Yakabatanidzwa ruzha

“What happened to you?” she exclaimed, stepping back as he crossed the threshold. His once-cropped black hair now hung greasy and uneven around his shoulder. Pale skin, once smooth, was tanned and streaked with grime, sun-bleashed and roughened by wind and salt. His coat was torn at the shoulders-the unmistakable mark of treason. “The sea happened,” he said softly, resting a hand on the hilt of his sword. His eyes were distant, glassy, as though he were staring at something far beyond the walls