yanking her off balance.
Karin lunged, yanking the cloth away and shoving herself between them like a human shield.
The girl flinched back, startled, unsure what she'd done wrong.
Ichigo raised both hands quickly. "No—it's fine. Really. You didn't do anything wrong. But I can wash myself. Thank you."
Nava tilted her head. "It is custom. For… comfort. You wake. You eat. You wash. We fuck. Is how Khal Drogo liked mornings."
Silence.
Yuzu gasped.
Ichigo went rigid.
Karin exploded.
"EXCUSE ME!?"
She stepped forward like she was ready to throw hands. Nava shrank back, bewildered.
"It is… um… morning duty," she said slowly. "Food. Water. Comfort. Sex. For Khal. Always for Khal."
"You think that's normal?!" Karin snapped.
Nava flinched but held her ground. "I do what I am told. Like all. Is how it is."
"No," Ichigo said quickly, stepping in front of both his sisters, hands raised. "You didn't do anything wrong. Neither of you. But I'm not Drogo. I'm not him. And I would never expect that from you. Or her."
He gestured to the second girl, who had pressed herself against the tent wall, eyes wide and panicked.
Karin's voice shook with fury. "This place is disgusting."
Yuzu's voice was smaller, softer. "They're just… doing what they were taught. What they've always known."
Ichigo turned back toward the girls. Their hands still trembled. Their eyes were still waiting—for punishment, or orders, or something worse.
He exhaled, slow and heavy.
"This isn't home," he said, more to himself than anyone. "And we don't get to pretend we're still in Karakura Town. But that doesn't mean we lose who we are."
He crouched slightly so he could meet Nava's eyes.
"You don't belong to anyone. Not me. Not Drogo. Not the khalasar. You're a person. You don't owe anyone your body. You don't have to do anything. Understand?"
Nava stared at him like he was speaking madness. Like he'd told her the sky was green or the sun had stopped rising.
But after a long pause, she nodded.
A small, unsure nod. But a nod nonetheless.
Ichigo smiled—tired, but sincere. "Good. Thank you. But if you ever feel uncomfortable, or scared, or unsure—you say something. Always. Alright?"
"…Yes," she whispered.
Yuzu stepped forward and helped the other girl gently set down the basin. "Thank you," she said softly.
Karin stood still. Jaw tight. Hands clenched.
After a long moment, she muttered, "Yeah. Thanks, I guess."
Ichigo straightened. He felt older. Heavier. Like the morning had aged him years.
"We make the rules now," he said.
He looked at them all—the girls, the sisters, the walls of the tent.
"And the first one is this—nobody gets used. Not while I'm in charge."
~XxX~
The morning continued, heedless of whether the stranded siblings wanted it to or not. The encampment stirred with the rising sun, and the khalasar woke with it—thousands upon thousands of voices swelling into the air like a living tide.
They all looked to him now. To Ichigo. For guidance. For leadership. And already, more than a few bristled at the orders he'd given the night before. There was unrest simmering just beneath the surface, taut and waiting. But no open violence. No overt abuse. Not yet.
For the first morning in their lives, many of the former slaves walked unmolested—uncertain, wide-eyed, as if waiting for the blow that didn't come.
And among them walked the Kurosaki siblings, led by their guide Sarea, who moved ahead with the grace of someone long used to leading without pause. She didn't speak. She didn't need to. She simply walked, back straight and steps steady, and they followed—past the fringes of Drogo's—Ichigo's—lavish tent, and into the living heart of the Dothraki encampment.
Ichigo took it all in with quiet, wary eyes. Yuzu clung close to his side, bright-eyed and cautious, her hand brushing his sleeve now and then like a tether. Karin walked on the other, arms folded tight across her chest, her jaw clenched and her eyes cold. They hadn't said much since the incident that morning, and Ichigo didn't blame them. There wasn't much to say after watching your brother nearly get jumped by a slave girl trained for "morning comforts."
It had been awkward. Ugly. And hopefully a one-time experience.
But thoughts like that slipped from his mind as they moved deeper into the encampment—into the body of the beast.
The khalasar doesn't camp. It sprawls. Like a vast, breathing creature made of sweat, dust, and horses. There is no order—no neat rows of tents, no structured boundaries—only a wild, anarchic sprawl of leather shelters, open fires, tethered horses, and milling bodies. A barely contained chaos, held together by one thing: fear of the man—or now the boy—at the top.
The smell hit him first.
It was visceral. Horseflesh. Sweat. Shit. Piss. Rot. Grease. Smoke. The air was so thick with it, Ichigo could taste it—sour and greasy on the back of his tongue.
Thousands of horses lived in a loose ring around the camp, eating, pissing, rutting in the dust. And no one bothered with latrines. There were no trenches, no discipline—just the edge of the sprawl, or as far as the laziest were willing to walk before squatting and letting go.
The stench only worsened the further in they moved. The acrid tang of waste gave way to something heavier—decay, fermented milk, burned fat, and spoiled meat.
Strips of animal flesh hung from thick, sun-bleached cords stretched between tents like city wires, the meat hardening under the sun but already crawling with flies. Some of it had gone rancid. No one seemed to care. The same cords were used to dry laundry—dirt-streaked tunics, bloody linens—and tied leather bags that sagged with curdling mare's milk, bloated and sweating in the heat as they slowly fermented.
Yuzu gagged softly, covering her nose with a sleeve, her eyes watering. Her other hand reached for Ichigo's arm.
Karin muttered a curse under her breath, pulling her scarf up over her mouth. Her eyes roamed across the chaos like she was daring someone to speak to her—furious and disgusted.
Ichigo said nothing. He couldn't. His stomach turned, but he forced it still. He had to see it. All of it. If he was going to lead them, protect them, change anything—he couldn't look away.
They moved deeper into the camp, and the filth thickened.
The ground underfoot was packed earth, hardened by years of trampling hooves and bare feet. Here and there, dark patches marked places where blood had dried into the dirt—some old, some frighteningly fresh. Bones littered the ground, stripped clean and tossed aside like splinters, and no one had bothered to move them.
Sarea didn't pause. She cut a path through it all like it didn't exist.
Ichigo followed, fists clenched tight at his sides. Yuzu stayed close, eyes darting from figure to figure, flinching when a dog barked too near or a man shouted from across a tent. Karin walked stiffly, shoulders tense, gaze like a blade cutting through the scenes around her.
The people—the ones they now ruled—looked back at them with a mixture of wariness, confusion, and, in a few, open contempt.
Free or not, the former slaves still bore the look of people who expected the worst.
Children with bellies bloated from hunger crouched behind makeshift lean-tos, their skin stretched tight over bone, their eyes dull. One girl—couldn't have been more than seven—had blood dried into the corners of her mouth, and a crude collar still hung limp around her neck. She stared at Ichigo as he passed like he was a ghost. Or a god.
Yuzu's hand drifted to her chest, her breath catching.
"She's hurt," she whispered. "She's—Ichigo, we should—"
"We will," he said, voice low. "We will. But not yet."
They turned a corner, and the moans reached them.
It was a rough, guttural sound—pain, not pleasure. A woman lay in the dirt behind a tent, her arms shielding her face. Her body was a patchwork of bruises and torn skin. Flies buzzed at her wounds.
Two men stood a few feet away, arguing in thick Dothraki. One was smeared with blood not his own. The other had a knife in his belt and a smug twist to his mouth.
Sarea paused this time.
She looked at Ichigo, and only then did he see the test in her eyes.
"What would your word be, Khal?" she asked, voice sharp and dry.
Ichigo was about to react, but his little sister, Karin, beat him to the punch.
She stepped forward, looking at the curled-up woman, naked and bloody from the waist down. A shuddering breath escaped her lips. Her body stiff, trembling as she moved—slow and steady at first—then faster.
Until she was in a full sprint.
Upon reaching the first of the two degenerates, she cocked her foot back and, with all the skill gained from years of playing soccer—with all her strength—kicked the man between his legs.
There was a crunch.
A crack.
An inhuman shriek of anguish as the man was lifted into the air from the force of the kick that undoubtedly crushed his manhood.
Karin did not wait to see the result.
Her eyes snapped to the second man, who was no longer smiling. He looked at her as if she had grown a second head, or as if she was something unthinkable.
Karin didn't care.
She moved again. Swiftly closing the distance between herself and the stupefied rapist. A kick to the side of his knee—pop—a dull crack and a cry. He staggered, and she followed with a knee between the legs. The man collapsed downward, until the tall and imposing warrior had to look up to meet Karin's wrathful blue eyes.
Then she started to wail on him.
Punch after punch after punch, each one slamming into his face. All straight. All true. All right to the nose, over and over again.
Until the man's nose was flat.
Until Karin could no longer tell if the blood covering her fists was his or her own.
At some point, she started to cry.
She didn't know when, but by the time the man was still and lifeless beneath her, she could feel tears drip from the tip of her nose to mingle with the mess of blood she had made of the fucker's face.
"Karin…"
She flinched when she felt a hand on her shoulder, whirling around—only to see the concerned eyes of her brother looking back at her. Not with judgment. Not with fear.
Just concern.
"They smiled," she sobbed. "They laughed."
Ichigo crouched beside her. Karin let herself fall into his arms, sobbing silently into his chest even as he rose. He looked at the mess she had made.
Her first kill.
He held her tighter against his chest and looked back at Yuzu, who had her hands over her mouth, tears spilling down her cheeks. It didn't take more than a nod for her to come barreling into him, clinging to his waist like a lifeline.
And only then, with his sisters safe, did he look around at the silence that now surrounded them.
Sarea stared, mouth agape, speechless. As did so many others.
Men, women, children. Slaves and warriors alike looked at what his sister had done.
Then a woman stepped forward. One of the former slaves—older, frail-looking. She dropped to her knees beside the broken woman in the dirt, cradling her gently against her chest, whispering words into her ear.
Another woman followed. This one tore herself away from the grip a Dothraki warrior had on her waist. The warrior made to protest… then thought better of it. Under Ichigo's eyes, he could only sneer and retreat.
Then another came. Her face a mask of contempt as she pushed past men that suddenly no longer seemed so threatening.
Then whispers started.
In Dothraki. In Ghiscari. In tongues Ichigo didn't recognize.
Talking—no doubt—about a small girl bringing down big men. Something rare, maybe even unheard of to these people.
But Ichigo knew this was just the beginning.
This was Karin untrained.
And he knew she could be so much more.
...He just truly hoped that she could remain an unburdened girl for a good while longer than this.
He took a deep breath and turned toward the first victim of Karin's wrath. The man was still writhing on the ground in hideous anguish.
Good.
Ichigo walked over to him and kicked him onto his back with a lazy foot. Then he looked at Sarea and nodded.
She knew what to do.
"Remember that well," Ichigo said, voice cold and ruthless—mirrored by Sarea as she translated.
"This…" He kicked the man again. "…will happen to anyone who thinks rape is tolerated in my Khalasar."
He looked out across the gathered crowd.
"Only I won't be nearly as kind as my sister was to this idiot if you try me again."
Ichigo stared down at the newly unmanned man.
"I hope you survive. We'll keep you around if you do. As a living example of how rape will be punished here from now on."
His gaze swept the crowd, searching for every eye watching, every man listening.
"So remember it well. The next time you think with your cocks…"
His tone dropped, deadly quiet.
"…will be the last time you have them."
He paused.
"If you still have to rape someone," he said, voice cold as steel, "you'd better pray she's worth dying for—because you won't get another chance once I'm done with you."
With that he took his sisters back to the tent, ignoring the whispers, the reaching hands, the looks he got and the simmering atmosphere of fear, hate and hope.
~XxX~
The interior of Ichigo's tent was dim, lit only by slivers of late morning light filtering through the heavy fabric. The heat outside pressed in through the seams, but inside it was still—muted and calm, a world away from the chaos of the khalasar.
Karin sat cross-legged on one of the cushions, silent, her shoulders stiff. Her knuckles were raw and swollen, dark with bruises and streaked with dried blood. Some of it had already flaked off. Some still clung like stubborn guilt.
Yuzu knelt beside her, a shallow basin of clean water in her lap and a roll of rough cloth laid out next to her. Her movements were careful, quiet, almost ceremonial as she dipped the cloth into the water and began to gently dab at the mess.
Karin hissed through her teeth.
"Sorry," Yuzu whispered, looking up briefly. "I'll be gentle."
Karin didn't answer right away. Her jaw worked, but no words came. She just looked down at her hands like they didn't belong to her anymore.
"They're gonna swell like crazy," Yuzu said softly, trying to keep her voice light, even as her eyes shimmered. "You hit him so many times…"
"He deserved worse," Karin muttered, her voice hoarse.
Yuzu didn't argue.
"I know," she said, rinsing the cloth. "But you didn't deserve this."
Karin's eyes flicked to her, sharp and uncertain.
Yuzu wrung out the cloth, then gently took Karin's right hand in both of hers. She held it a moment longer than necessary, cradling it like something fragile.
"You didn't have to do that," Karin said, eyes narrowing. "Say stuff like that."
"I wanted to."
Yuzu dabbed again at the cuts. The blood came away slow, stubborn in the lines of Karin's knuckles.
"You always try to fix things," Karin muttered, looking away. "Even when they're not yours to fix."
"That's what sisters do."
"That's what you do."
Yuzu smiled faintly.
"Well… someone has to."
Karin let out a bitter little huff that might've been a laugh. She blinked a few times, eyes darting to the flap of the tent, where Ichigo's voice murmured low and steady. Sarea's sharper tones answered in kind—measured, political. Distant.
It was safe here, for the moment.
"Do you think I'm a monster now?" Karin asked, voice so quiet it almost didn't make it out.
Yuzu froze.
Then she slowly set the cloth aside, took Karin's battered hands in hers, and held them gently.
"No," she said firmly. "I think you were braver than anyone else today."
Karin's lips twisted, her throat bobbing with the effort not to cry again.
"I couldn't just stand there, Yuzu. She was right there. They were laughing. I saw red. I couldn't stop."
"You shouldn't have stopped." Yuzu's eyes were wet again, voice trembling but sure. "You did what nobody else dared to do. You made them see. You showed them."
Karin looked away, biting down on her bottom lip. Her shoulders shook once, barely, and Yuzu leaned forward—wrapping her arms around her sister's tense frame, resting her forehead against Karin's temple.
"You're not a monster," Yuzu whispered again. "You're ours. You did it to protect someone. That makes all the difference."
Karin closed her eyes and let herself lean into the hug. Her arms stayed at her sides, fists still clenched—but only barely.
"I don't want to feel like this," she whispered. "Like I'd do it again."
"I know," Yuzu said. "But if it happens again… we'll be there. Together."
The two of them sat like that for a long while, the silence between them gentle, honest. No more words. Just warmth.
Outside, the world waited. But inside the tent, it was just two sisters holding each other close, mending what they could—with cloth and kindness and quiet.
~XxX~
Outside the tent, the heat was merciless, bearing down on Ichigo as he stood at the edge of the shade, looking out over what remained of the Khalasar. The sun painted everything in harsh golds and browns and the air shimmered with heat and dust.
The camp stretched wide, but here – near Drogo's tent – there was a strange, solemn order. A clean, circular space had been cleared around the tent, free of waste and rot. In its place were monuments to conquest. Banners torn from fallen riders, their sigils faded and bleached beneath the sun. War trophies lined the ground like a crude mosaic – racks of blood-crusted weapons, shields dented by final blows, and braids taken from slain warriors, dried stiff with time and left to hang from every surface. Skulls too, some human, some horse, bleached and painted, stared blankly from pikes and poles.
To Drogo, these things had meant everything. Symbols of victory. Proof of power. His life's story told in blood and bone.
To Ichigo, they were nothing. A monument to violence he hadn't earned and didn't care for.
He exhaled slowly then stepped over to the barrel of water sitting in the shade. With a sharp motion, he plunged his head beneath the surface. The cold hit him like a slap, stealing his breath, but he stayed under. Seconds passed. He let the burn rise in his lungs – chasing clarity – before pulling his head out and gasping for breath.
Water streamed down his face and onto his chest as he turned, his eyes settling on Sarea.
She stood close by, arms crossed over her chest, guarded as always. The closest thing he had to confidant he had in this place, and still...not close at all.
"So tell me," he said, his voice sharp but not cruel, "do you still think my sisters are worth less than men? That they're just meat for the riders' amusement?"
Sarea's lips parted, but no sound came out. She dropped her gaze.
In truth, Karin's rage hadn't endeared the girl to her at all. Those girls had seemed so frail to her – clinging to the shadow of a strong and too kind brother. Spoiled rotten by his protection. Spared from the harsh fate that awaited all women, noble or not. They didn't understand how easily the world would crush them if their brother ever tired of them.
And now, that black haired one, she'd lashed out. Broken every law that Sarea was raised to hold holy. She killed one of the men, and took the manhood of another. Something that only men were allowed to do.
And what happened to her?
Nothing.
No punishment. No screaming. No begging.
No, she was praised and comforted like a young lad who slew his first warrior, or fucked his first girl. She was told she'd done right, and even now. Her brother, the Khal, was willingly standing in the heat of the midday sun to give the girl time to gather herself.
Time to be comforted.
It was...disgusting.
It wasn't fair.
Sarea could still see the face of the last girl who had tried to fight back. Nails torn, throat raw from screaming, nailed to a cross to be left out where the sun peeled the skin from her bones.
And no one even remembered her name.
And yet these foreign girls could do as they pleased. Act how they willed it. And praised for doing so.
Sarea's voice was low and hollow when it finally came. "She broke the law."
Ichigo cocked an eyebrow in bewilderment. "I thought that I outlawed rape, so those men broke the law first."
"Then it was your right to punishment that she took from you." Sarea countered without missing a beat, voice getting heated.
"So? She is my sister. Whatever I can do, she can do. And whatever she says might as well be coming from my mouth as well."
"But that's not right." Sarea sneered, "she's a woman."
"And?" Ichigo shrugged, he knew that Sarea was just acting the only way she knew how, but that didn't mean that her dismissive attitude towards his sisters wasn't starting to grate on his nerves. "They're my sisters. I am your Khal."
"Then they should be gifts." Sarea continued, her voice steadfast and determined, and it was pissing Ichigo off. "Given to your warriors. To the strongest who you want to have as your bloodrider. That is custom!"
Ichigo's jaw tensed. For a moment, he said nothing.
Then:
"Then fuck your customs."
Sarea recoiled as if struck, her mouth parting in shock, eyes wide.
Ichigo didn't stop.
"I truly thought you, of all people—having translated every word I said—might have understood by now that I am disgusted by you." His voice was low but full of venom, each word a blade. "Not just by your so-called warriors, but by women like you. The ones who just take it."
Sarea flinched, but he stepped closer, looming over her now like a stormcloud ready to break.
"And do you want to know something?" he hissed. "If it weren't for Karin and Yuzu—for my weak sisters—you'd all still be fighting over the scraps that piece of shit Drogo left behind. You'd be slaughtering each other like animals for what little power your filthy, grasping fingers could steal. And women like you? You'd just take off your clothes and spread your legs to make it easier for them to rape you."
He leaned in, his shadow swallowing her, his eyes glinting with yellow-gold malevolence as his voice echoed unnaturally in his throat.
"But they asked me to stay. They asked me to help. Nearly begged me for it. And because of them, I took the title. I took the remainder of this Khalasar. And I made the mistake of thinking I could fix you people. But maybe I can't. Not when there are people like you who seem to enjoy the abuse."
Ichigo took a step back from the cowering woman and drew in a slow breath.
"So, Sarea—either get it into your head that your ways, your customs, your cowardice mean nothing to me... or fuck off. I'm sure there's another Khal out there somewhere who'd be happy to take a new whore."
And with those parting words Ichigo left back into the tent to check up on his sister.
~XxX~
He left her there.
Not with a blade. Not with his fists. But with words that cut so deep they might as well have been knives.
Sarea didn't move for a long time. Couldn't. Her breath came too shallow, her chest too tight. The heat of the day pressed against her skin, but she didn't feel it. Not really. Not compared to the burn that lived in her ribs now.
"I am disgusted by you."
The words echoed like a war drum in her skull.
She had been screamed at before. Beaten. Dragged by her hair through dirt and blood and worse. She had been called less than nothing by men who thought themselves gods simply because they could sit a horse or split a skull.
But this was different. This was Ichigo.
The Khal who never asked to be one. The man who had spared her. Who spoke softly to his sisters. Who looked at her—really looked—and didn't see a thing to use.
And now he saw her... and recoiled.
Her knees gave out before she even realized she was falling. She hit the dirt hard, grit scraping her palms, but she barely felt it. Her mouth hung open, and her eyes stung, and for a heartbeat, she thought she might retch.
How had it come to this?
He had called her a coward.
He had called her willing.
And worst of all—he wasn't wrong.
She had survived, hadn't she? She'd bowed her head when others screamed. Bit her tongue until it bled. Let the world do what it wanted and whispered her defiance where no one could hear. And it had worked. She was alive.
That had always been enough.
Until now.
Because when he looked at her with that fury in his eyes, she saw herself through them. And what she saw made her sick.
She remembered the girl on the cross. And the women before her. And the screams in the night that went quiet come morning.
She hadn't stopped any of them.
She hadn't even tried.
And maybe that was worse than being one of the men who laughed while it happened.
Tears welled in her eyes—hot, shameful things she hadn't allowed herself in years—but she didn't wipe them away. Let them fall. Let the dirt drink them.
She wanted to hate him. Wanted to spit after his shadow and curse his blood.
But all she could do was whisper:
"I didn't know there was another way."
And now she did.
And she didn't know who that made her anymore.
~XxX~
The next day
Sarea stands just outside the central tent, arms wrapped tight around her ribs as if to hold herself together. Ichigo's sisters move past her, eyes red but determined. They're helping gather the women—former slaves, concubines, widows.
Karin's voice is clipped and cold.
"Anyone who wants to leave, leave. Anyone who wants to fight, speak."
Yuzu kneels in the dust, soothing a crying child as she wraps a clean cloth around a woman's bruised arm. The woman flinches—until Yuzu hums something soft. A lullaby. Dothraki? No. Something foreign. But it quiets the child.
Sarea watches it all in silence. No one looked at her.
Something churned in her stomach – unfamiliar, bitter. Not quite envy. Not quite grief. But close.
~XxX~
A few days later
Ichigo sat crosslegged before a group of Dothraki warriors, Nava, standing next to him.
There were not many warriors. Less than a dozen. All hard-eyed, suspicious. The fire between them crackles low. No weapons drawn – but none far from reach.
I don't want your obedience," Ichigo says plainly and Nava translated for him. "I want your loyalty. And if you can't give that without raping or taking what isn't yours... then I will break you."
Nava hesitated for a moment before translating, not because she misunderstood – but because she wasn't sure how the words would land. She translated anyway. Word for word.
One man scoffs. Another spits in the dirt. But one—the youngest—asks:
"If we don't take... what do we win?"
Ichigo doesn't smile.
"Safety. Honor. Real power. Not scraps from dead men's bones."
Sarea, watching from the edge, sees the way the young one leans forward. The way the old one's jaws tightens.
They're listening.
~XxX~
Later
The black sea was calmer today. Still pitch black, still vast—but quiet.
Almost expectant.
Ichigo stood on a rooftop warped sideways by invisible forces, his arms loose at his sides, his brow furrowed in thought. The skyline of his inner world stretched in all directions, surreal and shifting, more like a memory of a city than the real thing. The sky flickered—stormlight chased by crawling shadow.
"You've been silent," he said aloud.
A beat. Then—
"You've been listening," The Old Man corrected, appearing beside him with no sound, only presence. Regal as always. Implacable.
Shiro emerged a moment later, leaning lazily against a bent lamppost with a mocking grin.
"Didn't wanna interrupt your midlife spiritual crisis," he said. "You've been so broody lately. Real dramatic."
Ichigo didn't rise to the bait.
"What have you learned?" he asked instead. "About this world. This energy."
The Old Man turned his gaze toward the ocean, eyes glowing faintly in the dark.
"It is not reiatsu. Not precisely. But it mimics it. Behaves like it. Yet its essence is... deeper. Older."
Shiro pushed off the lamppost, hands in his pockets.
"It ain't just power, Kingy. It's memory. Will. Every time you draw it in, it tries to share something.
Like it's offering pieces of itself. But they're broken. Fractured. Just glimpses."
Ichigo frowned. "Glimpses of what?"
The Old Man's voice was low. "Of dead gods. Burning skies. Cities beneath the sea. Names that don't belong in your mouth."
He turned to Ichigo fully now. "This world is not young. And the things that shaped it… never truly left."
Ichigo was silent for a moment.
Then he spoke with purpose. "Then I need to control it. All of it. And I can't do that if I keep relying on instincts I don't fully understand."
He looked at the Old Man, steady. "I want to learn. My Quincy abilities. You said you were my Quincy power. So teach me. No more lies. No more holding back."
The Old Man studied him, expression unreadable.
"I warned you before. That every step forward brings risk. You walk a path no one else has. You draw from a world no Quincy was ever meant to touch."
"I'm already drawing from it," Ichigo said. "Already changing. So I either learn how to control it, or it controls me."
A silence fell. Even the sea held still.
Then—Zangetsu nodded once.
"So be it. But understand this, Ichigo: what you wield as a Quincy is not destruction. It is precision. Structure. Discipline. It is not the Hollow's fury, nor the Reaper's resolve. It is focus. Order."
He held out his hand, and from the air, a long silver bow formed—elegant, angular, inhumanly sharp. It shimmered with stormlight and something else—something dark at its edges.
"You must build this part of yourself. Not in defiance—but in balance."
Shiro stepped forward, his grin sharp again. "And when you screw it up—and you will—I'll be here to clean up the mess."
Ichigo's hand closed around the bow.
It pulsed once, then settled. Cold. Familiar.
He looked out across the black sea.
"Then let's begin."
~XxX~
A few days later
The land stretched wide and flat beneath the sun, dust swirling in the wind like lazy spirits. Ichigo stood at the center of a makeshift ring, sweat glistening on his bare chest. He'd shed his old hoodie days ago—what was left of it torn and stained beyond saving. Now, he wore Dothraki leathers: loose-fitting pants bound at the calves, a sleeveless tunic that tied at the sides, open at the chest.
Across from him, Karin mirrored his stance. She'd ditched her jeans and jacket for something similar—tight-wrapped wrappings around her wrists, dark leather bracers, a cloth sash at her waist to hold a carved training blade. Her hair, tied in a high tail, whipped with each motion.
Yuzu sat nearby in the shade of a leaning rock, her soft healer's satchel tucked beside her. She wore a long, homespun dress of tan and blue linen, its edges embroidered with bright red thread. Her modern clothes had been ruined tending to the wounded. Her hair—so carefully kept back home—was now braided down her back in thick, clumsy plaits. She fingered one absently as she watched.
A child had done them. A slave girl with big brown eyes who hadn't spoken a word since being freed. Yuzu had wrapped her leg, cleaned the girl's wounds, sung her a lullaby in Japanese. The next morning, she'd found the girl sitting beside the tent. When Yuzu sat down, the child had quietly started braiding.
Yuzu hadn't undone them since.
Sarea lingered further back, arms crossed over her chest, watching with a critical eye. And just beyond the rocks, half-hidden behind tall grass and dry stone, a handful of Dothraki and former slaves crouched in silence. Curious. Tense.
Ichigo adjusted his grip on the carved wooden staff in his hands—sturdy, straight, and simple.
"You've got good instincts," he said. "But instincts alone won't help when you're up against someone faster or stronger."
Karin nodded, jaw tight. "So what will?"
"Control."
And then he lunged.
Karin twisted, barely blocking the strike, but she was off-balance and stumbled back.
Ichigo didn't follow up—just let her regain her footing.
"Bit stiff, ain't she?" Shiro's voice echoed in Ichigo's mind, wry and sharp. "She's got your fire, but she moves like she's still wearin' jeans. Let her breathe." 'She is adapting,' the Old Man murmured. 'But adaptation requires time. Space. Let her move on her own terms.'
Ichigo took a breath and stepped back.
"Again," he said aloud. "But this time—don't copy me. Move how you move."
Karin blinked. Then nodded.
This time, when he came at her, she pivoted lower. More fluid. Her stance wasn't traditional, but it was streetwise. Efficient. She jabbed the staff at his shoulder and forced him to twist aside.
Ichigo barked a surprised laugh.
"There you go."
Karin's next strike came faster. Lower. She dipped beneath Ichigo's guard and drove her shoulder into his chest—not enough to knock him down, but enough to make him step back.
Ichigo grinned. "Better."
She didn't let up. Came at him again, swinging the staff in a tight arc toward his legs. He blocked it easily but felt the sting in his palms. She wasn't holding back.
Not anymore.
Dust rose around their feet as they circled. Karin's breath came quick, her eyes sharp and locked on his movements. Ichigo shifted weight, pivoted, jabbed forward. She dodged, tried to counter—and nearly lost her footing.
He caught her with the butt of his staff in the ribs—not hard, but sharp enough to send her stumbling.
"Keep your center," he said. "You're fast, but you lean too much into your strikes."
Karin scowled. "Then hit harder."
Yuzu winced from under the rock's shade but didn't interrupt.
Sarea stood behind them, arms folded, brows drawn. She didn't speak. But her gaze flicked between Ichigo's fluid stance and Karin's coiled aggression, reading it. Judging it. Learning from it.
Karin wiped sweat from her brow with the back of her forearm, eyes still locked on Ichigo. Her chest rose and fell with steady effort, her stance reset, and for a moment—just a moment—she didn't look like a girl.
She looked like a fighter.
Another whisper rippled from the rocks beyond the ring, reaching Sarea's ears.
"He's teaching her like a son!" "Useless. Effort wasted where it could be spent better if he'd focused on a boy. Look at her. Frail and small. She'd be broken after one night with me."
Sarea grit her teeth, and to her own surprise, she felt incensed on the girl's behalf. Yet it seemed she wasn't the only one.
"The girl killed Laharro," a rough voice snorted, followed by the sound of spitting. "And crushed the balls of Orros. You think you'd fare better?" "She caught them off guard. Not a fair fight. She wouldn't stand a chance in a duel." "Then you are either blind or stupid," another voice cut in. "Because I see a girl fighting with the heart of a stallion."
Something in the silence shifted.
Sarea didn't move, but she felt it—like a heartbeat stuttering in the heat. The way the men didn't laugh. The way eyes darted toward the ring, and not just to watch the fight.
A murmur passed. Low. Tense. Something unspoken changing in the dust and sweat between them all.
She turned her head—just slightly—enough to catch the speaker's face.
He wasn't smiling anymore.
"Tch. Wouldn't want her anyway," he muttered. "Too wild. Not worth the trouble. The other one, however…"
Sarea shivered at the hunger in the man's rough voice, a flicker of dread running down her spine and a flame of anger igniting in her gut.
"You are a fool," another voice replied. "The Khal doesn't leave that one out of his sight." "The Khal can't be everywhere, every time," came the reply. "And he's getting complacent. The light-haired one is always tending to the slaves in the mornings. Someone just needs to distract the Khal when she does…"
A sharp crack rang through the air.
All heads snapped to the ring—just in time to see Karin knock Ichigo's staff clean from his hands.
She didn't follow up. Didn't gloat. Just stood there, chest heaving, hair clinging to her brow, sweat gleaming like war paint.
"I win," she said.
Not smug. Not playful.
Just fact.
She didn't lower the staff.
She didn't need to.
Ichigo blinked. Then smiled.
A slow, dangerous curve of his lips that didn't reach his eyes.
"Looks like it."
The gathered watchers said nothing. Even the men behind the rocks went still—like the desert wind had died around them.
Then—a scream.
Short. Guttural. Cut off too quickly.
Sarea turned just in time to see one of the men—the one who'd spoken last—slump to the ground, blood blooming dark through his tunic.
Behind him stood Nava.
Knife in hand. Eyes wide. Trembling.
But not from fear.
From rage.
"He spoke of hurting your healer," she said aloud, voice shaking but clear. "He spoke of breaking her."
The silence shattered.
Three warriors surged forward—but Ichigo was already moving.
He didn't grab his staff.
He didn't need it.
By the time the first reached Nava, he was there—a blur of motion, hand locked around the man's throat, driving him into the dirt with enough force to crack the earth.
The others hesitated—and wisely backed off.
Ichigo stood slowly, dust sliding off his shoulders.
"I don't need to be everywhere," he said, eyes sweeping the crowd. "Because the people I protect are no longer alone."
His voice dropped, cold and final.
"And the next man who even thinks of touching my sisters… won't get a warning."
He turned to Nava. Looked at her bloody hands. Nodded.
"Thank you."
Nava's lip trembled—but she didn't cry.
She just stood straighter.
Her feet were planted. Her knife was still raised. Her voice? Steady now.
She wasn't afraid.
Not anymore.
And Sarea… Sarea felt her throat close around something bitter and unfamiliar.
Pride.
~XxX~
A/N: Here it is—Chapter 7 of ASFTR, and boy oh boy, this one was a ride.
It's officially the longest chapter I've written so far, and honestly? There was still more I wanted to add. But I think this is the right point to pause—I've said everything I needed to.
At this stage, Ichigo has firmly taken control. The siblings are starting to carve out their place in the world, and the Khalasar is beginning to shift. Slowly. Unevenly. And that's exactly how I want it. They'll never be fully loyal. There will always be resistance—and that's where the real story lives. That tension? That push and pull? That's the fun part.
Anyway, I'd love to hear what you thought of the chapter. Your feedback and comments mean the world—and they help shape where this story goes next.
Thanks for reading, and I wish you all the best until next time!
Btw, I've created a Pa-Tre-On, so if you like my writing and want to support me, check it our at Pa-Tre-On/ragnartherad!