Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The spring solstice fire had been lit long before the sun dipped, and now its flames reached high into the night, spitting sparks that danced like fireflies. Heat rolled through the clearing, thick with the scent of pine resin, scorched oak, and the faint sweetness of dried blossoms curling in the flame.

The clan gathered in uneven rings, arranged more by age and intention than ceremony. The young women stood nearest the fire on the north side, dressed in their finest—soft linen dyed with plant-stained hues, hair coiled and pinned with sakura blossoms, a few bold enough to weave in brighter blooms. They whispered and laughed beneath the hum of the drums, shifting from foot to foot, the warm light catching on polished bracelets and the curve of bare shoulders.

Across from them lingered the eligible young men—some in quiet clusters, others already scanning the line of women, blades at their hips and smoke clinging to their skin. Their voices were lower, more contained, but no less electric. It was a night for choosing.

Further back waited the rest of the clan—parents, kin, the nosy and the nostalgic, seated on logs or crouched near the edge of the firelight. And beyond them, in the shadows, the elders, cloaks drawn close around thin shoulders, content to watch, to judge, to remember.

On the edges of the inner circle, she stood a little apart, tugging at the hem of the dress Ayame had pressed into her hands only hours ago. It clung in ways she wasn’t used to—soft fabric brushing bare skin where she usually wore leather or wool.

“You look gorgeous, stop fidgeting,” Ayame murmured beside her, her voice warm with affection and a hint of amusement. The other girl’s golden hair gleamed in the firelight, blossoms of pale sakura and deep violet iris pinned throughout like a crown.

“Though why you insisted on weaving knotweed of all things into your crown, I’ll never understand.” She tsked. “Not even a sprig of sakura. You could’ve matched the rest of us. Still…” Her smile softened. “You look beautiful.”

She flushed, brushing her fingers over the rough stems. “This fits me better.”

Ayame laughed under her breath, nudging her shoulder with easy affection. “Stubborn as ever.”

Her gaze, gleaming in the glow, flicked back to the fire. The drums had quickened—a signal. The circle was waiting.

The warmth pressed against their faces as they stood together. For a while, they simply watched the flicker of light dance across the crowd—the gleam of knives at belts, the shine of polished hair ornaments, the restless anticipation rippling through the air.

“Can you believe it?” Ayame whispered, wonder softening her voice. “Our first claiming festival.”

She smiled faintly, watching the sparks drift upward. “Hard to believe, really.”

Ayame nudged her with a sly grin. “So—think any of the hunters will offer you their knife tonight?”

She snorted. “Why would anyone pick me? I’m not even from this clan.”

Ayame rolled her eyes. “You’ve been with the clan since you were little. You hunt with them, train with them—you’ve earned your place here.” She nudged her again, smiling. “Besides, you’re a better hunter than most of them.”

“All the more reason for them not to choose me.” She shrugged. “Still an outsider.”

Ayame tapped her lip, pretending to think. “Hmm. Maybe Taro will offer his knife.”

She groaned. “Don’t even joke about that.”

Ayame laughed under her breath. “What? He’s bold enough.”

“Exactly,” she said. “And loud. He’d probably make a whole speech first, like he’s leading a hunt.”

Ayame’s laughter came brighter this time, the sound lost for a moment in the noise of the crowd. “Think of the strong hunters you’ll have.”

“You’re ridiculous. Besides,” she added, shaking her head, “it’s humiliating for both sides when someone rejects a knife. I’ll pass on that kind of attention.”

Ayame didn’t argue further. Instead, her voice dropped lower, almost secretive. “Have you seen him yet? Has Bakugo shown up?”

Her eyes swept the crowd before she could stop herself. “Not yet.”

“Good.” Ayame smiled, though her voice trembled slightly beneath its brightness. “He hasn’t offered his knife to anyone since he came of age.”

Her tone dropped to a whisper, hope threading through every word. “But this is it. I can feel it. I’m eligible now. I know he’ll choose me.”

Around the circle, voices rose as people laughed and called for the first offering to begin. She drew in a breath and steadied herself, heart thudding in time with the drums. The laughter dimmed, replaced by the hush of expectation. Across the fire, a knot of young men stood together, their earlier boasting faltering under the weight of the moment. One of them shifted, the movement slight but enough to catch notice. Then, as the circle quieted, the fire popped—a single spark flaring and dying—and one of them stepped forward.

The crowd drew tighter around the fire as the first man broke from the ring. He wasn’t one of the young hunters, as everyone expected, but Toren—the blacksmith’s son. He’d clearly made an effort for the night; the soot that usually blackened his arms was gone, his forge apron traded for a clean tunic and his hair tied back. The knife in his hand caught the firelight.

He stopped before Lira, the baker’s daughter. For a heartbeat the clearing held its breath. Then he extended the knife, blade resting flat across both palms.

Lira stared at it, at him, and then reached out. Her fingers brushed the hilt before she took the knife from him. With the same steady hands she used to knead bread, she drew the blade across his open palm—one sharp, clean line. He hissed softly but didn’t pull away.

He accepted the knife back, mirrored the motion across her hand, and their blood welled crimson in the firelight.

When they clasped palms, sealing the bond, the crowd broke into cheers. Their mingled blood dripped into the dirt, dark and steaming where it met the earth.

Toren laughed aloud, lifting their joined hands high, their faces flushed with heat and triumph.

The fire popped, and over the fading cheers a woman’s voice rose above the crowd—smooth, certain, and impossible to ignore. Even the fire seemed to hush. Across the clearing, the chieftess Mitsuki stood among the elders, crimson cloth bright against the dark.

Her voice cut through the night like a drawn blade.

“Our first pairing of the night! May it bring strength and prosperity to the clan!”

She lifted her hand toward the fire. “Blood remembers blood!”

The crowd answered at once, voices rolling like thunder.

“And blood binds us!”

The cheers rose again, louder this time, until the drums caught the rhythm and the night pulsed with flame.

Tankards lifted, boots stamped, drums rolled once more. The noise swelled until it became a wall of sound, echoing against the treeline before fading again into murmurs and shifting feet.

Ayame leaned close, smiling. “I always knew they’d end up together.”

She nodded, eyes on the young couple. “I’m surprised he went first.”

Ayame’s grin was bright. “Well, he didn’t want to waste any—”

She never finished. The noise of the crowd shifted—laughter thinning, drums faltering. The kind of hush that moved through people before anyone spoke it aloud.

Beyond the firelight, something shifted.

A ripple through the onlookers, as if the air itself had sensed him first.

Then—movement.

Deliberate. Unstoppable.

He didn’t ask for space. It parted for him—wordless, instinctive, the way prey yields to a predator it knows it can’t outrun.

While the others wore their finest tunics, he came dressed for battle, not display.

The kind of strength that didn’t need embellishment.

Like he’d stepped out of the wild and into the firelight—not for them,
but despite them.

He stopped well beyond the edges of the inner circle. But the flames still caught the glint of steel at his belt—not some polished ceremonial blade, but a hunter’s knife, well-worn and sharp.

His jaw was cut from defiance, his frame broad and tall, as if carved straight from the land itself.

Hair wild and unbound, it burned gold in the firelight.

Not just a man.

A force.

A flicker of recognition stirred the circle.

Whispers followed him like sparks:

Bakugo.

Mitsuki’s voice cut through them, dry as smoke. “So my son decides to grace us with his presence after the first pairing.”

The crowd rippled with soft laughter, half-nervous, half-fond.

Bakugo didn’t bother answering. His gaze swept once around the fire, taking in the crowd, the couples, the knives gleaming at belts. For a moment his expression was unreadable—then the corner of his mouth twitched, something between a smirk and a challenge.

Mitsuki’s dry remark still hung in the air, but it barely mattered. Every eye near the fire had turned toward her son.

The shift was almost physical. Women straightened their backs, laughter softened to whispers, and the scent of perfume and mead thickened on the air. A few giggles broke through the hush, quickly swallowed again. She could see the way some of the younger girls leaned toward one another, eyes bright with the same question—would he choose someone this year? Would he choose me?

Beside her, Ayame’s breath hitched. “He’s here.”

He was. And the night, somehow, felt sharper for it. The air around the fire seemed to lean his way, drawn to the confidence in his stride, the easy weight of the knife at his belt.

Ayame pressed a hand to her braid, smoothing hair that didn’t need it. “Do you think I should—should I move closer?” she murmured, eyes wide and glittering. “No, that’s silly. Maybe just a little—”

She half-stepped forward, then hesitated again, caught between boldness and caution.

Before she could decide, another man broke from the ring.

The hunter moved with the loose, easy swagger that always made her wary. Even before the firelight caught his face, she knew that stride.

“Taro,” she breathed.

Ayame straightened instinctively, her hand brushing her throat. The crowd quieted again, curious.

He strode toward them, chin lifted, the glint of a knife in his hand. His grin was easy, confident—the same grin he wore after a successful hunt, when the whole hall was forced to listen to his stories.

The circle shifted with him, the crowd drawing back just enough to clear his path.

Beside her, Ayame straightened, the air leaving her lungs in a sharp breath. She could feel the heat rolling off the fire, the weight of eyes turning their way.

Taro’s gaze swept over them both as he closed the distance. For a heartbeat, he looked straight at her, that familiar, too-bold smile tugging at his mouth. He even winked.

Her stomach dropped.

And then he stopped in front of Ayame.

“Ayame,” Taro said, his voice carrying easily over the crowd. “Will you accept my knife?”

For a heartbeat, nothing moved. Then came the gasps—the delighted little oohs and murmurs that rippled through the crowd. Taro was one of the clan’s best hunters, and she was the clan’s beauty. To everyone else, it made perfect sense.

But she knew better.

Beside her, Ayame had gone very still.

The knife glinted in the firelight, caught between them. He stood waiting, confident, a smile tugging at his mouth as if he could already feel her hand closing around the hilt.

She didn’t move.

The seconds dragged, the sound of the fire growing louder until it seemed to fill the whole clearing. Somewhere toward the back, someone cleared their throat. A nervous laugh flickered and died. The excitement curdled into a hush heavy enough to make her chest ache.

Ayame’s hands trembled where they hung at her sides. She opened her mouth, closed it again. Her lips parted as if to speak, but no words came.

Taro’s smile wavered. He shifted his weight, lowering the knife a little, confusion furrowing his brow. “Ayame?”

Finally, she shook her head, the motion small, barely visible. “I—” Her voice cracked. She swallowed hard and forced the words out. “I’m sorry. I can’t accept your knife.”

For a long moment, the world didn’t seem to breathe. Then his arm dropped, the blade catching the firelight one last time before it fell to his side. That motion alone told the rest of the circle what had happened.

A ripple of noise broke the stillness—a sharp breath here, a whispered curse there. The air felt charged, unsteady.

For a long moment, no one moved. Then Taro straightened, his jaw tight, the easy grin gone. He gave a single nod—polite, curt—and turned away.

No one spoke as he passed. A few of the younger hunters shifted, pretending to adjust their belts or cups, eyes fixed anywhere but on him. The space around the fire felt suddenly smaller, the air heavier.

Ayame’s shoulders sagged once his back was turned. Her face was pale in the firelight, mouth trembling as if she wanted to speak and couldn’t.

“Are you all right?” she asked softly.

Ayame forced a small, brittle smile. “I’m fine,” she said, the words thin as smoke. Her gaze flicked toward the far side of the circle, to where Bakugo stood half-shadowed. “I just—need some air.”

She smoothed her skirts with shaking hands and stepped away, weaving into the crowd, her head held a little too high.

The murmur of voices slowly crept back in, low and uncertain, until Mitsuki’s voice cut across it like a whip.

“Enough gawking,” she said, cool and sharp. “It’s a festival, not a funeral.”

The laughter returned by degrees, brittle and too loud, as the tension bled back into noise. Ayame was gone, swallowed by the crowd, and the fire burned a little lower now.

She stood there, eyes on the flames, trying to pretend she hadn’t just watched a friend get humiliated in front of nearly the entire clan.

Her fingers brushed unconsciously over the faint scar on her hand—a line she’d stopped noticing years ago. It ached now, faintly, like an old memory straining to surface.

Then she felt it.

A prickle at the base of her neck. The weight of a stare.

Familiar. Unmistakable.

Her gaze caught on the shape of him beyond the flame.

Bakugo still stood apart from the others, half-shadowed by the flames.

He wasn’t speaking. Wasn’t smiling. Wasn’t moving.

But he was watching her.

That look—

It sent heat crawling up her spine.

Unflinching. Intense.

Like he was trying to burn through her without ever taking a step.

She swallowed.

Her heart kicked once, sharp and uncertain.

He didn’t look away.

And somehow, neither could she.

Chapter Text

The trees thinned before them, black silhouettes giving way to the glow of distant flame. Smoke drifted low across the ground, carrying the bitter tang of pine pitch and burning oak.

She clung to her mother’s hand, fingers slick with rain and cold.

They hadn’t left home for adventure. They had left because of things she was too young to understand. She didn’t know the words for what they’d run from—only that her mother never looked back, and every step since had felt like walking through someone else’s dream.

The air grew warmer as they climbed the rise. Voices flickered between the gusts—men calling, dogs barking, metal ringing faintly from behind the walls. And then, between the carved gate poles, she saw it: a ring of torches circling the settlement like a crown of fire.

The scent of resin and heat spilled through the gate, carrying the promise of warmth—and the bite of flame. She didn’t know which it would be, only that her feet kept moving toward the light. The haze caught in her throat, stinging her eyes, but she couldn’t look away. Beyond the gates, the world shimmered with movement and light—shadows shifting across timber walls, the gleam of forged edges catching the orange glow.

Her mother stopped to speak with a guard, voice low but steady. She couldn’t make out the words over the wind, only the tone—polite, practiced, pleading. After a long pause, the man nodded toward the largest hall, its roof veiled in heat-haze.

The guard’s torch guttered as he gestured them forward. Another stepped out to guide them, the smell of wet leather and smoke heavy on his cloak. Rain had thinned to mist, turning every torch into a trembling halo. Beyond the glow, she saw only shifting shapes—huts crouched low against the dark, a fence of spears, the glint of eyes she couldn’t quite be sure of. Their boots sank into mud that hissed with each step. The path climbed through smoke and shadow until the longhouse emerged from the haze, light spilling from its doorway like a breath of fire.

Heat struck her as soon as she crossed the threshold. The smell of tanned leather, stew, sweat, and woodsmoke wrapped around her until it almost felt safe. Almost.

Dozens of faces turned their way. She ducked behind her mother’s cloak, heart thudding, aware of every pair of eyes that lingered too long—the hush spreading like warmth across her skin.

A woman’s voice cut through the murmuring.

“Enough.”

It wasn’t shouted. It didn’t need to be. The single word settled over the room like a command everyone already knew to obey.

She peeked from behind her mother’s cloak.

The woman sat near the great hearth, one arm resting on the carved chair’s arm, the fire behind her turning her hair to molten gold. Short and sharply cut, her blond hair caught the light like spiked metal—every strand seeming to spark in the glow. She wasn’t dressed like a noble from any tale—no jewels, no silks—only a dark cloak fastened with a strip of hammered bronze and a blade at her hip. Yet everyone in the hall seemed to look to her before they dared breathe.

“I am Mitsuki Bakugo, chieftess of this clan,” she said. “Why have you entered our lands?”

Her mother stepped forward, voice steady despite the weight of so many eyes.

“We seek shelter,” she said quietly. “Only that. I have skills—I can cook, mend, gather. We’ll work for our keep.”

Mitsuki’s gaze moved from her mother to her, then back again. “Everyone works,” she said. “Outsiders don’t last long here.”

Her throat tightened, but she didn’t look away.

A faint smile touched Mitsuki’s mouth—half amusement, half approval. “Still, I’ll not turn you out into the dark.”

For a moment, the chieftess was silent, fingers tapping once on the chair’s carved arm. Then she straightened, the ghost of a smirk curling her lips as she lifted her voice to the hall.

“Blood remembers blood!”

The answering cry came at once, rolling through the space like thunder.

“And blood binds us!”

Mitsuki’s eyes returned to them, sharp and appraising. “Welcome to the clan—for now. You’ll have your chance to prove you can stay.”

Relief broke through her mother’s composure like sunlight through cloud. She bowed deeply.

But as her mother bent low, she couldn’t stop staring. The woman’s face was beautiful in a way that frightened her—not soft, but certain, like carved stone that knew it would never break. She had never seen anyone carry power so easily, or wear strength like it belonged to her. She looked like one of the warrior women from her mother’s stories, the kind who tamed storms and defied gods.

Mitsuki’s eyes—red as banked embers—turned to her, narrowing slightly. “You’re bold,” she said, a trace of amusement curling her mouth.

“She’s just tired,” her mother began, but a flicker of movement by the hearth pulled her gaze.

The air there shimmered hotter, drawing her in before she understood why. She felt it then—the weight of someone’s stare—steady, unblinking, as if the fire itself were watching her.

He sat near the hearth, crouched close to the flames, a carved knife turning slowly in his hand. Tiny sparks leapt from the logs and clung to his sleeves, but he didn’t flinch from the heat. He looked only a few years older than she was—blond hair spiked wild in the glow, eyes burning red as flames.

He was nearly a reflection of the chieftess: the same proud tilt of the chin, the same quiet arrogance in the set of his shoulders. And he looked at her as though she’d somehow trespassed on his fire.

When he finally spoke, his voice carried that same command, only rougher—still finding its edge.

“She’s staring.”

Before she could stop herself, the words leapt out. “You’re the one staring!”

Her mother’s sharp whisper followed: “Hush.”“

Mitsuki only laughed under her breath, then glanced toward the boy with a sigh. “You could learn some manners, Katsuki.”

“But she’s the one staring,” he muttered, defensive, though he straightened as he said it.

Heat crawled up her neck. She hadn’t meant to stare—at either of them—but now she couldn’t look away. He was smaller than the warriors near the wall, yet the way he looked at her, like she’d wandered too close to his flame, made her pulse stumble.

Mitsuki’s attention shifted back to her mother. “We’ll find you a hut by the outer ring. Report to the stewards at dawn.”

Then, to the boy: “If you’re so worried about her, see that she learns our ways.”

He didn’t answer right away. The firelight caught on the edge of his jaw as he looked from Mitsuki to her and back again, weighing the order as if it were his choice to accept. Then he lifted his chin. “Fine. I’ll make sure she earns it.”

Mitsuki’s smile deepened—tired, knowing. “Then she’s your problem.”

He looked pleased with himself until she met his gaze again, uncertain but unflinching. For a heartbeat, the hall seemed to fade. Only the fire remained, glowing between them, daring her to look away first.

The rain had stopped by morning, leaving the world damp and shining. Smoke still drifted from the longhouse, thin and pale against the gray sky. She woke to the call of ravens across the trees, the faint clang of metal, and the scent of ash and wet earth clinging to her hair.

Her mother had gone to see the steward at first light—brisk, determined, already shaping their new life before the morning meal. The hut they’d been given still smelled faintly of clay and last night’s fire. The hearth was dull with ash, the air touched by the ghost of its warmth.

She stepped outside, blinking against the brightness. The settlement looked different by day—smaller somehow, less like a fortress and more like a web of motion and work. Warriors carried spears toward the woods. Children darted past with baskets and water skins. From the forge rose the steady breath of heat and hammer, its smoke twining with the scent of stew, rain-soaked hides—and, faintly, bread. Her stomach tightened before she could stop it.

It all looked gentler under the dawn’s light. But she hadn’t decided yet whether it felt safe.

“Oi.”

The voice came from behind her. When she turned, he was standing in the pale sun, boots splattered with mud, a wooden practice knife hooked through his belt.

He looked much the same as he had beside the fire—hair catching the light like it had stored every spark from the night before, expression balanced somewhere between a challenge and a smirk.

Katsuki Bakugo.

"Katsuki?" she asked before she could stop herself.

He scowled. "It's Bakugo."

She blinked. "Right. Bakugo."

He gave a curt nod, as if that settled it. “Enough slacking,” he said, as if he’d been appointed her keeper. “I’m showing you around.”

She hesitated. “Says who?”

“Me. Now let’s go.”

Before she could argue, he’d already turned toward the heart of the settlement.

“You’re my problem now. So c’mon.”

She followed, trying to take everything in as he moved ahead of her. His “tour” was more a string of orders than explanations.

“That’s the forge. Don’t touch anything.”

“Stay out of that shed—traps.”

“If you get lost, follow the smoke.”

He walked fast, barely glancing back to see if she kept up. The ground was slick from last night’s rain, and every few steps she had to catch herself before slipping. The paths twisted between huts and fences—a maze of wood, mud, and unfamiliar voices.

She caught flashes between his words: the clatter of hammers, the hiss of steam from the dye vats, the low hum of gossip and laughter. Everywhere she looked, something was happening—baskets passing, dogs barking, people moving with purpose. None of it slowed for her. It all felt too big, too busy, too alive for her to find her footing.

“Where’s the well?” she asked at one point.

He finally paused and turned toward her. “What?”

“The well,” she repeated, gesturing vaguely around them. “You didn’t say where it was—or the healer, or the storehouse.” As if to prove her point, her stomach gave a low rumble. “Or where I’m supposed to get something to eat.”

He frowned, then let out a huff. “That’s the well,” he said flatly, jerking his chin toward a low stone ring half-hidden by ferns. “Healer’s by the outer wall. Storehouse is near the pens.” He pointed in different directions as he spoke. “And morning meal’s by the longhouse. “But”—he stopped to give her a look that left no room to argue—“you don’t eat until you’ve earned it.”

She blinked at him, somewhere between confusion and disbelief. “Earn it? Earn it how?”

A faint grin tugged at his mouth. “You’ll see.”

He was already turning away, but her glare only made him grin wider.

By the time they reached the training yard beyond the huts, the ground had firmed to solid earth—packed and scarred from years of boots and blades. Spears leaned against a wooden fence. Bows hung from the rails, their strings unstrung but gleaming faintly with oil. A line of straw targets stood at uneven distances, peppered with knife slashes and old arrow holes.

Bakugo turned to face her. “This is where we train.”

Her stomach sank. “What?”

He didn’t answer right away, but the look he gave her turned feral.

“Now?” she asked.

“You wanna eat or not?”

“But I don’t know how to fight!”

“Gotta learn sometime.” He paused, grin fading to something sharper. “You wanna stay or not? Unless you’re scared.”

She crossed her arms. “Of what? You?”

He shrugged, all false innocence. “You’ll find out.”

He tossed her a training knife—wooden, dulled at the edge, the hilt slick with dew. She caught it clumsily but didn’t drop it. The weight of it surprised her—solid, real, humming faintly against her palm.

She shifted her stance, trying to copy the way he held his blade.

His grin returned, wolfish this time.

“Good,” he said. “Let’s do this.”

The next morning, he was there again—arriving with the first light, before the mist had fully lifted. This time, he tossed her a bundle of clothes with a scowl. “You can’t train in that,” he said, as if her dress personally offended him.

The tunic and trousers were rough-spun and a little too big, but better than the travel-worn dress that clung and snagged when she moved. She hadn’t realized how much easier it was to breathe—or to stand her ground—until she changed.

Training became her mornings. He’d appear with the dawn, a specter through smoke, wooden blades in hand, and she learned quickly that lesson usually meant bruises.

Still, nothing had ever tasted as good as the meal after that first morning—stew rich with salt and fat, her arms aching, her pride battered, but her stomach full for the first time since they’d arrived.

Mitsuki never stopped them. If she saw them training, she would sometimes pause as she passed, giving her a sharp nod—and Bakugo a sharper comment. Her mother said nothing either; by then she’d taken work in the steadhouse kitchens and seemed relieved that her daughter had found something—someone—to keep her busy.

So she learned. How to hold a blade. How to fall and get back up. How to keep her feet when he pushed harder than he needed to. Occasionally, one of the older hunters would pause long enough to correct her grip, offer a muttered word—sometimes praise, sometimes not—before moving on.

By then, everyone seemed to agree she was his problem.

Each day left her sore, breathless—and a little stronger than the one before.

It was a morning like all the others—bright, sharp, and full of bruises. He’d just knocked her flat again, and her elbows stung from the dirt.

“Dead again,” he announced, grinning.

She groaned, pushed herself up, and brushed mud from her knees. “You could at least pretend to miss once.”

“You could at least block once,” he shot back. Her glare only made him laugh. “You just don’t quit, do you?”

She stood, chin high despite the scrapes. “Why would I?”

For a moment, he just looked at her—head tilted, eyes narrowed against the morning sun, as if he were contemplating something important. Then that grin returned, quick and crooked, the kind that always made her wary.

“Stubborn,” he said. “Like knotweed.”

She blinked. “What did you just call me?”

He smirked, clearly pleased with himself. “Knotweed. Scrappy. Knock it down, it keeps growing back.” He gestured toward her scraped elbows, the mud, the defiant set of her shoulders. “Invasive as hell. Can’t get rid of it.”

“Yeah, well—you’re a… a thistle! Prickly and annoying!”

He barked out a laugh that startled a raven from the fencepost. “Still better than knotweed.”

She tried to hold her glare, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her. “You’re impossible.”

She brushed herself off again, shifting back into position, grumbling under her breath. “Stupid, spiky thistle-head.”

He shifted back into his stance, wooden blade tapping lightly against his palm. “Quit stalling, Knotweed. We’re not done.”

And from that moment on, the name stuck.

Chapter Text

Seasons shifted, and the bruises came less often.

Training with Bakugo had become as natural as breathing. He still arrived before the world fully woke, blades in hand, and she still met him halfway—stubborn, sore, and unwilling to let him win easily.

The questions had stopped long ago. Now, when they crossed the yard at dawn, no one looked twice. Her place beside Bakugo was no longer a curiosity—it was routine, the rhythm of the clan settling around them.

Even the other hunters-in-training mostly left them alone. Sometimes one of them would challenge Bakugo, and he always took it as a chance to prove himself. He relished every victory—especially over those older than him.

Mitsuki still watched sometimes, but now her nod carried something heavier than approval. Expectation, maybe.

Her mother no longer fretted about the training. Whatever worry she’d had had softened into quiet approval—especially when her complaints about Bakugo only earned a small smile and a shake of the head. Most evenings, she was too tired from the steadhouse to say much more than “good work” before the hearth fire, but her pride was there all the same, warm as the scent of broth and woodsmoke.

By the next season, she could track small game and skin a hare, but she’d long given up trying to match Bakugo with a spear. Every time she got close, he’d find a way to turn her momentum against her and knock her flat.

When they started using live steel instead of wood, she learned faster. The bruises came less from falling and more from near-misses—the blades biting shallow when she slipped her footing. The lessons grew sharper too, though the training steel was still a far cry from the real weapons the hunters carried.

Still, she was never built for close fighting—her reflexes too careful, her reach too short. So she’d found a bow in the training shed one morning and decided to try her luck. Her first shot missed, the second grazed bark, and the third hit clean.

Bakugo had stared for a moment, then snorted. “Huh. Guess you can hit something after all.”

After that, their mornings changed—his blades, her arrows, their endless bickering filling the space between. He never stopped calling her Knotweed; she still let spiky thistle-head slip out whenever he got too smug, just to see him scowl.

When she wasn’t with Bakugo, she was with Ayame. The healer’s apprentice had patched her up after a bad scrape one afternoon and never quite stopped looking out for her since. Ayame was everything she wasn’t—neat-handed, bright-eyed, and kind enough to treat her like she’d always belonged.

That morning, mist hung low over the training yard—pale and still, the world caught between sleep and waking.

For once, she was the first to arrive. A rare thing.

No heavy footsteps pounding through the mud, no sharp bark of his voice cutting through the air—only the soft thrum of her bowstring and the hollow echo that followed.

She nocked another arrow and drew, the string biting at her fingertips. Breath in, breath out—release.

The arrow flew just wide of center. She grimaced, adjusted her stance, and reached for another.

She set the next arrow to the string, drew again—steady this time—

“Oi, Knotweed!”

His voice cracked through the quiet like a thrown stone.

Her fingers slipped. The arrow veered wide, striking the post beside the target with a dull thunk.

She exhaled sharply, lowering the bow as irritation flared.

She turned, leveling him with a look. He stood at the edge of the yard, half out of breath, half smug—never a good combination.

“What?”

He practically hummed. “Drop the bow. Let’s go.”

She sighed. “Go where, exactly?”

“Quit whining and follow me.”

“I’m not whining!” she shot back, but he was already turning toward the eastern woods.

She followed anyway. The path was familiar—the narrow trail winding down through the trees to the clearing by the stream. The one where the morning light filtered through mist and turned the water to gold—just like the first time he’d shown her.

She’d called it magical, when the sun hit just right and the stream seemed to catch fire.

He’d rolled his eyes, said, “What are you, blind? It’s just a stream. Don’t say dumb stuff.”

And yet, he never stopped dragging her back there.

Today, though, there was something different in his stride—something restless, sparking just beneath the surface. Whatever he was about to show her, it mattered—he practically hummed with energy.

The ground was damp, smelling of earth and pine sap, and the light spilled through the branches in sharp golden bands. He walked fast, boots crunching through old needles, until they reached the edge of the clearing. A fallen log sat near the stream, rough and half-sunk in moss.

He stopped and glanced back at her.

“They said I’m old enough now.”

“For what?” she asked, uncertain.

His grin was crooked, proud. “For this.”

From his belt, he drew a new blade—a real one. Not wood, not the dulled steel from the training yard. This one was larger, bright and sharp, its edge catching the light like water. He turned it in his hand, admiring it.

“I earned my hunting knife.”

Her breath caught. It wasn’t ornate—no gilded hilt or carved runes like the elders’ blades—but the bone hilt was cut with sure, deliberate lines. Every curve spoke of function, not vanity. It looked made for him—balanced, purposeful, unflinching.

It didn’t need to gleam to command attention. The knife already belonged to him, the way fire belonged to flame.

In his hand, it almost seemed sacred.

He watched her, waiting.

“Well?”

She smiled softly. “It fits you.”

He arched a brow. “That’s it?”

She huffed. “What do you want me to say? You’d brag about it either way.”

He grinned wider. “You’re damn right.”

He angled the blade toward the light again. “You know what this means, right?”

“What?”

“I can go on hunts now.”

“Hunts?”

“Yeah—real ones.” His grin deepened, eyes bright.

She hesitated. “Oh…” She wanted to be happy for him—she was—but a small part of her felt left behind. Though he was only a couple of years older, it was becoming clear how much further ahead he stood—in skill, in status, in everything that mattered within the clan.

Bakugo, too wrapped up in his excitement to notice, took a step closer. “You want to try it out?”

She blinked. “What?”

He crouched, balancing the knife casually across his knees, like it was no big deal. “Come on, try it.”

She stared. “You can’t just—Bakugo, that’s a real knife—”

“Yeah,” he said, mischief tugging at his grin. “That’s the point.”

He held it out to her, hilt-first. “Relax. I’m not gonna let you stab yourself.”

She took it anyway—more from stubborn pride than trust. The weight surprised her; heavier than the practice blades, the edge whisper-sharp. She turned it carefully in her hand, watching how the light slid along the curve.

“It looks really sharp,” she murmured.

“Of course it is,” he said, still grinning. “Try cutting that.” He nodded toward a strip of bark curling off the moss-slick log.

She braced the knife and pressed. The bark resisted, rough beneath her palm—then, too suddenly, it gave. The slick moss shifted under her grip, the blade skipping forward before she could pull back. Pain flared hot at the base of her thumb.

She hissed and jerked back.

Bakugo straightened, the grin vanishing. “What the hell—”

Blood welled fast, dark against her skin.

“I didn’t—it just—” she stammered, clutching her hand. The sting was already fading, replaced by something sharper. The pain was nothing compared to the quiet twist in her chest—embarrassment, frustration, something she couldn’t name. For a moment, she’d never felt so small—so young, so far behind him it almost hurt.

He scowled, half irritation, half panic. “It’s not a toy, dumbass! You can’t just—” He stopped when he saw her expression—the mist in her eyes, the tremor at the corner of her mouth.

For a heartbeat, his bravado cracked. Something uncertain shadowed his face, but it vanished behind the scowl before it could take shape.

Then, in true Bakugo fashion, he snatched the knife back with a mutter. “Tch, you’re such a crybaby. It’s just a cut. Look.”

Before she realized what he meant to do, he dragged the blade across his palm—quick, reckless, and deep enough to bleed.

She gasped. “What are you—”

He dropped the knife into the moss and reached for her, catching her smaller hand in his uninjured one and turning it palm-up. Then, without hesitation, he pressed his bleeding hand to hers.

Her breath caught—half shock, half question.

His eyes met hers, fierce and uncertain all at once. “There. See? No big deal.” His voice softened, almost grudgingly. “Blood binds us, right? You’re one of us now, Knotweed.”

The burn had already faded, but the memory stayed—sharp as the blade that made it.

The next morning, she woke before dawn. The camp was still—only the faint murmur of voices and the low clatter of gear near the longhouse broke the quiet. She didn’t mean to linger, not really, but her feet carried her the long way to the training yard.

The hunters clustered near the fire, voices low. Her gaze found him easily—his new knife strapped at his side, his left hand wrapped in fresh linen.

One of the older hunters snorted. “What, already cut yourself, boy?”

Bakugo’s scowl was immediate. “Mind your own damn business.”

The others laughed, but he didn’t rise to it—just adjusted the spear in his grip and turned toward the woods with the rest.

The first light caught on their spearheads as they vanished into the trees, bronze and silent. From the shadows of the huts, she watched him go—and felt the space between them widen in a way no amount of training could close.

Still, the training didn’t stop—if anything, he pushed her harder.

While Bakugo kept joining the older hunters on short runs into the woods, she stayed behind, honing both aim and patience. The gap between them seemed to widen and close in cycles; he always seemed a few steps ahead, but she never stopped chasing. Never stopped pushing herself.

He returned from those hunts full of stories—of blood, pride, and impossible victories. She never called him out on the embellishments. There was something unguarded in the way he told them, though she’d never admit how much she enjoyed listening.

Away from training, there was Ayame—constantly patching her cuts, teaching her how to grind herbs, mix salves, and dress wounds. They often went together to gather herbs—sometimes wildflowers—and trade the latest clan gossip. Ayame was always talking, always smiling—and always seemed to perk up a little whenever Bakugo’s name slipped into conversation.

Two seasons passed before her time finally came.

The morning felt like so many others—cool air biting her cheeks, dew still clinging to the grass. The training yard was quiet, the world just waking. She drew the bowstring back, steady and sure, the target centered in her sight.

“Oi, Knotweed.”

The arrow hit dead center.

She didn’t even glance back, only sighed. “What now, Bakugo?”

He didn’t answer right away—which usually meant trouble. She reached for another arrow, fitting it against the string. Drew back. Focused.

“You’re going on a hunt.”

Her hand jerked. The bowstring snapped forward too soon, and the arrow veered wide—clipping the edge of the target before spinning off into the grass.

She spun toward him, ready to snap back. He’d stepped closer, forcing her to look up to meet his eye. “What did you just say?!”

He watched the arrow’s crooked path with mock consideration. “Huh. Maybe I spoke too soon.”

She glared up at him. “Bakugo! Is it true?!”

He smirked, finally meeting her eyes. “You heard me. The old hag said you’re ready. I told her you wouldn’t screw it up.”

She rolled her eyes at the nickname for his mother, but her brow furrowed, suspicion flickering beneath it. “Wait, you vouched for me?”

He shrugged, mouth twitching toward a grin. “Don’t make it weird. Just don’t embarrass me out there—or get yourself killed.”

For a heartbeat, she could only stare at him. Then the corner of her mouth lifted.

“I’ll try not to bring shame upon your greatness.” She adjusted her bow on her shoulder, half-smiling. “Besides, Mitsuki’d never forgive me.”

He gave her a half-hearted shove. “Smartass.”

She barely slept that night. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the forest waiting—vast and silent, the kind of dark that made her wonder if she truly belonged among those who hunted it. She spent half the night checking her bowstring and counting arrows, as if the repetition could calm her racing thoughts.

By dawn, she was already dressed, bow in hand, trying to steady the tremor in her fingers.

The hunters gathered by the outer gate, their laughter curling into the cold air like smoke. She spotted Ayame near the edge of the group, chatting with Taro. The moment Ayame saw her, her whole face lit up. She murmured something to Taro—he barely got a word in before she’d rushed over, basket swinging at her hip.

“Ayame! What are you doing here?”

A familiar smile spread across her face. “It’s your first hunt. Of course I’d be here to see you off.”

She huffed a laugh. “You braved the cold for me?”

"Only for you,” Ayame teased. Her gaze flicked toward Bakugo, who looked to be inspecting his spear. “Try not to let him get you killed.

“I’ll do my best,” she replied dryly.

Bakugo glanced over his shoulder at the sound of their voices. “Tch. If she gets herself killed, that’s on her.”

Ayame grinned. “Then take care of her anyway, would you?”

He scoffed, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “She can handle herself.”

Ayame hesitated before blurting, “Good luck today, Bakugo.” Color rushed to her cheeks a heartbeat later.

He frowned, almost offended. “I don’t need luck.”

Ayame’s blush deepened as she let out a flustered laugh.

She shook her head, giving Bakugo a pointed look before, turning to Ayame with a reassuring smile. “Well, more luck for me then.”

Just then, one of the senior hunters called for the group to move out.

Her pulse quickened as she checked her quiver—one last count, one last breath—and straightened.

Bakugo brushed past, voice low near her ear. “C’mon, Knotweed. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Her first hunt was nothing impressive—a single hare, caught clean through the ribs. The older hunters joked that it must have tripped into her arrow. She laughed along with them, even as her cheeks burned.

Bakugo, of course, was worse. “Tch.” He nudged the hare with his boot. “That’s it? Guess you’ll feed the clan one mouthful tonight.”

She muttered under her breath, “Says the prodigy who brought down a boar on his first hunt.”

He gave that crooked half-smirk—the one that always meant you’re not wrong, but I’ll never say it out loud. “Not everyone can be me, Knotweed.”

“Thank the spirits for that,” she muttered.

He barked a laugh, and somehow the sting of the others’ teasing faded.

After that, the hunts got easier. Her confidence grew; the kills came cleaner, the game larger. The jokes never disappeared entirely, but they softened—shifting from mockery to camaraderie. Even Bakugo, advanced for his age, wasn’t immune to it.

The teasing came for everyone eventually, and one night, gathered around the fire after a long hunt, it was Bakugo's turn.

“Almost of age now, aren’t you?” one of the older hunters called, grinning through the smoke. “Time to start thinking who you’ll offer your knife to.”

Taro leaned forward, all swagger and grin. “Better pick someone patient—spirits know you’d drive anyone else mad.”

Laughter rippled through the circle.

“Yeah,” another added. “Can’t have the chieftess’s son sitting out the claiming.”

Bakugo didn’t flinch. He leaned back on one elbow, then—slow, as if to prove a point—drew his knife. Firelight flashed along the edge, bright and clean. He turned it in his hand with that smirk that always balanced between arrogance and challenge.

“This?” he said. “Tch. No one in this clan’s worthy of it yet.”

A chorus of groans and laughter rose around the fire, half amused, half impressed. Someone tossed a scrap of bark at him; it bounced off his shoulder. He only grinned wider before sheathing the blade again, satisfied.

She laughed too—because everyone else did—but the sound felt strange in her throat. There was something about the way he’d said it, so sure of himself, that twisted low in her chest. She told herself it was nothing. It was nothing. Just Bakugo being Bakugo.

The laughter of the hunters drifted as the conversation moved on to stories of past hunts and near misses.

Through the drifting smoke, he caught her watching. The firelight danced across his face—bright against the shadow, fierce and certain in a way she wasn’t.

For a heartbeat, the world went quiet around them—just the fire, the smoke—that look. Heat rose inexplicably to her cheeks. Then her pulse stumbled, and she turned away, pretending to study the embers.

She swore she heard his low chuckle over the crackle of the flames.

Chapter Text

The world lay under a gray haze, the pines a cool sweep of green against the dull horizon. The air smelled of snow—not the clean, sharp kind that vanished with spring flurries, but the heavy kind, the sort that blanketed the forest and stayed.

She’d just finished stacking firewood and was cutting across the training yard toward the longhouse when a shadow fell over her path.

It was Bakugo—his spear in one hand, her bow in the other.

“Oi. There you are.”

She stopped short, blinking up at him. “Why do you have my bow?”

He tossed it to her before she could protest. “Grab your quiver. We’re going hunting.”

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What?”

“You heard me. Let’s go.”

“It’s freezing.”

He raised a brow. “We hunt in winter.”

“I was headed to the longhouse.”

“It can wait.”

“It’s midday.”

“Perfect. The light’s good.”

“You realize that’s not how this works, right?”

He ignored her, checking the edge on his spear.

“You’re serious?” she asked.

He looked up, that familiar glint in his eyes. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

She sighed. “Sometimes I wish you were.”

He smirked. “You talk too much.”

“And you think too little.”

He stepped closer—close enough for her to catch the faint scent of pine smoke and steel. His voice dropped, low and teasing. “What’s wrong—afraid of the cold?”

She instinctively took a small step back, still having to tilt her chin to meet his eyes. “Hardly,” she shot back, a touch too fast.

He only grinned, then jerked his head toward the treeline. “Come on, Knotweed."

She groaned, shouldering her bow. “Ugh—fine.” Under her breath, she muttered, “And you call me stubborn.”

He didn’t deny it.

They started toward the woods, dead leaves crunching underfoot. The wind bit at her cheeks, and she muttered something about frozen fingers and bad timing.

“Wait,” she said suddenly. “Weren’t you supposed to help fix the traps today?”

He didn’t look at her. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“So that’s a yes.”

He snorted. “Quit whining and keep up.”

“I’m not—” She huffed under her breath, quickening her pace to catch up.

The wind carried their breath into the trees, vanishing into the gray as the forest swallowed them whole.

Bakugo angled north toward the ridge, his pace unhurried but certain. They weren’t following any of their usual paths.

She frowned. “We’re heading north?”

He kept his eyes on the path ahead, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Tch. Surprised you could tell.”

She blinked. “What—seriously?”

“I’m not the one who got lost.”

“That was one time!” she shot back, heat creeping up her neck.

She swatted at his arm, earning a faint smirk. “And I’m better at tracking than you!”

He just grunted.

She exhaled through her nose, forcing her tone back to steady. “Since when do we hunt this way?”

He shrugged without breaking stride. “Figured we’d change it up.”

“Change it up,” she echoed, incredulous. “That’s your reason?”

He cast her a sidelong look. “You got a better one?”

“I think someone really didn’t want to fix traps.”

He didn’t answer. She laughed under her breath, shaking her head, but followed.

He moved like a hunter out of habit—eyes scanning the trees, hand loose on the spear—but there was no edge to it. He wasn’t hunting so much as wandering, too restless to slow down and too proud to admit it.

The pines thickened as they climbed, branches knitted close overhead. The air turned sharper, quieter. She glanced up—the gray sky had deepened, heavy with promise.

Snow began to fall—first a dusting, then thin, lazy flakes that caught in their hair and melted on the dark bark above. Most never reached the ground, floating through the canopy like sparks that had lost their heat.

They kept climbing. The snow thickened, drifting down in wide, lazy flakes that blurred the edge of the ridge. The sky pressed low, heavy and gray, and the trees stretched darker the farther north they went.

After a while, she realized it had gone quiet—too quiet. No birdsong. No rustle of small things in the underbrush. Even the wind had died, leaving only the crunch of their boots and the soft hush of snow landing on their shoulders.

She slowed, eyes narrowing as she scanned the empty woods. “You know, there’s a reason we don’t go north,” she grumbled. “There’s nothing out here.”

Bakugo turned toward her with a short snort. “What’s the matter, Knotweed?”

She rolled her eyes, not bothering to answer—until a shift in the air behind her sent a shiver up her spine.

A step too close. A breath too near.

Then his voice rasped low against her ear, rich with mockery.

“Scared the big bad wolf’ll get you?”

Her breath caught. Heat flared sharp in her chest, rising straight to her cheeks. She spun around too fast, a startled noise halfway between a scoff and a curse caught in her throat.

But he was already walking again—like nothing had happened.

She stared after him, heart thudding.

“You—ugh! You know there’s no wolves!” she snapped, stomping forward to catch up. Her face was still burning, and he didn’t even have the decency to look back.

“You’re unbelievable,” she grumbled.

That earned a glance over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth lifting in that infuriating way of his. “Damn right.”

The sound of her grumbling chased after him—but it faded quickly into the stillness as the trees closed in around them.

They didn’t turn back.

The world narrowed to gray sky, trunks gone dark, and falling snow. Step by step, the hush deepened, until even their footsteps were swallowed whole.

It was the kind of silence that made her skin prickle, the kind that felt like waiting. She told herself it was nothing—just the cold, the climb, the quiet.

On the edge of her vision, something moved through the trees—too solid, too deliberate to be wind or shadow.

She halted. “Bakugo,” she said quietly. “Stop.”

He didn’t even slow down. “What now, Knotweed?”

“I saw something.” Her voice stayed low, the words thin in the cold air.

He half-turned, that same easy grin tugging at his mouth. “You sure about that? Thought you said there’s nothing out here.”

“I’m serious,” she hissed.

He chuckled, closing the distance between them. “When are you not?”

Then he stopped.

Something dark flickered between the trees—fast, low, and silent. For an instant she thought it was a shadow cast by the branches, but shadows didn’t move like that. It slipped out of sight as quickly as it had appeared, swallowed by the dense pines.

She knew he’d seen it too from the way his shoulders went rigid beside her.

Neither of them moved.

The forest held its breath. No wind. No sound. Just the soft whisper of falling snow and the heavy thud of her own heartbeat.

Her hand drifted toward her bow, then stilled. Even breathing felt too loud.

For a long, suspended moment, nothing stirred. Then—between two trees—a pair of eyes caught the faint light. They didn’t shine so much as reflect it, a dull, molten gleam that blinked once, slow and deliberate.

The shape shifted again—dark, massive, silent.

Then it stepped forward.

Massive. Gray as ash. Its coat shimmered faintly in the dim light, as if each hair held a trace of frost. Smoke curled from its breath.

Bakugo swore under his breath. “Oh, shit.”

Her gaze remained locked on the creature. “What?”

His voice was low, almost reverent. “Ashfang.”

Her stomach dropped. “Like the story? That’s not real.”

He didn’t look away. “They haven’t been seen in generations. Elders say they only show themselves to worthy hunters.”

He snorted, half-mocking the story even as it stood before him.

“And?” she asked, though she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

His mouth curved, sharp and reckless. “Guess we’re about to find out.”

As if sensing the challenge, the creature shifted—muscles rippling under its pale coat—then darted into the trees. Snow burst from the branches in its wake.

“Bakugo—don’t!”

But he was already moving, spear in hand, tearing through the white haze after it.

Branches tore past as she ran, breath burning in her lungs. Bakugo was already ahead, the flash of his cloak darting through the white.

The Ashfang moved like smoke—always just beyond reach, never breaking the silence. But the more she watched its path, the more wrong it felt. It wasn’t fleeing. It was circling. Slowing. Waiting.

A chill slid down her spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

“Bakugo!” she shouted. “Stop!”

He didn’t even glance back.

She swore and pushed harder, snow kicking up around her boots. The creature wasn’t running from them so much as it was drawing them in.

They broke through the trees into a small clearing, breath coming in ragged bursts. Snow hung thick in the clearing, soft enough to swallow sound.

Bakugo slowed near the center, spear raised, turning in a slow circle. Nothing. No movement. No sound. Not even tracks.

She hesitated at the edge, bow in hand, pulse pounding in her ears.

“It went this way—I saw it,” he muttered. “Where the hell did it disappear to?”

She stepped forward, scanning the shadows. “It didn’t.”

He shot her a look. “What?”

“It didn’t disappear.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “It’s still here.”

The snow kept falling—silent, steady—as they stood listening, breath clouding in the cold.

For a long moment, nothing. Then Bakugo shifted, jaw set. “Fine. If it’s here, we’ll find it.”

He started toward the far side of the clearing.

She muttered his name under her breath—half warning, half exasperation—as she lowered her bow a fraction and stepped after him.

That was when the trees exploded.

A blur of gray burst from the treeline, hitting him hard enough to send him sprawling. He hit the snow with a curse, spear skidding out of reach.

“Bakugo!”

She didn’t think—just moved. Her arrow loosed before she even registered drawing it. It struck the creature’s shoulder, a sharp burst of sound against the silence. The Ashfang recoiled, a snarl tearing through the clearing as dark blood spattered across the snow.

It backed toward the trees, muscles coiling, eyes burning like embers. For a heartbeat, it looked straight at her. Then it was gone—vanishing between the trunks as if the woods themselves had swallowed it.

The forest went still again. The snarl seemed to hang in the air long after it disappeared, fading slowly into the hush. She stayed frozen, eyes fixed on the place where it had vanished, until even that echo died away.

A low groan cut through the quiet, sharp and human. She jolted, the spell breaking.

“Bakugo!”

He was already sitting up, snow streaked with blood beneath his arm. His spear lay a few feet away.

“Damn thing clipped me,” he muttered, inspecting the tear in his sleeve.

“Clipped you? You idiot. You’re bleeding.”

He started to push to his feet, stubborn as ever. “I can still go after it.”

She caught his shoulder before he could rise.

He scowled, trying to shake her off. “You hit it, didn’t you? We can follow the blood trail.”

“Yeah,” she said flatly. “And I’ll follow yours. We’ll see who bleeds out first.”

That earned her a look—half glare, half reluctant amusement—but he stayed put.

“Besides,” she glanced toward the shadowed treeline. “It’s gone.”

He followed her line of sight, eyes narrowing. For a heartbeat, she thought he might ignore her and go after it anyway. Then he grunted and looked away.

She sighed, crouching beside him, already digging into the small satchel at her belt. “Hold still. I just need to stop the bleeding.”

He huffed but obeyed, jaw tight as she tore a strip of cloth and pressed it against the wound.

After a few moments, she leaned back, fingers sticky with blood. “That’ll hold for now. We need better light.”

He grunted. “Fine.”

She pushed herself up, brushing snow from her knees. “We’ll find shelter near the ridge. I can dress it properly before we head back.”

This time, he didn’t argue. He let her pull him to his feet, steps slower now, heavier. The light was already beginning to fade, the snow catching what little gray remained of the sky.

“I didn’t think we went out this far,” she murmured.

“Guess we did,” he said, voice low.

They found a narrow hollow beneath a pine where little snow had gathered.

“Here,” she said, already unfastening the satchel at her belt. “Sit. I’ll start a fire and get you patched up.”

Bakugo grumbled something under his breath but dropped beside the roots. By the time the small fire caught, the smell of smoke curled around the scent of blood.

She dug through her satchel, pulling out a roll of bandages, then reached for the knife at her hip. “Let’s see it.”

“It’s fine,” he said, though his voice was tight.

“Your sleeve’s soaked.”

He exhaled through his nose but lifted his arm anyway. She sliced the torn fabric up the seam in one clean stroke. The cloth peeled back, revealing the gash along his forearm—deep enough that she could see the edge of muscle beneath the dried blood.

“Fine, huh?” she said tightly, grabbing her flask to rinse it.

He grimaced. “Quit fussing. It’s not—”

“Not what? That bad? ” The words came out sharper than she meant. “What were you thinking, charging off like that? For what—just to prove something?”

Her gaze snapped to his, voice trembling despite the heat behind it. “You could’ve died, you idiot!”

The outburst startled even her. He blinked, lips parting, breath catching white in the air. He’d seen her angry before—snapping, arguing—but not like this. Not shaking.

For a heartbeat, the forest was silent except for the soft hiss of snow against flame.

She swallowed, looking away. “What would Mitsuki do if her son didn’t come back? What would the clan do without its next chieftain?” What would I do?

A bitter laugh escaped her. “You didn’t even think about that, did you?”

He didn’t answer—just watched her, that maddening mix of guilt and pride flickering behind his eyes.

She muttered under her breath, “Still such a stupid, spiky thistle-head.”

“Tch.” He looked away, shoulders slumping. “Takes more than a wolf to kill me.”

“That wasn’t just a wolf, and you know it.”

The fire crackled softly. She worked in silence, winding the bandage around his arm. When she looked up, his gaze was fixed on the firelight—his expression caught somewhere between irritation and thought.

For a moment she simply watched him: the sharp line of his jaw, the stubborn set of his mouth, the way the fire turned his eyes into embers.

Gods, he really is beautiful, she thought—and the realization hit like an arrow loosed the wrong way.

As if sensing it, he turned. Their eyes met—brief and unguarded. Her pulse jumped; she looked down quickly, fingers fumbling as she tied off the bandage. Her cheeks burned. Who wouldn’t want him, she told herself, as if that made it less dangerous.

He flexed his arm experimentally. “You’ve gotten better at this,” he said, almost grudgingly.

She blinked, caught off guard by the compliment. “Thanks.”

His mouth curved faintly. “Ayame teach you that?”

And just like that, the warmth drained from her chest.

She rose, brushing snow from her knees. “Come on,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “Let’s head back. Can’t fix you up just to have you freeze to death.”

He looked up at her, the faint curve of his mouth fading into something unreadable—confusion, maybe, before his expression hardened back into its usual scowl. But she didn’t look back.

She kicked snow over the fire until it hissed out, the smoke curling briefly before vanishing into the cold. “Let’s go,” she said. “Before it gets dark.”

For a long moment, he didn’t move. Then, with a low grunt, he pushed to his feet and adjusted his bandaged arm.

“You know no one will believe it.” His low chuckle turned to a hiss as he flexed his arm, eyes flicking to the bandage. He lifted it slightly, scowling. “And then there’s this.”

She followed his glance and huffed a laugh. “We’ll just tell everyone you got in the way of my arrow.”

She took the lead this time, bow slung over her shoulder.

He shot her a sidelong look, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You’re lucky your aim’s better than that attitude.”

She glanced over her shoulder, a faint smirk tugging at her mouth. “Damn right.”

He muttered something that suspiciously sounded like “smartass” as he fell in line behind her.

They crested the ridge as dusk gathered, the valley below veiled in haze. A thin ribbon of smoke curled above the trees—distant, but there.

She slowed to a stop at the ridge’s edge, narrowing her eyes toward the horizon.

Bakugo came up beside her. “You even know where you’re going, Knotweed?” His voice was rough but steady.

She glanced up at him, a faint smile tugging at her mouth. “Follow the smoke, right?”

Chapter Text

The fire still roared in the center of the circle, hot and wild, spitting sparks into the night.

Bakugo still hadn’t moved—standing there across the flames, half in shadow, eyes locked on hers.

That look hadn’t changed. Intense. Steady. Like he could see past everything she tried to hide.

The rest of the festival dulled to background noise—the laughter, the clink of cups, the low murmur of voices carried by the wind.

None of it mattered.

Her whole world had narrowed to that stare. Those eyes.

Gods, she thought, pulse kicking once, he really is—

She bit down on it before the thought could finish. No. Not beautiful.

Just… unbelievable. Ridiculous. Arrogant.

Infuriating.

Sometimes she wanted to throttle him—wipe that smug grin he liked to tease her with right off his face.

That insufferable, smug, stupid, perfect face.

And sometimes—

Sometimes she wanted to—

As if he’d heard every word, his expression shifted.

Slowly, his mouth tilted into that crooked little knowing smirk.

The kind that always spelled trouble. Usually for her.

Heat flared in her cheeks. She looked away—too fast—staring hard at the flames like they were suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world.

Idiot.

A heartbeat passed. Then another.

The fire hissed as resin popped in the logs, a thin thread of smoke curling toward the stars. Somewhere behind her, someone laughed. The sound felt far away.

Her palms were damp. She rubbed her palms against her skirt, pretending she wasn’t trying not to look at him.

Told herself not to check again.

And yet—

She looked.

But he was gone.

The place where he’d stood was only smoke and shifting shadow—no sign of him, no smirk, no stare.

Her stomach dropped in a way she absolutely hated.

“Stupid,” she muttered, lower this time. Sharper.

Because of course he was gone.

Because of course she cared enough to look.

Just like the rest of them.

Half the clan watched him like he was some prize to be claimed—next chieftain, strong, unfairly good-looking despite that impossible attitude. The kind of man every girl in the clan was supposed to want.

But she wasn’t every girl.

She was just—

She let out a breath that felt heavier than it should’ve.

Gods, who was she fooling?

It wasn’t just admiration. It hadn’t been for a long time.
She could laugh, bicker, and roll her eyes all she wanted, but somewhere between the hunts and the firelight and that stupid, perfect grin—she’d fallen for him.

Worse still, now she knew it.

She didn’t know when it had happened. But it had.

Ever since that day in the northern woods—when she’d faced the very real possibility of losing him.

Or maybe that was just when she finally started to realize it.

She’d spent half her life trying to keep pace with him—fighting, chasing, proving she belonged beside him.

He’d never gone easy on her. Not once.

From the beginning, she’d been his problem, his rival, his shadow.

But maybe that was its own kind of acceptance.

He never treated her like she might break. It wasn’t kindness—not really. Just his way.

But somehow, it made her feel seen.

Like she didn’t have to be anyone else.

She could just be her.

Maybe that was why she’d admired him for so long.

And maybe… maybe she’d never been trying to prove anything to him.

Maybe she’d only ever been trying to prove it to herself.

Because spirits help her—she loved him.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

He shouldn’t want her. Couldn’t want her.

He’d never choose her.

A cheer broke through her thoughts, followed by several more. Another pairing had stepped forward—hands clasped, palms raised in celebration, the crowd’s voices swelling around them.

The festival continued to move around her.

And she had never felt more out of place.

Amid a clan that had never really felt like hers.

Except, perhaps, for him.

The steady pulse of the drums never stopped, thrumming beneath the laughter and the crackle of the fires. Hunters traded boasts near the ale casks, their tales growing louder and more ridiculous with every drink. A few children darted between the bonfires, chasing each other through the dust and sparks.

She stood on the fringe, watching. Waiting. Pretending she wasn’t.

No one approached her.

And she hadn’t seen Bakugo since.

Her gaze drifted across the circle. On the far side, near the elders’ seats, she caught sight of Ayame.

She hadn’t left. Of course she hadn’t.

Ayame stood beside her mother, posture composed, chin high—but her fingers twisted in the folds of her skirt. She was scanning the crowd too, though more subtly.

Their eyes met.

A brief flicker of something passed between them—worry, understanding, a silent question.

Are you all right?

Ayame offered a small, steady smile and nodded once.

The ache in her chest only deepened.

She was her only real friend. Outside of Bakugo, who was... something else entirely.

She cared for her. Truly. And she didn’t want to see her hurt.

Taro offering Ayame his knife—looking back, she shouldn’t have been surprised. Ayame was beautiful and lively. He was a bit loud and brash, but he was good, and an even better hunter. It made sense.

But she knew—had known for a while now—that Ayame had feelings for Bakugo.

Not that Bakugo had ever shown her, or anyone, the faintest sign of affection. He was a storm wrapped in sharp edges and fire. Even when he teased, there was always a challenge in it.

But still.

She’d never told Ayame how she felt. Had never breathed a word of it to anyone.

What would that even accomplish?

Then something shifted—in the air, in the crowd.

A subtle hush rippled through the circle like the first stirrings of a storm. Voices faltered. Laughter dimmed. It was almost imperceptible at first, just a change in the way people stood, the tilt of a head, the turn of an eye.

Something was moving.

No—someone.

Even before she saw him, she knew.

Bakugo.

Her pulse kicked—once, then again, then faster—rising with something she couldn’t quite name.

She turned, searching. Eyes skimming past blurred faces and shifting shadow until—there he was.

Emerging from the edge of the circle with that effortless command that was so completely him.

Unhurried. Unapologetic.

Every step deliberate, like the earth moved to make way for him.

Shadows clung to him, but the firelight found him anyway—flaring against the steel at his hip, the blade sheathed but unmistakable.

He wasn’t looking at anyone.

But every eye was on him.

And he was walking toward the central bonfire.

Her stomach dropped.

No.

No—he wasn’t—he couldn’t be—

She turned, instinctively, toward Ayame.

Her friend stood motionless, spine straight, hands clasped at her waist. Her face was calm—too calm—but her eyes were fixed on Bakugo, tracking his every step.

She understood.

Just like everyone else did.

Bakugo was going to offer his knife.

But not to Ayame.

He was headed the wrong direction.

The moment Ayame realized it, a flicker of something passed across her face—disappointment, raw and real, there and gone in a heartbeat.

But Bakugo kept walking.

And the silence broke.

Not all at once—at first just a few whispers, a stifled breath, a barely contained laugh. Then more.

A chorus of voices rising, scattered and uncertain.

He was headed toward them now.

The main group. The eligible girls—daughters of hunters and elders, beautiful and poised in their finest.

They glanced at one another, eyes wide. Some straightened their posture, others reached up to smooth their hair—fingers brushing the sakura woven there.

One giggled. Another gave a not-so-subtle squeal. A third elbowed her friend, already smiling too wide.

The closer he got to them, the more her chest ached.

She told herself not to care. That she wasn’t one of them. That she never expected to be one of them.

But it still hurt.

The girls quieted as he neared, their smiles frozen, eyes wide with hope.

She couldn’t bear to watch.

Couldn’t bear to see him offer his knife to one of them.

See her light up. See her bound to him.

To… lose him.

She looked down, breath shallow.

Of course it was one of them.

Of course it would be.

She pressed her hands together, fingers knotting in her skirt. She wasn’t sure how long she stood like that—seconds, maybe more—but then—

Something shifted again.

The buzz of the crowd hadn’t erupted into cheering. No squeals. No triumphant applause.

Just… a strange, prickling silence.

She glanced up.

The girls weren’t smiling.

One looked startled. Another frowned. Most looked confused.

And then—she saw why.

Bakugo was past them.

He’d walked past like they were no more than smoke on the wind. No glance. No hesitation. Just forward.

And—gods.

He was heading in… her direction.

Her heart climbed into her throat.

That couldn’t be right.

She glanced behind her, half-expecting to see someone—anyone—he might be walking toward.

But there was no one.

Just firelight and space and—

Her.

He was closer now.

Still moving.

Still watching.

Her eyes snapped back to him.

His gaze now locked on hers.

Intense. Unreadable.

Her breath hitched.

No.

No, no, no. There was no way—

He stopped.

Right in front of her.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t look away.

Just stood there, watching her with that unblinking focus that made the rest of the world disappear.

The silence stretched so long it became deafening.

And still—he said nothing.

The fire crackled between them.

Neither moved.

Neither spoke.

Her heartbeat was an unsteady drum in her ears. Surely someone was going to say something. Do something. Surely she was imagining all of this.

Then—

His eyes shifted.

Not down her body, not to the borrowed dress so different from her normal linen and leathers, but up slightly—to the top of her head, then back to her eyes.

And that damn smirk returned.

“Knotweed? Really?”

Her breath caught. Her mouth opened—but no sound came out. Heat flared across her cheeks before she even realized it. She looked away, sputtering.

“I… shut up,” she muttered, too flustered to manage anything sharper.

But wait.

Was he really standing here—right in front of her—at the claiming festival?

Her eyes flicked back to his, narrowing in confusion.

“Wait. Why? Why are you—”

The words wouldn’t form. Her brain was still catching up, and he was clearly enjoying every second of it. That smug look hadn’t left his face. If anything, it deepened.

“Why are you standing here?”

He didn’t answer—just stared at her like the question didn’t even make sense.

Her voice dropped, quieter now. Cautious. Disbelieving.

“But—? But… me?”

Bakugo gave her a look like she was the biggest idiot he’d ever met.

“Tch.” He scoffed. “Who else would it be?”

Her stomach flipped.

She opened her mouth again, scrambling.

“But—? Bakugo—”

“Katsuki.”

The word hit like a strike—sharp, certain—but something in his voice caught, a roughness she almost missed. He said it with the same conviction he gave to every fight, every order, every impossible promise.

She blinked. “What?”

He looked away, jaw tight.

“You heard me.”

The silence returned, but now it thrummed with something else—something unspoken, unsteady, but undeniably real.

She swallowed.

Then, softer—almost like testing the weight of it—

“Katsuki.”

His eyes cut back to her.

Something shifted behind them. Not smugness. Not pride.

Satisfaction, maybe—but not the kind that curled his lip. This was something quieter. He held her gaze a beat longer than usual, like he’d been waiting to hear her say it.

Then, without a word, his hand dropped to the knife at his belt.

He unhooked it slowly. Not with the flashy confidence he showed in a fight or a hunt, but deliberate. Measured.

His thumb brushed the edge of the leather sheath, then the hilt—like he was grounding himself on it.

She knew that knife. Had seen it in his hand more times than she could count.

The grip worn smooth from years of use. A hunter’s blade. His favorite. His first.

The one he’d shown her proudly, long ago—before anyone else.

This was his. Real. Marked with nicks and blood and memory.

And now he was offering it.

He stared at it for a moment before finally looking up.

Then he held it out.

To her.

Flat across his palms. Between them.

The space seemed to close in.

She didn’t move. Just stared—at him, at the knife, at everything it meant.

All their years together, laid bare like a vow not yet spoken.

He didn’t speak. Just stood there with that blade in his hands, waiting.

He shifted. Barely. But she saw it.

The subtle change in his shoulders. A tightness in his jaw.

A crack in the confidence he wore like armor.

He looked away, air leaving his nose in a sharp exhale.

She hadn’t even realized she was holding her breath until he spoke.

“…Gonna leave me hanging, Knotweed?”

She huffed out a laugh—low and rough.

Her throat burned a little. Too much heat rising at once.

“Would serve you right,” she muttered. Then, under her breath—because old habits died hard—

“Still a stupid, spiky thistle-head.”

He laughed. Just once. A sharp exhale, teeth flashing for a heartbeat.

“Still a stubborn Knotweed.”

His voice was quieter now. “Can’t get rid of you.”

A pause—barely a breath—then, rougher, almost reluctant:

“Don’t want to.”

For a second, she thought she’d imagined it.

But even in the dim light, she swore she saw color rise across his cheeks.

And this time, the silence between them wasn’t sharp or waiting.

It was something else.

Something warmer.

Settled.

Then, slowly, she reached for the knife in his hands.

Her right curled around the hilt.

Her left settled over his hand—solid, calloused, warm beneath her fingers.

A pale scar crossed his palm—faint, but unmistakable.

A line she remembered.

A mark from years ago.

By the stream she’d once called magic.

She ran her thumb along it now, slow. Careful.

His fingers shifted—curling around hers, just slightly.

For a moment, there was only the two of them at the edges of the flame.

And the quiet truth of everything that had ever passed between them—spoken or not—settled there between their hands.

She turned the blade, its edge glowing molten in the fire’s light, and poised it over his palm—just above the old scar.

He leaned in, just enough for her to feel the breath of his words against her cheek.

His voice dropped to a murmur. “Blood remembers blood, right?”

Her gaze lifted to meet his.

His eyes—so proud and fierce and stubborn—and so familiar, glowed like embers in the firelight.

Her words were quiet, but certain.

“And blood binds us.”