Murder was a simple act.

If anyone knew that truth well, it was a Branwen Tribe member. Especially one from its most respected dynastic line. Yet today, Yang Branwen, Princess of the dozens upon dozens of followers under Raven’s command, whose respect she earned both by birthright and through personal deeds, faced a choice that was anything but simple.

The raid was happening now, whether she liked it or not. The tribe, led by her efficient and goal-driven mother, would not wait. She was expected to pull her weight. To strike. To kill.

Yang wiped her brow, walking over to where Vernal crouched low, peering over a row of bushes. A far-off patch of the forest housed several Beowolves, sinister black miasma floating around them in thick clouds while they stalked their unmarked territory. They were ferocious, no doubt, but worse still, they were patient. They were waiting for their next victims to come along.

The plan was very clear-cut: move in on the Grimm, overpower them, and lead them in the direction of the villagers. Ordinarily, the rest took care of itself, and Yang lounged around with the others, waiting to loot any spoils they could find. Today was different. It had to be. Something inside her was moved by what she saw, sending a shiver through her body. Yes, she knew it all along. Whether she wanted to admit it or not, whether her involvement was indirect or not, this was no different from murder. She was a killer.

“Vernal,” Yang started, her voice weak at first.

“Shhh!” Vernal whispered, placing a hand on her bright blonde hair to push her down and out of sight. “Are you trying to get us caught, Princess?”

“No,” Yang replied, clenching her fists. She kept her voice low, but firm. “Sorry. Anyway, don’t you think we ought to wait?”

The moment the words left Yang’s mouth, she saw the shadows of more tribesmen out of the corner of her eye. They spread out around her and Vernal, no more than ten, filling out the spaces remaining in the reconnaissance unit. Vernal held up a palm to put the operation on hold while they talked.

“Wait?” Vernal echoed. “Why? This is what your mother ordered. I thought you came to help me lead the push.”

Yang looked away, trying to find the right words. There weren’t any right words though, were there? Maybe it was too late now. What could she, one girl, do to change a tradition that had gone on longer than she’d even been alive?

“Forget it,” she blurted out half-heartedly, if only to redirect her friend’s focus.

Coincidentally, Vernal swept the area with a quick scan, then signaled the other group members, whispering “Nothing” over her shoulder. Nodding, they moved forward in unison, encircling the pack of Beowolves with their blades and guns drawn. Yang reached for hers, then followed Vernal’s movements to the letter, slowly picking up speed to charge alongside her. This was the big moment. It was happening, and for the first time in her life, she could honestly say that she was hating every second.

One of the much larger Beowolves, clearly an Alpha, sniffed and craned its neck toward them as they closed in. There was no turning back now. Vernal snapped both disc-like blades off of her back, swinging one, and then the other. The Alpha leapt away, leaving two of the lesser Grimm to get sliced in two. Yang took a breath, then crouched and blasted herself skyward, following the now-descending Alpha. She flipped backward in mid-air and landed a powerful kick to its stomach, chipping away at a section of bone before she, and it, crashed onto the dirt, disoriented. However, she knew she had to get moving, and fast. Exactly as expected, the remaining Beowolves rushed toward their intruders. One of them clawed at her leg, but was promptly eliminated by a thin beam shot from one of Vernal’s chakram-guns. Yang kicked out with both legs, the momentum pulling her up onto her feet. Then she strafed away, blade in hand. Vernal moved in behind her, and they stared down the Grimm, back to back.

The violent events that followed passed by like a dream. A hand hacked and slashed, parried and stabbed, ripping through ink-black monsters. Someone’s voice shouted orders, warned her comrades, and gave fearsome battle cries. But it wasn’t Yang’s. It couldn’t have been, because she was still paralyzed, her mind racing through the many inevitabilities soon to take place at the next village.

When it was done, the two women panted heavily, using spare rags someone handed them to wipe away sweat and grime. Behind them, a handful of the remaining Grimm whimpered and clustered together, forced into a triangular formation against a tree.

“We’ve got them,” Vernal announced, making more signs with her fingers to get the others moving along.

The Beowolves scattered, but moved in the same general direction: toward the village. Yang, Vernal, and the rest of the recon unit were already on the move. They gave chase, and Yang did too, but she found herself slowing almost to a jog. This was wrong. This was unbearable. At least, it should have been. The fact that doing this felt as normal as it did sickened her.

A deep red portal opened as they reached the edge of the forest, the Beowolves running further into the distance. Out stepped a procession of the other tribe members, then Raven Branwen herself.

“Let’s move,” she announced without ceremony, turning on her heel and marching confidently after the fleeing Grimm.

A flame inside Yang rose like smoke into the air, building in a way it never had before. Warmth filled her. Rage.

Yang had no idea what it was that possessed her to step in front of Raven, arms crossed and semblance active. Even so, before she knew it, she was moving, her body acting of its own accord. She planted her feet, looked into her mother’s eyes, and shook her head.

“No.”

Raven came to a halt, eyes wide with a rarely-seen expression of pure shock. She quickly recovered, however, and narrowed her gaze at her daughter. One hand rested casually on her sword hilt.

“What are you doing, Yang?” she asked as if it were the most ridiculous question to have to ask someone. “What is this?”

“This…” Yang grunted, looking around at the equally shocked fellow tribe members, “is me telling you no. Stop this.”

“Stop what?” Raven scoffed. “If you had an issue with the raid, why wait until now to say so?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Yang stated firmly, her eyes brimming with tears that threatened to blur her vision. “I won’t let you do this to these people.”

Raven took a breath, widened her stance, and raised both hands in a soft shrug. “I guess you think this is the part where I’ll say ‘okay, then. Let’s go home and find another way to feed and clothe everyone.’”

Yang didn’t respond, but she also didn’t budge.

“This is ridiculous,” Raven said, her eyes flitting skyward in annoyance.

“Yang,” Vernal said, hand outstretched toward her. “Please think about what you’re doing.”

Raven glared at Yang, and she matched her mother’s intensity. The princess knew this was stupid. She knew it was risky and might get her killed. She also believed above all that it was the only choice to make.

“So you’re planning to fight me, Yang?” Raven asked, her usual confident smirk returning to her lips. “That’s suicide, you know.”

Yang gulped back her fear and stayed put. “If it comes to that,” she said.

Nothing around her mattered any longer. There was only the wind beating against her skin, her mother’s fierce red eyes, and her own passionate, semblance-fueled fury at the injustices her people were attempting to commit.

Raven took a step forward, and Yang flipped her tantō so that it warded off her mother, or anyone else who might try to advance. Her heart was pounding harder than ever before, but she knew she couldn’t let this happen. The sickness in the pit of her stomach would never cease if she did.

Vernal moved ahead of Raven, standing directly in front of Yang and staring her in the eye. Not with confusion, anger, or malice. Only sadness.

“Are you really going to kill me, Yang?” Vernal asked, not looking away for even a second.

Another emotion welled up inside of Yang, clashing with the fury that already coursed through her. She bit her lip, trying, yet failing, to force it back. Her wrist trembled, but she didn’t drop her weapon. She couldn’t.

In the background of their encounter, distant screams and battle cries echoed from the village. Yang stood her ground, silent and concentrated. This village, as the tribe learned from recent recon missions, had a considerable fighting force, although none were trained Huntsman. Nonetheless, they would have no problem dealing with a few Grimm. Without the Branwen Tribe’s interference, they would almost certainly survive this. Yang just had to pull through here.

Raven waved her followers away, then sped past Vernal, little more than a blur. She cast her right hand woman aside, and Vernal fell onto the dirt in front of the rest of the tribe. Only a half-step away from Yang, Raven looked down at her with an unreadable expression.

“Mom,” Yang said, her eyes burning with both anger and tears, “there has to be another way.”

“Maybe for you there is,” Raven spat, reaching for her sword.

This had to be it. She was going to die. Her mother had decided to kill her right here, in front of everyone in the tribe, for insubordination. However, if it was a fight Raven wanted, then it was a fight she would get. If Yang took anything meaningful away from her mother’s years of twisted teachings and half-truths, it was to always go down fighting.

Raven unsheathed her blade. Yang felt the cool edge of the katana at her neck in the same instant that she registered the blade rising from its resting place. Her heart dropped into her stomach as the vast gulf in ability between them was silently hammered home. She’d always known her mother was skilled, but this was unreal. More surprisingly still, Raven hadn’t chosen to kill her.

“Do as you wish, Yang, but know this.” Raven bent forward, tilting aside so that she was clear of the tantō and her mouth was next to Yang’s ear. “Come between me and what’s best for the tribe again, and I won’t hold back.”

This statement should have scared her. Struck her with an unshakeable sense of fear for her own life. Made her knees buckle from the sheer weight of its implication. Instead, it did the opposite.

Yang stood tall, pulling back her short sword. Every ounce of hesitation and anxiety she felt melted away, leaving only her strength and conviction. Now she knew. This was why she resisted. This was why she could not stand by while Raven picked and chose who lived or died. Someone had to stand up for those who couldn’t do it for themselves, and if she had to give her life to become that person, so be it.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Yang retorted, smiling with a renewed confidence that seemed to perplex even Raven, whose eyebrow rose as her daughter strode past without so much as another glance at her.

“One day you’ll understand, Yang,” she heard her mother say. Whatever tied her so strongly to her mother’s every word had severed, and the words felt hollow now. More lies. She did not need to one day understand anything.

She already did.

In fact, it was for this very reason that Yang kept walking, snatched her things off of one of the wagons, and didn’t look back. She had already ruined Raven’s golden opportunity, so she at least accomplished that much. There was nothing for her here anymore. She didn’t want this self-proclaimed kingdom built on blood, lies, and deceit. Yang only wanted the whole truth of who she was, and she knew exactly where to get it.