.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.
"Shishō!"
The voice rang out through the central hall of the Kyoto Jujutsu Training Ground like the clash of a taiko drum: far too loud.
"I have finished drying the inner courtyard in your honor!" The announcement arrived before the boy did. And when he did appear, half-running and half-posing in the engawa, he carried himself with the pride of a victorious general returning from campaign, not a sixteen-year-old with wet hair and two bokken strapped across his back.
Seijiro did not so much as blink. He lay stretched on his side with shameless elegance, one leg bent, the other extended as if he were some idle court lady rather than the exhausted Clan Head of a ruined clan, his silver hair spilling around him in a bright, expensive mess. He kept his cheek propped on one arm as the other lifted in languid approval. "Mm. Good. That's the spirit," he said, as though he had personally expected nothing less. One brow arched. "Now bring me tea."
Musashi dropped into a bow so deep his overlong braid slapped the tatami. "It would be my honor!" Both bokken on his back clacked against each other as he sprang up and bolted off again.
Seijiro watched him go and murmured, with the same satisfaction as someone who had just discovered peaches grew for free in the wild, "Errand boy. I could get used to this."
The stare he received in return was deeply judgmental. Rensuke, standing a few paces away, condemned to survive his friend's personality, raised one eyebrow. "You already are."
Beside Seijiro knelt Shima. Nine years old, mute, and lethal. At present, armed with nothing more than a comb, a fistful of Seijiro's hair, and a level of concentration that would have humbled grown men. She wore a light yukata splashed with vivid blue and orange, sleeves rolled up, and bare feet tucked beneath her. She said nothing; she never said anything. But the determination with which she yanked a section of Seijiro's hair she was braiding suggested she had opinions, but just preferred to express them in small acts of violence.
"So," Rensuke drawled, his remaining hand tucked into his robe where the other arm used to be, "what exactly do we know about this… Miyamoto clan?"
"Oh. Nothing," Seijiro said at once, folding his hands behind his head.
Rensuke's eyes narrowed.
"Well," Seijiro clarified, "nothing because it did not exist until yesterday morning." He tilted his head against the tatami. "According to him, he founded it shortly after breakfast. He is its founder, current head, leading swordsman, sole disciple, and apparently also responsible for sewing its mon onto his uwagi himself."
"You mean," Rensuke said, "the one stitched backwards?"
"Exactly." Seijiro grinned up at the ceiling, and Shima followed the motion without pause, shifting just enough to keep braiding. "Remarkable initiative. But listen carefully," he added, lowering his voice as if sharing state secrets. "This boy is our miracle child. Our patron sent him personally, and said patron is currently funding our food, our roof, and your increasingly miserable budget. Therefore—" he lifted a finger, "—nobody tells him."
"You are far too comfortable with this," Rensuke muttered.
"Comfortable?" Seijiro repeated, stretching even further like a spoiled cat. "Please. He called me the Demon of Iga. The Moonlit Blade of the South." He gestured as if everyone should take note. "Can you blame him? I did personally alter the balance of the Iga front. At last, someone in this wretched world recognizes greatness."
Shima yanked his hair hard enough to make his eye twitch.
The shōji slid open, and Musashi reappeared with a bamboo tray balanced precariously in one hand and a grin bright enough to insult the afternoon. His hair was still damp and dripping. He knelt before Seijiro, steam lifting from the yunomi in his hands. "My shishō," he intoned like a monk and twice as loud, "your tea."
Seijiro took it with exaggerated solemnity. "Excellent." He took a sip, as if judging the boy's fate. Then, without missing a beat: "Now, Musashi, could you do the thing again?"
Musashi froze mid-bow, and his oversized eyebrows twitched. "The… thing, shishō?"
Seijiro gestured toward the courtyard, where the shōji had been pushed open to let in the early spring air, and beyond the narrow strip of engawa, the courtyard still shone with cursed energy and water. At its far end stood a new straw dummy, barely upright.
"The thing you did earlier," Seijiro repeated. "The one that destroyed half the training yard."
Musashi's entire body straightened as if a bow pulled to the limit. "With pleasure!"
He was off before anyone could tell him not to.
Rensuke folded his arms, and Seijiro shifted just enough to rest one elbow on his knee, still sprawling but visibly alert. The grin remained as his eyes focused, tracking every line of the boy's movement with that particular brightness they took on when his Six Eyes worked overtime. "Niten Ichi-ryū," he murmured.
Rensuke turned to him. "His cursed technique?"
"Or just the name of his sword style," Seijiro said. "Maybe both. Either way… Watch."
Outside, Musashi inhaled, planted his feet, and struck a pose so unnecessarily theatrical. Both bokken raised, spine straight, braid snapping behind him like a banner. Then he shouted, with the full volume of a man who clearly believed named attacks should be heard:
"Suiyōsen!"
The word split the air as he spun his bokken at once. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then the dummy parted cleanly down the middle. So did the wall behind it. Cursed energy crashed outward a breath later in water, pressurized and violent, ripping across the courtyard in a line that smashed through wood and stone before collapsing into a flood of churning runoff. Puddles spread instantly across the ground, and one panel gave way entirely and leaned sideways.
Shima stared at the wreckage without expression; then she resumed braiding Seijiro's hair. There were now at least eight tiny braids in his hair, none of them straight, all of them punitive.
Rensuke's frown deepened. "Impressive," he admitted. "But he is shouting the name of his attack before using it. Loudly. Only an idiot would do that."
The idiot in question had already turned back toward them with a beaming smile, standing ankle-deep in the consequences of his own performance. The far wall now bore a clean vertical scar.
Rensuke did not even bother when adding, "And now the courtyard is flooded. Again."
Seijiro only grinned. "Did you see that?" he said, sitting up a little. "Even with the Six Eyes, I had trouble reading the motion properly." He tapped the tatami thoughtfully with one finger. "His cursed energy behaves like water. Not metaphorically but literally. It changes direction midway through execution. Perfectly wrong." His mouth curved. "He channels it through those bokken, Dokkō, and Nikkō, he calls them. I would have sworn the first line was horizontal right up until the instant it wasn't. Then—" He snapped his fingers. "Vertical. The cursed energy lags half a beat behind the shifting physical strike, so by the time your body realizes which way to move—"
"A Black Flash," Rensuke said.
"Exactly." Seijiro leaned forward properly, fully awake at last. "That was the second one in a row, and I do not think he even knows he's doing it." He exhaled, delighted and horrified in equal measure. "We need a monster like that."
Rensuke did not argue; his mouth pressed into a thin line instead. "What we need," he said, "is one intact wall. At this rate, we'll be broke by summer."
"Rensuke, my friend," Seijiro said solemnly, "I did not adopt this boy. He adopted me." He placed a hand over his own heart. "And I fully intend to make him worse."
Musashi bounded back onto the engawa and, to his credit, remembered himself just in time and dropped to his knees at the threshold, bowing again. "Did I do well, shishō?" he asked, vibrating with hope.
"Almost, O' most devoted disciple." Seijiro set aside his yunomi with a reverence entirely undeserved, then he placed one hand upon Musashi's shoulder. "I believe that it is time we gave that technique a name worthy of your brilliance."
Musashi's entire face lit up. "Yes, shishō! What do you suggest?"
Seijiro did not hesitate. "Great Splendid Tide of Noble Splashes."
A beat. Then Musashi gasped. "That is perfect!"
Shima groaned almost out loud as she dropped Seijiro's half-braided hair and turned instead to stare at the water stains spreading steadily across the tatami, with the fury of someone who knew perfectly well she would be the one to mop them.
Rensuke palmed his face. "Wonderful," he muttered. "Two idiots. You've formed some kind of self-sustaining loop of praise and delusion." He let the insult breathe for exactly one second before narrowing his eyes at Seijiro. "Weren't you supposed to be somewhere important tonight?"
Seijiro paused. Then, slowly, he sat all the way up. A long, luxurious stretch traveled through his shoulders and spine, as his arms rose overhead and joints cracked one after another with satisfaction. "Right," he said at last. "The old fox. Time to pay our evening respects to Kamo-dono."
The Ukita funding depended on it: convince the Kamo to lean—just slightly—toward the Toyotomi, or, failing that, at least convince them to lean away from Tokugawa's open mouth.
"And what better cover than the Higashiyama Festival?" Seijiro rose to his feet, rolling his neck once as he did. "Lanterns, noise, half of Kyoto drunk in the streets. It's the one night we can walk straight into the Kamo estate, and nobody will look twice." He clapped his hands once. "Come on. We're burning moonlight."
Shima didn't look up. She was still crouched at the far end of the engawa, sleeves tied at the elbows, wringing water from a cloth that had already absorbed far too much of Musashi's enthusiasm. Her expression had not shifted since the courtyard had flooded for the second time, but when Seijiro said festival, her hands paused.
Musashi popped upright. "A brilliant plan, Shishō!" he declared. "No one will suspect us. With the endless paper lanterns drifting along the river and the crowds everywhere, it will be the perfect camouflage!" His eyes glittered with excitement. "We will blend perfectly into the celebration!"
Shima stood slowly, and her eyes, usually unreadable, had brightened.
Rensuke said nothing at first. He simply walked behind one of the support beams and returned holding what could only be described as a disaster of... colours. Red silk; violently red; patterned in streaks of ochre and gold and embroidered with plum blossoms and a koi mid-leap. The sort of garment no respectable Clan Head would ever willingly wear. Which, of course, made it perfect for a festival.
He tossed it directly at Seijiro's chest. "Here," Rensuke muttered. "With luck, not even the Kamo will recognize you. They'll assume you sell candied plums."
Seijiro caught the haori and slipped it on without complaint. He had worn worse. He tied a loose section of his silver hair into a small bun at the back of his head, deliberately improper, then left the rest loose as the jade earrings remained visible. Several of Shima's tiny braids were still tangled through one side of his hair, but he didn't even bother removing them.
"Well?" he asked, lifting both arms and turning toward the others. "How do I look?"
Musashi gasped. "Like a deity descended among mortals!" he breathed. "Shishō, you shine like the midsummer sunrise over the fields of the Kiso Valley!"
Shima stared at him flatly. Her face did not move, but the message was clear: you look like a peacock.
Rensuke's hands curled into fists behind his back. "You look like a fool," he said. "Which is good. No one will mistake you for Gojo-dono, heir of the Six Eyes, Demon of Iga, and all that nonsense."
"Exactly," Seijiro said cheerfully. He turned away, striding toward the open shōji as the evening breeze lifted the sleeves of his ridiculous festival robe. "Come on. We've got a clan to charm and a festival crowd to disappear into." He had taken only a few steps across the engawa before stopping again; he turned, pointing a finger with severity. "Shima—back to your grandmother. Musashi—congratulations. This is your first official assignment, and I expect excellence. And no need to confirm that loudly—"
Too late. Musashi's chest inflated immediately. "Yes, Shishō! I swear on the blades of Dokkō and Nikkō that I will—"
Seijiro winced. "Kami above, quietly, Musashi. Quietly."
He made it three more steps before something tugged lightly at his sleeve. Once, then again. Persistently. Seijiro looked down only to find Shima looking up at him, expression far too focused, like she was drilling through his soul and looking for weak spots.
"Oh no," Seijiro muttered immediately. "Absolutely not." He pulled his sleeve free. "Sorry, Shima. This is an adult mission. Politics. Negotiations. Stakes. Very boring things."
She tugged again.
Seijiro froze; his ears twitched like an irritated animal. "No," he repeated, firmly. "No. Absolutely not. We are not—Shima, look at me—we are not going to the festival." He groaned. "This is not a night for fun. This is the future of the clan—And stop looking at me like that!"
Shima didn't blink.
Musashi appeared beside her as if summoned, his bokken resettling across his back. He studied her face with great seriousness, and Shima turned slightly toward him. A small tilt of the head, a flick of two fingers. Musashi nodded immediately, as if decoding scripture.
Then he turned to Seijiro. "Shima-sama wishes to see the lanterns on the river," he translated. "And to visit the stalls along the south bank. There is apparently a goldfish game. And—" He paused; Shima raised one small hand, and Musashi nodded again. "She would also like kushiyaki."
Rensuke's eyebrow climbed slowly. "You got all that… from a stare?"
Musashi placed a hand over his heart. "This tragic mute soul will no longer suffer in silence," he declared. "Do not worry. From this day forward, I, Musashi of the Miyamoto clan, shall carry the burden of her voice."
"It's an excuse to talk more," Rensuke muttered.
Seijiro was already rubbing his temples. "No. No, no, no, absolutely not. Shima, this is not a game. If something happens—" He crouched slightly and tapped a finger against her forehead. "And do not give me that look."
Shima gave him that look. Then, slowly, she released his sleeve, and instead she walked to Musashi and wrapped both arms around his elbow as if he were her preferred adult now.
Seijiro gasped in betrayal. "Oh, I see," he said, pained. "Excellent. I've been replaced. Well done. You can explain it to Payo when she blames me for everything." He straightened, waved a hand toward the gate with the resignation of a man who knew perfectly well the universe had already decided against him. "Fine. You win. You can come. But don't stray and don't cause trouble. And if anything happens—if even a hair on your small head is singed—I'm dismembering the boy and begging your grandmother for mercy."
Shima looked up, and her eyes softened just a fraction. Her brown bob shifted as she nodded rapidly. There was even a small smile; it was not reassuring.
"Perfect," Seijiro muttered.
He turned and started down the engawa. Outside, the breeze already carried the mix of festival food scents, with fried rice, soy glaze, and drifting lantern smoke. Spring was creeping in, as behind him the others fell into line.
Rensuke in resignation. Musashi was humming some invented war song under his breath. Shima was clutching Musashi's sleeve like the festival had already begun.
Seijiro did not look back. "Come along," he called over his shoulder. "We've got a political alliance to secure. And kami help us, there will be kushiyaki."
.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.
Kaoru had not bowed yet—would not bow yet—but she knelt perfectly, spine straight, chin poised, waiting in the grand hall of the Kamo clan's estate. Somewhere beyond the layered shōji and polished screens, the muffled murmur of the Higashiyama festival still breathed into the night.
Getting there had taken weeks of maneuvering, timing the journey to follow Tokugawa's procession from Edo, cloaked in the long shadow of the Fushimi council held that very morning. Weeks of trusting Tatsuhiro to handle the new beginning of their fragmented clan in Edo, though she carried his ink-scrawled updates in her sleeve like talismans.
So far, nothing had gone wrong.
Tokugawa's arrival at Fushimi, combined with the festival in the capital, had provided the distraction. All attention remained on the council. All eyes elsewhere. Just as intended. And with a bit of luck—and Hajime not doing anything utterly disastrous—they had slipped into the capital unseen.
Just a woman with her young sons, strolling beneath lanterns.
Because Kaoru was dressed, for the first time in her life,as the girl she was beneath the bindings and legacy.
Hajime had howled with laughter the entire time, of course, until Kaoru had flicked him on the forehead hard enough to leave a red mark.
Her kimono was a soft peach, dusted with cranes and layered for spring; her obi was tied high, to flatter a waist she had never once paid attention to before this evening. Her black hair had been coiled high in a young unmarried woman's twist, single knot, unmarried, pins tucked in, her lips tinted, her eyes rimmed.
They had tried. Yoshinobu, specifically. Not that any of them had any real experience with women's makeup. But they hadn't been noticed in the crowds. No one had recognized them in the press of the Higashiyama festival, not the stallkeepers, not the samurai wandering drunk on rice wine and spring air. They'd walked among bonfires, paper lanterns, and children with fox masks.
Kaoru had walked under the moonlight as a woman for the first time in her life. Not as a man. Just Kaoru, no, Rei. It should have felt like reclaiming something; instead, it felt like a costume.
This body—her body—moved differently in a kimono made for a woman. With bare feet in wooden geta, every step had to be smaller. Every pin in her hair had limited her field of vision. Her peripheral awareness was compromised. No room for evasive movement. It wasn't a man's kamishimo or battle trousers; the fabric pulled in all the wrong places for a fight.
Which was, of course, the most infuriating part of all, but she had survived twenty years, wearing the wrong skin to protect the right people. That did not change tonight.
"If either of you speaks," Kaoru murmured without looking behind her, "I will feed your tongues to Nue. Especially you, Hajime."
"Yes, yes," the fifteen-year-old muttered, already halfway to sulking. "But if I see one more old man lick his teeth at you, I will set fire to his beard."
Art that, she glared back at him. "You will do no such thing."
"I said if."
Yoshinobu, kneeling beside Hajime with the quiet dignity of a vassal and the eternal solemnity of a child trying to grow into his father's shadow, glanced at her with furrowed brows. "Zenin-dono, you do look very beautiful."
Kaoru blinked. She didn't know what to do with that. "That's not helping."
He blinked, confused, but before either boy could speak again, the shōji at the far end of the room slid open, and the old fox of the Kamo clan entered.
He moved slowly, as always, hunched like he bore the weight of peaceful centuries and clans' balance on his shoulders, eyebrows long and thin, moustache curled at the corners like rice paper burnt at the edge.
His head tilted, and there was no real surprise on his face. Only a curious narrowing of the eyes. Kaoru met them without flinching as he took in the scene. The three of them, a woman kneeling at the center. Not Kaoru Zenin, not the sorcerer who'd split the Gojo estate open half a season ago with steel and a colossum shikigami, but... someone softer.
His brows lifted. Barely. "Well," he said at last, voice softened by age and sharpened by amusement. "I confess I expected Zenin-dono. Instead, I receive… Zenin-hime? Have I had the bloodlines confused all this time?" A light chuckle followed.
Kaoru's smile was thin. "Regrettably, no, Kamo-dono. The face may be deceptive, but I assure you, it is still Zenin Kaoru who stands before you," she said, brushing a sleeve over her knee. "After the incident in Kyoto, disguising myself as a woman was simply the best path forward. I highly doubt the Gojo or any of the Toyotomi watchmen would welcome my presence at the gate of the capital." A beat. She added, dryly: "And fortunately, I've been blessed with a certain… flexibility of features. Humiliating as it is, sometimes war requires sacrifices, wouldn't you agree?"
The Kamo patriarch chuckled lowly, stroking his mustache. "I agree. You make a very convincing daughter, Zenin-dono."
Kaoru didn't rise to the bait. "And you make a very convincing pacifist."
His smile deepened when he stepped into the room at last; with his entrance came another figure, lithe, colorful, and gilded like a merchant's dream. A girl, perhaps fourteen or fifteen, her lips painted, her kimono ostentatiously embroidered with blossoms and fireflies. She walked with the sway of someone used to being observed. Tall geta lifted her several inches above her actual height, above the Kamo leader, and pinned her brown hair high with golden combs.
She paused beside the Kamo elder and clutched his arm with affection. "Ojīchan," the girl sang, and the Kamo patriarch—who had never once smiled honestly—beamed. "You didn't tell me we were receiving guests."
"Ah, Mumei," he said fondly, patting her hand with the fondness of a grandfather and the indulgence of a diplomat. "Come, sit beside me. I'd be lost without your grace."
Kaoru watched with interest as they took their place on the raised dais of the audience room and as the girl's eyes drifted toward Hajime. She lingered and bowed slowly. Just slow enough for the boy's brows to knit together with immediate real concern.
"Mumei," the old man said. "My precious granddaughter. So young, yet so much promise and talent."
Ah, Kaoru thought. So she must be the one. The favorite. A different treatment from the others, clearly. Whether gifted or merely shrewd, she received a tenderness Kaoru hadn't seen the old fox grant anyone before. Not even the girl whose corpse had been boxed and sent to her during the Iga campaign, Matsue.
Mumei. A false name, perhaps, given how the Kamo patriarch seemed oddly careful about names. But she had the clan head's favor; that much was clear.
Kaoru forced herself to bow again. "Kamo-dono, thank you for receiving us at such a late hour. The council at Fushimi and the festival have drawn much of Kyoto's attention. It seemed… opportune."
"I would have been more surprised if you hadn't come," the Kamo patriarch said, amused, folding his hands before him, "I had wagered with my council on who would arrive first. Gojo-dono, or Zenin-dono." He adjusted his sleeves, leaned slightly forward. "And look at that. I win again. Zenin-dono is indeed faster."
Kaoru inclined her head, her hands folded calmly in her lap, sleeves falling perfectly as a highborn woman's would. "We don't have the luxury of waiting anymore."
The Kamo patriarch's fingers tapped idly at the edge of his sleeve again, brushing the embroidered mon of his clan. He looked every bit the doddering patriarch he pretended to be, mild, gentle, with a sloping back and a soft smile that never reached his eyes.
"The war," she continued softly, "is nearly at your gates, Kamo-dono. The clans cannot remain neutral. The old world is collapsing, and what comes next—" her eyes flicked to Mumei, then back to him "—depends on what we build now."
Mumei, who knelt beside her grandfather like a pampered cat, had not stopped looking at Hajime once. The boy, armed, theoretically dangerous, began scooting away, hiding behind Yoshinobu.
"Ah," the elder folded his hands. "So this is the part where you ask for the spear."
She did not flinch. "I'm not here to ask for the spear, Kamo-dono," Kaoru said. "I'm here to remind you that when the flames reach your door, it will be too late to choose a side. And those who refuse to choose will be crushed between the victors."
"Neutrality," he murmured, "is an old friend of ours. I recall what you said two years ago, Zenin-dono. I believe your exact words were: 'It is not the role of sorcerer clans to meddle in these matters." His eyes glittered. "Should I consider that youthful idealism, or hypocrisy?"
"Pragmatism," she corrected. "The tides have shifted. The spear was once a relic too dangerous to wield. Now, it is the only thing keeping this side of the country from falling into anarchy." She paused, allowing the words to settle. "Ishida Mitsunari can summon every crest and every ghost of loyalty to the Toyotomi banner, but they will not be enough. Not against the momentum Tokugawa-dono has built. You know it, this war has already chosen its victor, and your clan has always been… very good at survival."
The Kamo elder's smile widened. "True. But should I offer the spear to the Western army instead, it would tip the scales in a direction Tokugawa-dono might find rather… inconvenient." His fingers laced together over his knees. "With that spear, I'm sure Gojo-dono could seal Kyoto under a single, unbreakable kekkai. The Eastern army would starve in the hills for years."
A ripple of unease passed through them, barely concealed.
"But then again," Kamo added lightly, "why should I trouble myself with such dramatic outcomes? It's such a pleasant evening. The lanterns are glowing, and the plum blossoms are early."
Kaoru's retort halted mid-formation as a sulking voice echoed.
Mumei huffed from where she sat beside her grandfather, pouting. "Ojīchan, this is boring," she announced, rising to her feet with a flounce of expensive silk. "I want to go to the festival."
Her eyes slid toward Hajime like a cat eyeing an unfamiliar bird. Kaoru saw it before it happened: Hajime's shoulders stiffened, his cyan hair bristled faintly, electricity beginning to snap at the ends.
She's going to—yes, she is—
Mumei stepped lightly across the hall, geta clacking, hairpins jingling softly. She stopped a pace too close to Hajime and tilted her head, peering down at him.
"Stay back," he said flatly, eyes narrowing.
She blinked, mock-innocent. "Why? You're cute."
Mumei took a step forward. He leaned back. They stared at one another like wary cats. "What's your name?" she asked without hesitation, attempting to latch onto Hajime's arm.
"Lightning," he growled, rising to his feet and sidestepping so fast he left a breeze behind him.
Kaoru exhaled through her nose, forcing patience into her bones. "Hajime. Behave."
His head snapped, Nyoi raised as if preparing to exorcise her. "She's coming closer."
Kaoru narrowed her eyes, and Hajime immediately went silent under the weight of that look alone. "She is Kamo-dono's granddaughter," she hissed in a whispered smile. "You will not threaten her in his own hall."
Mumei continued circling, close enough now to tilt her head and peer into his eyes. "You have very unusual hair," she noted, reaching a hand—
A spark jumped from his skin to her fingers. "Ow!" She giggled. "You bit me."
"I warned you," Hajime snapped.
Kaoru pressed fingers to her temple. "Enough." She turned back toward Kamo-dono, picking up her thread as if the interruption had not occurred. "Tokugawa-dono is prepared to overlook the Kamo clan's prior inaction. He knows that in a time of reconstruction, discretion is as vital as conquest and would not punish a delay in allegiance if it results in long-term advantage."
"Ah," the elder said with a faint smile. "So long as I wait for the tide to turn."
"You do not need to raise your flag now," she replied. "Only prepare to do so, and when the moment comes, raise it on the right side of history. East."
Before Kamo could answer, Mumei's voice rang out again—melodic, sugar-sweet, and completely out of place. "Ojīchan, I like this one. Can I have him?"
Silence crashed down.
Kaoru turned very, very slowly. Mumei had pressed her fingers to Hajime's white sleeve with all the force of a falling sakura petal, and yet it was enough. Hajime had gone stock-still, a thin arc of cursed lightning crackling through the strands of his hair, Nyoi trembling in his grip.
"For fuck's sake, I swear—" he threatened.
Kaoru pressed a single finger to the tatami, and Hajime froze like a shrine mouse, but the look of abject horror on his face remained. Mumei leaned closer, still giggling.
The old Kamo laughed softly, eyes like needles. "Are... Are you certain, dear? He looks rather… wild. Surely, Zenin-dono himself would be a more suited option if you truly want to—"
"I want him," she insisted, fingers still curled into Hajime's sleeve. "He's so cute when he's angry."
Kaoru squinted, her mathriarcal instincts flared. That was not ideal, but... the glint in the elder Kamo's eyes, hesitant, indulgent, suggested that the affection was real, that much was obvious. So was the fact that this girl was the favorite and had power over him. Influence. Influence over the person who possessed the spear. And... as a favorite granddaughter, probably a very significant dowry.
Well, she thought dryly, sorry, Hajime. But an opportunity is an opportunity.
"I see no objection," Kaoru said sweetly, turning back to the elder man with an elegant bow of the head. "You may have him."
The silence that followed was ice.
Hajime choked on his own breath. "What—!"
Kaoru smiled too brightly. "Ah, Mumei-dono's eye is surely discerning. Hajime is a rare natural talent. Cursed energy affinity, combat mastery, a powerful jujutsu sorcerer, and he carries the name of a prominent Zenin cadet line. I have personally overseen his training for over a year. Their union would benefit both our clans." Her tone dipped, almost mock-thoughtful. "And ensure that your precious Mumei-dono's happy, which is no small thing in arranged marriage."
"You—You're selling me—!" Hajime spluttered.
Even Yoshinobu parted his lips as if to speak, then thought better of it.
The old Kamo clapped his hands in delight. "Oh, what a charming proposal. My granddaughter does have impeccable taste after all, and has inherited the best of our bloodline. Her aptitude for Blood Manipulation is exemplary, and with a powerful Zenin sorcerer by her side.... Yes, a marriage could unify much, and my sweet girl would be happy."
Kaoru nodded. "We could aim for a New Year's celebration. It would be most auspicious."
Behind her, Mumei leaned close to Hajime's ear. "I wonder what your blood tastes like."
Hajime flinched visibly, paling. "Oi, Kaoru, she just said—"
Standing with deliberate slowness, Kaoru turned toward him, dangerous serenity in every step. "Please excuse me, Mumei-dono. A moment with my pupil."
Mumei beamed and twirled back toward her grandfather.
Hajime managed a relieved sigh as he stepped aside; the relief lasted one breath. Kaoru walked toward him with the smile he feared most, every inch the terrifying matriarch. He backed up, step by step, until he hit the wall. Kaoru's hand slammed against the wood beside his face, trapping him, as her cursed energy spiked. Hajime's, on the other hand, flickered and died in pitiful static as he shrank two inches in terror.
"Listen carefully, you little lightning rat." Her voice was velvet and deadly. "That girl is a political miracle, and for some twisted joke, she likes you; you do not get to spit on this just because you're terrified of painted lips."
"I don't want—"
"I won't be around forever to guard your sorry hide, and when that day comes," she added, energy spiking, "the name Kamo will protect you far better than your attitude ever has. Now, you will wear your damn shoes, marry that girl, and be grateful for it. And you will not, under any circumstance, offend her grandfather."
He raised a weak hand. "You can't just marry off every child you mentor."
Kaoru's grin widened. "Oh, I can and I will. If it wins us this war, I'll marry the entire clan off in matching pairs." She released him with a final thump to his chest. "Now. Smile."
Hajime swallowed, radiating existential despair. Mumei waved at him joyfully. Yoshinobu looked like he might faint, probably fearing he would be the next.
Kaoru exhaled and turned back with her most pleasant smile. "Well then," she said, gracefully returning to her place. "Kamo-dono, it seems we are of one mind."
"Indeed," he said, hands clasped. "Ah, Zenin-dono, your eye for opportunity is positively ruthless. Admirable."
"And your foresight," she replied, "is as formidable as your hospitality. And I trust," she added with a light chuckle, "that the matter of the spear…"
"Will follow, naturally," the Kamo patriarch said. "After all, who would deny his beloved granddaughter the best match? Of course, discretion is our finest armor. Toyotomi loyalists still watch us closely. Let Tokugawa-dono know he may count on us—in time."
The room practically glowed with false cheer. Only Hajime looked like he might be sick, muttering, "I will never forgive you for this."
As the meeting concluded, Kamo folded his hands. "You shall have our answer before the new year. A winter wedding, perhaps?"
"Lovely," Kaoru murmured.
Just as they bowed and began to leave, Mumei waved sweetly at Hajime.
Outside in the crisp night air, Kaoru exhaled. Yoshinobu straightened beside her while Hajime slumped like a broken tent pole, looking like he wanted to die, as the door slid shut behind them.
Behind them, inside the Kamo estate, Mumei giggled. "Did I do well, Ojīchan?"
The old Kamo smiled, patting her hair. "Impressive as always, my dear."
She pouted. "But I do really want him."
"Don't worry. You'll have him, I'll make sure of it," the old Kamo smiled at her. "You know Ojīchan would give you anything. But first, we must hear what Gojo-dono has to say." He stared into the darkening sky, fingers drumming. "For when this war ends… the Kamo will not simply be allies to the victor."
He smiled, fox-sharp.
"We will be their salvation."
.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.
Kaoru didn't mind the stares.
Not when the spring air was this gentle, not when her sleeves brushed so lightly against her skin, not when the red lanterns overhead floated like a sky reborn. They had left the Kamo estate only to find the festival sprawled beyond the gates like a living tapestry of color and sound, and Kaoru had declared it too beautiful a night to waste. She felt light, almost giddy in a way that made no tactical sense.
Not unpleasant, she thought, amused and annoyed that she found it pleasant at all.
Perhaps it was the relief of a successful negotiation. Perhaps it was the feeling of finally being unseen in a world where she was always being looked at too closely.
Well. Almost unseen.
An older man broke from the flow, clearly emboldened by something, perhaps sake, perhaps foolishness. He stepped into her path, dipped low in an exaggerated bow, and began to stammer compliments.
Kaoru blinked once, and before she could open her mouth to verbally gut the poor soul, a flash of blue surged beside her.
"Piss off," Hajime muttered, like an overprotective teenager. It wasn't loud, but it was enough. A faint static crackled between his twin's hair knots, and the man paled, backed away, and was quickly absorbed again by the festival tide.
Kaoru arched a brow. "Was that necessary?"
That earned her a twitch of one furious cyan eyebrow. "Oh, I don't know," he mumbled. Not that he was really speaking to her. "Was that necessary?"
He stalked ahead of her, arms folded, shoulders drawn up to his ears with all the moodiness of a cat soaked in rainwater. His white kosode hung crookedly now, and his hair sparked in erratic tufts, evidence of adolescent fury more than cursed technique.
Ah. Still mad about the marriage. Kaoru followed, amused. "You could say thank you," she called lightly, tilting her head. "For my flawless diplomacy back there. I even got you a bride, a good one."
Hajime grunted.
"Or maybe," she continued, utterly unfazed, "you'd rather I get you something from the festival? Grilled mochi? Fried tofu? They're making dango in the shape of tiny tigers down by the river. Very fierce. Very you."
Another grunt. Louder.
"Or... we could play a game. Win Yoshinobu something ridiculous." She pressed her hands together, reaching his side. "I'm not apologizing, mind you. But I heard they're selling those karumeyaki you like."
Hajime tore into a roasted sweet potato he did not remember purchasing.
Kaoru smiled softly, watching him with mild interest. "You're upset."
That did it. Hajime whirled around, still chewing, still furious. "Upset?" his fingers clenched around the stick of his snack like he was ready to drive it through the earth. "You ruined my life! Now I'll have to run, go live under a waterfall, train with monkeys. Maybe even flee the country. Anything but marrying that thing."
"Mm." Kaoru hummed, stepping over a loose cobblestone. "You'd look good with a monkey on your shoulder."
Literal sparks bounced in his hair, from strand to strand, the cyan strands prickling upwards in indignation. "You're not taking this seriously!"
Behind them, Yoshinobu coughed politely, face pink as he tried—and failed—to stifle his laughter.
Kaoru stopped, tilting her head as if genuinely confused. "I rarely take offense to being offered an alliance with the Kamo."
"She's weird," Hajime snapped. "I am not talking to her again. I am not looking at her again. I'm not marrying a snake with painted lips who asks what my blood tastes like! I don't care if she's Kamo's heiress or Amaterasu reborn," he concluded, cheeks flushed, fingers twitching near the Nyoi slung over his back.
Kaoru's smile deepened; her only response was to reach up and ruffle the spikes atop his head, not gently. The zap was instant from his temple to her wrist, though the scowl came a beat late. Her hand sizzled faintly nut she did not flinch.
"Ow," she said, utterly unaffected. "Come now, little beast."
Ears red, Hajime knocked her hand away with a noise halfway between a cat's yowl and a sneeze. "Don't touch me."
"Oh, come on."
"I hate you."
With that, Hajime stormed off, vanishing into the crowd with a crackle of indignation and static, kicking a lantern stand over. His silhouette bristled even from behind. Kaoru blinked after him; she was still smiling, but it faltered just slightly. Have I overstepped? She was used to his dramatics, but there was more thunder in him than usual.
"Fifteen," she murmured to no one, with a huff. "What a miserable age."
Yoshinobu's voice came hesitantly from her side. "Zenin-dono—ah. Rei-sama," he corrected himself, posture too proud for someone not even a decade old. "Are you sure it's safe to let him walk off alone?"
Kaoru's gaze lingered on the place where Hajime had disappeared, then she looked up; the night had deepened into a haze of light and warmth. Around them, Kyoto swirled in colors and the scent of cinnamon, smoke, and sakura oil. Children's laughter, the ringing of bells, the faraway pulse of a taiko drum, all wove into a single, living breath of the city. The sky, unobstructed by the silhouettes of castle spires, was deep indigo, pierced by pinpricks of early stars.
For a moment, it almost felt like peace. Or at least, like the memory of it.
She closed her eyes for a moment. Let it fill her. Then, glancing sideways at Yoshinobu, she said, "No. There's nothing to worry about."
"But—"
"This is Kyoto during Higashiyama," she said, with a serene smile. "Even ghosts are busy enjoying the scenery. He'll come back eventually, let him burn it off."
Yoshinobu glanced around, still unsure, brows were knit with concern. "I think... he'll never accept something like this."
Kaoru's steps slowed. She stopped beside a narrow stream that ran beneath one of the bridges, lit by lanterns shaped like floating sakura. Her reflection rippled in the water: her hair still arranged in the knot, the rimmed eyes, the painted lips still stubbornly intact. A delicate face. Just another woman watching the paper lights rise like prayers above the Kamo River.
A stranger.
"Maybe not," she admitted. "But he'll understand. One day."
She watched the floating lights drift above the riverbank, and her mind wandered, not far, not forward, but inward. This life, this gamble, had always been more of a burden than a reward. But Hajime… she hadn't wanted that for him. She still didn't. But if Tokugawa decided to punish her at the end of the war, well, at least she knew he would be safe. If not happy, then at least safe.
And isn't that what matters now?
Her voice dropped to something only the breeze might hear. "With both Zenin and Kamo's names behind his back, even someone like him won't be able to get into too much trouble." She paused. A quiet breath. "Even if he burns bridges with every other clan between Edo and Kyushu, no one will touch him." A limited smile returned to her lips. "He can live however he likes. That's freedom, in its way."
Yoshinobu studied her carefully, and the flicker of realization in his young eyes made her heart twinge. The way she looked at the world made him uneasy. Like someone halfway into the next life already. Like someone who could afford to laugh while the house was burning because she already knew which door would collapse first.
He was too perceptive. Like his father.
"Don't worry, I'll survive," Kaoru's eyes softened. "Somehow, I always do."
The boy flushed, straightening his back with the kind of soldierly posture that only made him look more like a child pretending not to be one. After a moment, he cleared his throat. "Rei-sama?"
"Yes?"
He hesitated, then lowered his voice. "When you arrange my marriage… can you please make sure it's with someone calm? And quiet. Ideally mute." He offered the most tragic nine-year-old look she had ever seen on him. "Please."
Kaoru laughed. Not a chuckle, not a smile, an actual laugh, light and real, slipping past her lips before she could stop it. "Come on, 'Nobu. Not a monster, am I?" she said between giggles. "Though the temptation is strong."
"You just sold your favorite ward," he said, entirely serious.
She reached out, ruffling his hair the same way she had Hajime's. He didn't zap her, but he did duck with an exasperated huff, cheeks red. "Come on," she said, adjusting the sleeves of her kimono with a lazy motion. "I know a place near the river with the best kushiyaki."