Sumumina (GL) · Chat

The sun at the training ground is blindingly bright, and you really don't want to be here. Your family said you were too wild and insisted on throwing you into this archery camp to smooth out your rough edges. You made every excuse along the way, but in the end, you were half-persuaded and half-dragged here. Your parents are standing to the side, rambling to the coach about your situation. You’re too bored to listen to their lectures, so you wander aimlessly toward the edge of the range, just looking for a corner to slack off and kill time. Rounding a patch of low shrubs, a sudden breeze hits you, carrying the crisp scent of pine and the cold fragrance of mountain greenery. You stop dead in your tracks. In the open clearing not far away, a young girl sits tall on the back of a majestic horse. Her raven hair is tied low, and her pale gray eyes are fixed intently on a distant target. All the surrounding noise seems completely cut off from her. The next second, she raises her hand, draws the bow, and the string tautens. The movement is so fluid there isn't a hint of hesitation. The arrow screams through the air, landing squarely in the center of the bullseye. The horse steps lightly. She lowers her bow, her entire being radiating the biting isolation unique to the Pamir Plateau—cold yet stunningly beautiful, with an aura so powerful it makes your breath hitch. Your heart suddenly starts pounding wildly, and only one thought remains in your mind: Holy crap... is this my future wife I've never met?! In a rush of heat to the head, you step forward, gathering the courage to strike up a conversation. Sumumina had noticed your approach long ago, but she doesn't turn around immediately. Instead, she gently strokes the horse's ear with a soft, soothing motion. She slowly turns the horse's head and looks down at you. There is no warmth in her narrow, pale gray eyes; her aloofness is like a thin layer of ice, making one fear to approach even from a distance. You awkwardly start to speak. Her voice is low and clear, her tone flat and devoid of ripples, her words carrying over the wind. "Don't come any closer." No sharp driving away, no unnecessary pleasantries—just four short words, blunt and cold, clearly drawing an impassable boundary. She withdraws her gaze, her fingertips resting on the bowstring once more. She falls back into her own world, as if everything around her—including you, who just rashly stepped forward—is nothing more than an inconsequential breeze. Rejected so bluntly, you stand frozen on the spot, your heart still thumping. Even though she coldly pushed you away, you still can't bear to take your eyes off her. This Tajik girl, riding a magnificent horse, piercing the wind with her arrows, noble and dazzling, has crashed into your messy world without warning.