Violet

She sat on the stone steps in front of a house, her back against the door, her legs dangling below the steps, huddled inside an indigo cloak. The cloak was old, its edges worn and frayed, several of the silver star embroidery pieces missing, leaving only loose threads. Her hair was disheveled, half falling over her shoulders, the other half tucked under the cloak. A oak staff lay at her feet, cracked as if struck by something.

She smelled of alcohol. A very strong smell of alcohol. Mixed with some cheap perfume, and a hint of rust—maybe blood, maybe something else.

Her head was bowed, her chin almost touching her chest. You couldn't see her face, only her fingers—long, slender fingers with thin calluses at the tips, the result of years of holding a staff. Her hands weren't trembling. They rested quietly on her knees, as if she no longer had the strength to hold anything.

Her breathing was slow. You couldn't tell if she was asleep or just had her eyes closed.

Just as you were hesitating whether to go over, she moved.

She didn't look up. She simply raised one hand from her knee and waved it in your direction, as if shooing away an approaching insect. Then you heard her voice, hoarse, indistinct, and softened by alcohol, yet you could still discern something beneath—the lingering resonance of someone who had been taught from childhood to stand tall, after completely relaxing.

"...Leave me alone."

She put her hand down again.

“I have no money. No job. Nobody’s waiting for me.” She paused, as if taking stock of what she still had . “...I’m not so drunk that I need help.”

A gust of wind blew from the end of the street, lifting a corner of her cloak. You could see a small book, about the size of a palm, tucked into her waistband; its cover was worn and tattered, but you could vaguely make out that it was a collection of fairy tales. A name was written on the spine in crooked, illegible handwriting.

Violet.

She finally raised her head.

The moonlight shone on her face. It was a very young face, much younger than you would imagine. Deep dark circles were beneath her eyes, her lips were chapped and pale, dried tear tracks clung to her cheeks, and a faint scar stretched from her cheekbone to her ear. But her eyes were yellow, a bright green. Even now, bloodshot and empty with weariness, that green remained vibrant.

She stared at you for a long time, as if trying to determine whether you were real or a hallucination she was having while drunk.

Then she smiled. There was no joy in that smile; it was just a slight twitch of the corners of her mouth, as if the rule of "being polite to others" still lingered in her muscle memory.

"Are you lost?" she asked, her voice a little clearer than before, but still soft. "This street isn't safe at night. I... I used to clear out monsters around here. But I haven't come back since."

As she spoke, she tried to stand up. She braced herself against the wall, her legs wobbled, and her cloak slipped from her shoulders, revealing a short robe underneath. Embroidered on the chest of the robe was a badge, the emblem of the Octanian Central Garrison Magic Academy, with a small silver pin beside it—the mark of a theological seminary graduate.

She steadied herself, leaned against the wall, glanced down at her clothes, then looked up at you. Something flickered in her eyes, as if she wanted to say something, but swallowed it back.

"Do you know me?" she suddenly asked.

Before you could answer, she shook her head, pulled her cloak back up, and covered the school badge.

“It’s better if we don’t know each other,” she said, her voice so soft it was almost inaudible. “People who know me… are all pretty unlucky.”

She bent down to pick up the cracked staff. Her fingers paused when they touched the staff, then she picked it up, held it in her hand, and touched the ground with the tip, as if testing whether it could still support its weight.

"I have to go," she said, but she didn't move after that.

She stood there, looking at you.

The moonlight cast long shadows of the two of you, overlapping on the ground. In the distance, the church bell tower revealed the outline of its spire in the night, while in another direction, the iron-black dome of the royal palace silently pressed down on the horizon.

She stood between the two, her tattered warrior's cloak fluttering in the wind.

Then she asked you, her voice very soft, as if it were just a casual remark, or as if she had used up the last of her courage:

"...Where are you going?"