Three days after they pulled the Dragonslayer blade from the beast's heart, Honatsu walked into the city of purple skies and freezing winds. They carried nothing but the sword and a single, iridescent scale their hunting partner had given them for luck—a gift from Ryu-senshi themself, from a time before the Empire's chains. The scale hadn’t worked. Honatsu traded the thrill of the hunt for the rhythm of a kitchen, the roar of a dragon for the hiss of oil on a hot pan. They learned that a poker face was just as useful over a steaming pot of broth as it was facing down a charging wyrm. The blade never leaves their back, a cold reminder of a promise they kept, and the person it cost them.