.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.
"Come on," Kaoru said, adjusting the sleeves of her kimono with a lazy motion. "I know a place near the river with the best kushiyaki."
The words were easy. Too easy. She tucked her hands into her sleeves as she walked, letting Yoshinobu follow a step behind her as the crowd thickened near the banks of the Kamo River, drawn to the smell of roasted food.
The last time she'd walked these streets…
It had been over a year. The season had been colder then, winter sharp on the air, and she hadn't been alone. Last time I was here, she thought, he was too.
Seijiro.
They had slipped out of the council meeting, both pretending they weren't bored out of their minds, pretending they didn't enjoy each other's company. Laughing too loudly, drinking too much sake, grinning like fools under the festival lights. No one had recognized them that night. Back then, they'd just been... two problematic young heirs, not clan heads, not enemies on opposite sides of a war.
The war was still a if in those days.
And Seijiro... he had still thought she was a eunuch. Kaoru rolled her eyes skyward. What would he say if he saw her now? Wearing makeup, dressed in a swirling colorful kimono and unable to draw her blade without risk of tripping over her geta?
"We've fallen far, Pretty Boy; you used to be more cautious, Pretty Boy," she muttered in a mocking impression of him. "Where's your tactical sense, Pretty Boy?" Her painted lips curled upward, betraying her against her will. "'How are you supposed to draw a blade, dressed like a decorative carp?'"
She snorted aloud before she could stop herself. Oh, he would laugh. Loudly. Rudely. He'd probably double over in the street, wheezing like an idiot, then use her sleeves to wipe his face, insulting the embroidery while at it. She could already imagine that smug grin stretching across his face, eyes crinkled as he'd call her something ridicolous. Probably make a joke about how the hairpin matched her eyes.
Kaoru bit the inside of her cheek, lips twitching, annoyed at the ghost of him that lingered stubbornly in her memory. He'd deserve a slap for it. But still. No. Definitely better this way.
Better if Seijiro Gojo never laid eyes on her like this.
Her steps slowed. There it was, the familiar yellowed sign of the kushiyaki stall Seijiro had dragged her to, that one time, claiming that they served the best kushiyaki. Not that she'd admit it aloud, but she'd tried every kushiyaki cart in Edo since and never found one quite as good.
Irritatingly right, even about food.
Kaoru's fingers drifted toward her sleeve where she had hidden the little pouch of coins, grinning to herself with the quiet triumph of a woman about to indulge in nostalgia and snacks, masquerading as victory. A good general knows when to retreat. This is a strategic acquisition, not a sentimental one.
Yoshinobu, his expression still a little lost, looked up at her the way one might watch a bird preen itself: fascinated and slightly unsure of what he was witnessing. Kaoru stepped up to the stall, offered a crisp masculine greeting and quickly caught herself. She adjusted her tone, softer, smoother. She remembered who she was pretending to be tonight.
"Two skewers, please," she said, and the vendor, too polite to comment on her overcompensated femininity, nodded and passed them over.
"Try this," she said, handing a skewer to Yoshinobu, steam still curling from the meat. "Best you can find in Kyoto."
He blinked at her, then at the kushiyaki, accepting it, and taking a careful bite. His eyes widened, just a touch. "…It's good," he said, almost reverently.
"Told you," Kaoru said, biting into her own with immense satisfaction. The savory glaze, the crunch, the way it melted on the tongue; it was exactly as she remembered. She hummed under her breath, starting to walk again, her mood lifted by meat and memory. A song floated on the air from a shamisen player across the canal.
It was… nice. She closed her eyes. If only things could stay like this. Quiet. Simple. If only Seijiro—
She opened her eyes before the thought finished and stopped, as something caught her eye.
A small cart. Trinkets, ornaments, combs. She blinked. That comb. A little wooden piece shaped like camellia blossom, the same one from the last time. Kaoru drifted forward, forgetting Yoshinobu at her side, kneeling to get a better look, hands resting on her knees.
Her finger brushed the grain of the wood.
"You're still here?" she murmured to it. Then quiet. "No one wants you, huh?"
She tapped the comb gently, as though expecting it to respond.
"…Same here," she whispered under her breath. "We don't sell well, I suppose."
A longer pause. Then her lips flattened. Kami. Am I talking to a comb now? Kaoru exhaled slowly. She was losing it, absolutely losing it. The kimono was doing something to her brain. That, or the kushiyaki was laced with madness.
But even so—
She wished she could see him, even just for a second.
With that, Kaoru made up her mind. She bought the comb. Strategy, she told herself. "I have a big plan for you," she told it, satisfied by her own big plan. "We'll engrave Hajime's name and send you to Kamo-dono's granddaughter as a token of his eternal affection. The most passive-aggressive engagement gift in clan's history."
She smiled to herself as she straightened up, turning to rejoin Yoshinobu, only to find the spot where she'd left him... empty.
Kaoru stopped, breath caught. She looked left; then right. A moment of silence, then panic bloomed in her chest like fire. She spun around, scanning the crowd. Right. Left. Again. The crowd shifted. A vendor shouted. A burst of laughter rang out.
Her fingers tightened around the little cloth pouch and the comb inside it. The silk obi around her waist suddenly felt like a noose.
Oh no.
Yoshinobu was nine. Worse: he was the too precious nine-year-old son of Harunobu and Miyako. Her heart thundered. She'd lost Hajime, but that was survivable, he was half demon, half lightning bolt, he could vanish into a crowd and emerge victorious from a fight three hours later. Besides, Hajime had grown on the street of the capital. But Yoshinobu? He was small and soft-spoken and knew every etiquette form under the sun but probably didn't remember which way was north in a crowded marketplace.
How?
How Kaoru Zenin, feared matriarch, war strategist, wielder of Ten Shadows, had managed to lose a nine-year-old at a festival?
If something happened to him...
"Oh no," she whispered, a laugh breaking unsteadily in her throat. "I've lost Yoshinobu."
.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.
"Come on," Seijiro muttered, shifting the squirming weight of the nine-year-old clinging to his back with a well-practiced palm to the back of her knees. "I know a place near the river with the best kushiyaki."
The girl riding him—stoically, imperiously, like a warlord on horseback—responded with a firm tug to a lock of his silver hair, directing him left. That meant she wanted right.
Seijiro turned as instructed. He was, at this point, completely resigned to it. After all, what power did the head of the Gojo clan possess against the flat, unimpressed stare of a mute nine-year-old with the moral superiority of a kami?
It was the ridiculous festival getup, he decided: : low neckline, hair half-tied with Shima's treacherous braids, and a haori so garishly colorful it could've doubled as a shrine banner. No self-respecting clan head should be seen in public wearing red and orange patterned like phoenix feathers, but then, no one had ever accused Seijiro of being self-respecting. Not today, anyway. Not when the Gojo head had to sneak through the streets of Kyoto pretending to be just another common reveler, so as not to attract attention to his little nighttime visit to the Kamo estate.
Shima's geta thumped rhythmically against his sides, one dangerously close to slipping off, dangling by a toe.
Behind them trailed what could only be described as the most ridiculous, uncoordinated delegation in Kyoto. Rensuke, sleeves rolled, one empty and fluttering in the spring breeze, face locked in a permanent scowl of tired cynicism. Musashi, springing from stall to stall, eyes shining with the uncontainable energy of sixteen curses and a festival's worth of sugar, the wooden hilts of his crossed bokken clacking with each step.
And then, of course uninvited—
Keiji Maeda, that radiated confidence and crimson. He drifted beside them with the weightless gait of a man too beautiful to be punched, layered in extravagant kimono embroidered with sakura blossoms and so many feathers braided into his topknot he could've been mistaken for a migratory bird.
"Remind me again," Seijiro asked without turning, jerking his chin. "why are you following us?"
"Because fate is a delightful drunkard and so am I," Keiji replied cheerfully, appearing at Seijiro's side without a sound. His ridiculous oversized ōdachi was hung across his back like an ox cart. "I must admit," Keiji went on, hands careless folded behind his head. "I didn't expect to find you out and about tonight, Gojo-dono. After your delightful little spat with Date-dono this morning, I assumed you were hiding under a rock."
Seijiro snorted. Please.
Musashi, as usual, couldn't help himself. "My shishō fears no one! He is a true paragon of the bushido path!"
Rensuke reached out and clamped a hand down on Musashi's shoulder like a vice. Perhaps in the vague hope that if he squeezed hard enough, the boy might shut up.
Keiji, unbothered and strolling like he didn't have a care in the world, jerked his head toward Shima. "Imagine my surprise, seeing you here… like a young father taking his lovely daughter to see the lanterns."
"I'm not her father," Seijiro grumbled. "She's my little sister."
Shima huffed indignantly and crossed her arms over Seijiro's shoulders with scorn, nodding firmly in agreement. Not that it seemed to make much difference. The pair of them, equally scowling, might as well have had chichiue and musume stitched into the back of their haori.
"Oh," Keiji mused, beaming at her. "Well, she certainly glares like you."
Exactly the problem. Why of all people did they have to run into Keiji Maeda tonight?
The last person Seijiro wanted running his mouth about anything—especially his current position on anything politically sensitive—was a wandering peacock of the war front and nephew to one of the most unpredictable allies in the Kansai region. But of course the man had recognized him instantly, despite the ridiculous festival getup. And of course he had simply joined them uninvited, trailing their party like a dog with nowhere better to be.
Seijiro didn't want attention. Didn't want conversation. He wanted kushiyaki for Shima, five minutes of quiet, and maybe, just maybe, the mental space to stop thinking about the last time. His gaze drifted. Lanterns above. The festival crowd. The noise and color and warm roasted sweetness. Children darting between legs with paper pinwheels. Music.
Too loud. Too bright. Too full of memories. And the flashbacks hurt.
Last time, he hadn't been alone. Kaoru had been beside him.
A little tense, a little suspicious, a lot more sarcastic than was strictly proper for a noble heir of good upbringing. They had walked these very streets together. She had pretended not to enjoy it and he had pretended not to watch her eyes softening, just enough, when she'd reached for a kushiyaki skewer with a ghost of a smile. It had been simpler then. The war had still been hypothetical, their clans not yet scorched by all that blood. They'd snuck out like children playing rebel against their fathers, argued over sake, and talked about nothing of consequence until the moon rose high over the rooftops.
And... he had thought she was a boy.
A eunuch, even. The memory made his ears burn. Kami, he had been so sure.
Now, he couldn't even picture her face without seeing the way she might look now, walking by his side through this same crowd, blending with the festival lights like a memory half-remembered.
He caught himself smiling, realizing he was thinking about her.. The night tasted the same. He'd been too stupid to realize how precious that night had been until it was already gone.
No. He shook the thoughts off. She's not here. That's the point.
His clan was. His responsibility was. Shima. Rensuke. Even Musashi, loud and hopeless as he was.
He shifted Shima's weight and slowed his steps. Something in the crowd buzzed faintly at the edge of his perception. A sting behind the eyes. His Six Eyes prickled, sensing—
Cursed energy. Not strong, not dangerous, but... familiar. Too fleeting to track, though. He turned. The crowd was thick. He scanned left, then right, but the trail had already dissipated. His gaze landed instead on a small merchant's stand tucked between two paper lantern stalls.
Ah there it was. The comb stall.
Without thinking, he crouched slightly, nudging Shima with an elbow. "Off. Rensuke, catch her," he muttered.
She kicked him lightly but slid down with the grace of a cat. Seijiro watched her march over to Rensuke, whose face twisted into something that could only be described as spiritual resignation as she latched onto his empty sleeve. They both looked mildly disgusted.
Musashi, never one to miss a chance, swooped in. "Shima-sama!" he announced. "Allow me to carry you next—" he offered with a flourish, only for Rensuke to yank him by the collar and drag him back before he could complete the offer.
Keiji barked a laugh aloud. "What a heartwarming little clan you've assembled, Gojo-dono."
Seijiro ignored them as he made his way to the stand. It was still there. That same modest stall, tucked between two lantern vendors. His eyes scanned the table: hairpins, combs, simple ones, fancier ones. All carved with care. He remembered, Kaoru had lingered here, that time. Just briefly. Her hand had hovered over one comb in particular, one she had almost bought that night.
He crouched now, elbow resting on one knee, staring at the display. Squinting. That comb. He remembered—
"Damn it," he muttered under his breath. Which one was it? They all looked the same. Why hadn't he paid attention? Ah, right, because he was too busy being a moron, laughting at her. Ah. Maybe it was...
"Excuse me," he said to the vendor, trying not to sound like he cared too much for a wooden comb. "There was a camellia blossom comb here...? I saw it once before. Do you still have it?"
The vendor, blinking, scratched his chin. "Ah, that one. No, sir. Bought it a few minutes ago, a pretty young lady in a spring-colored kimono."
Seijiro looked up at the moon, biting down a sigh. Of course. His timing was always flawless. He muttered something impolite before his expression could be catalogued. Why would he want it, anyway? What was he planning to do with it? Send it to her? Wrap it in cloth and send it as an apology? Dear Kaoru. Sorry my father massacred your clan and murdered your favorite person. Here's a comb. Please don't marry that one-eyed dragon with a fire breath.
Probably for the best. It would've been pathetic anyway. Idiot. She'd just toss it in the fire.
His Six Eyes scanned the crowd again, but there was no sign. No hint. No familiar hair or silhouette or deadly aura.
A spring-colored kimono. It would suit her, in some way. Of course it would. She was the only person able to look stunning both in a man kamishimo and in a feminine kimono. Kaoru in a pretty colorful kimono? As if. She'd never wear something like that.
With a huff, Seijiro turned toward his so-called entourage before his brain could implode, and felt the hollow ache of someone defeated in battle not by blade, but by a comb merchant. It was, frankly, more humiliating. Right. Priorities. Kushiyaki for Shima. Then diplomacy with the Kamo. In that exact order.
"Oi," he crouched, gesturing vaguely with his hands, beckoning Shima back into place. "Come on. Back on the horse, small tyrant."
No answer. Well, of course not, she was mute, but he didn't even hear the patter of geta behind him, didn't feel the tug of his hair that normally served as her preferred directional method.
He blinked once, brow twitching. "You're not mute and deaf, are you? If you don't move now, I'll make you walk for real and I'll eat your skewers," he grumbled louder.
A strange silence began to settle behind him. Not quite dangerous, but certainly suspicious. When he finally turned around, the silence had a face: three grown men were frozen in place like the world's most incompetent kabuki trio, all looking slightly guilty, vaguely confused, and catastrophically unhelpful. Rensuke was staring at the empty air beside him. Musashi had stopped mid-sentence, blinking like a goldfish. Keiji, unbothered, merely arched a brow as he tilted his head to the side.
And... no Shima.
For a second, Seijiro just stared. As if blinking would reset reality. One blink. Two. The breath left his lungs in a rush. "Shima?" he asked slowly in a small voice, already knowing he wasn't going to like the answer.
The trio choosed silence.
Seijiro's eye twitched. "Where's Shima?" he repeated, this time with enough steel in his voice to make a soldier weep.
Everyone flinched.
"Shishō, I swear, she was right there!" Musashi wailed, clutching his head in despair, his thick eyebrow knitting togheter. "I could feel her presence!"
Seijiro rounded on Rensuke, eyes narrowing dangerously, as the shinobi's gaze dropped instinctively to his empty sleeve. "I may have…" he began, voice flat. "Experienced what is commonly referred to as phantom limb syndrome. It's… when you feel something that's not—"
"You didn't notice she let go?!" He made a horrified noise. "You lost her?!"
"We," Rensuke corrected almost fondly. "We lost her."
"How," Seijiro roared, spinning to face the crowd. "How did four adults, three of whom are trained sorcerers, lose a nine-year-old mute girl in a festival crowd?!"
Rensuke bowed his head again, a gesture so small and insincere it almost provoked violence. Musashi looked one second away from crying. Keiji patted Seijiro's back, though thanks to Infinity, it landed on air. "Relax, Gojo-dono," he said cheerfully, "I'll help you find your lovely little daughter."
"She's not my daughter, she's my little sister!" Seijiro snapped, ignoring the choking sound that came from somewhere near Musashi and turned.
He didn't have the time to keep shouting. The Six Eyes were already straining to isolate Shima's faint cursed signature in the chaos of the festival, within a two-ri radius. It wasn't easy, too many voices, too much ambient energy, too many distractions, every speck of cursed energy in the crowd illuminating like stars in his vision. His hands curled into fists, as he spun around, then—
Thud.
He slammed into someone shorter than him. Literally. A chest-height figure bounced off him, clothed in white, and both of them stepped back simultaneously. Seijiro's eyes narrowed as the cursed echo hit him an instant before his brain caught up. The color, the spike of static across his awareness, the tingling hum of raw, volatile youth—
Cursed energy, electric, volatile—
He looked down as two furious cyan eyes looked up. His stomach dropped.
A beat. Then two.
"...Hajime?"
Hajime flinched. Only slightly, but enough to confirm what Seijiro already knew, and the realization painted itself across both their faces simultaneously. Seijiro's jaw clenched. Hajime's brows furrowed, a storm already forming behind his youthful scowl. The expression shifted from vague confusion to horror, then to deep and unfiltered rage. His entire presence recoiled like a cornered anumal, and for a single heartbeat, no one moved. Not the crowd. Not the festival-goers.
Not even the breeze.
Seijiro's mind went blank.
What was Hajime doing in Kyoto? Why was Hajime in Kyoto? More importantly, if Hajime was there, so was...
He should have known. That flicker at the comb stand, that flicker he had ignored while distracted by stupid sentimental nostalgia, it hadn't been his imagination. It had been her.
Hajime's eyes darkened. The boy stepped back half a pace, fingers twitching toward the Nyoi strapped to his back. Seijiro saw the decision form before the boy even moved. Muscles tensed. His jaw clenched. "Don't—" Seijiro muttered, reaching for him.
Hajime was faster.
A bolt of lightning ripped between them as the boy vaulted backward with speed born of survival, flipping through the air and slamming down into a crouch before tearing off into the crowd like a bolt of blue fury, scattering festival-goers and upending carts and screams in his wake. The ground scorched behind him.
"Tch—!" Seijiro's voice snapped as he pointed into the dissipating cloud of dust. "Musashi!"
Musashi's face lit up with terrifying clarity and he was already at his side. "Yes, Shishō!" he cried, crouched and grinning with frightening focus, water coiling at his feet. "I'll catch him!"
He didn't ask why. He just focused, and with an echoing boom, launched after Hajime, water splashing in his wake from the cursed torrent that followed his every step. A twin streak of water and lightning teared down toward the ends of the market street, and the chaos amplified tenfold.
Good, Seijiro thought grimly. That would buy them some time. Why now? Why here?
"Shit," he muttered, too low for anyone but himself to hear. His mind ran through a dozen contingencies.
Behind him, Keiji was finally serious as he adjusted the blade across his back. "Who was that, Gojo-dono?"
Seijiro didn't take his eyes off the crowd. "I'm not sure," he lied instantly. He was not going to explain this, whatever this was, to Keiji Maeda.
Keiji's smile curled, not kindly, almost predatory. "Mm." He tapped his chin. "Then allow me to assist, Gojo-dono. I am extremely lucky and blessed by the kami, I'll find your little sister in a blink!"
The flamboyant sorcerer gave a theatrical bow and before Seijiro could stop him, he vanished into the crowd with terrifying fluidity for someone in feathered sleeves and enough cursed energy to light a castle.
Seijiro cursed under his breath. "Tch," he grunted. "Of all the people—"
This is bad. This is very, very bad. He turned sharply, scanning the crowd with renewed urgency. Too many people. Too many variables. Too many cursed signatures burning like torches across his vision. He couldn't sort through it all at once, his Six Eyes were screaming at him, overloading with noise. No sign of Shima. No sign of Kaoru—yet. And Hajime's trail... wasn't helping.
Come on, come on...
"Seijiro-sama," Rensuke cut in stepping up beside him, more serious now. "Was that…?"
"The lightning brat," Seijiro muttered, low voice. "Kaoru's."
"Impressive speed," Rensuke observed, tightening the sash around his waist, readying himself to bolt at the first order. "But dangerous. Too much cursed energy for this festival's good."
Seijiro turned slowly to face Rensuke fully, his voice was a whisper. "And if he's here, then someone even more dangerous is nearby."
The shinobi stiffened. "You mean—"
"I mean," he said flatly, "if Kaoru Zenin is in this crowd, and Keiji Maeda finds her, we'll be dragging half the jujutsu world into a street brawl in the middle of a civilian festival." Silence. He turned to the crowd, dead serious. "Find Shima," he said. "If she's caught in whatever this is about to become, I'll never hear the end of it from Payo."
Rensuke nodded once. "And you?"
Seijiro didn't answer immediately. He was still staring at the path Hajime had taken. Kaoru, he thought bitterly. What the hell are you doing in Kyoto? He didn't know if the feeling in his chest was panic or anticipation, and that was the real problem. He had to find her. He had to find her before the wrong person did. Because if anyone recognized her...
Then Kyoto was seconds away from becoming a cursed battlefield.
"I'll find Kaoru," he said. "Before Keiji Maeda does."
.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.
Kaoru moved through the lantern-lit alleys with the single-minded urgency of a woman who had no time left to lose.
Not that the kami seemed inclined to make it easy.
Her geta clacked awkwardly over the uneven stones, the hem of her kimono tugged against her bare ankles like seaweed dragging her down. She could feel the silk sticking to the back of her knees. Fast-paced movement was nearly impossible. Running? Laughable. And yet she pushed forward, jaw tight, eyes scanning, weaving through side streets, ducking under paper banners and the drifting scent of food.
Where the hell is Yoshinobu?
She had no idea how long she'd been searching now. Five minutes? Ten? Time stretched in panic. Every minute he was gone was a minute too long. He was hers. And he was missing. And then—
An explosion. Not from her street, but close. Close enough, a few streets over. An unmistakable crack tore the air, followed by the scream that followed had the edge of real fear.
Kaoru stopped dead, head whipping toward the black coil of smoke drifting above a pair of distant rooftops, gaze darkening. The air was shifting, her skin prickled, her throat went dry. She knew that feeling. The static in the air. The scent of ozone. The press of cursed energy, fraying at the edges like a lightning storm trying to punch through human skin.
Hajime.
That feral idiot. That glorified stormcloud in human form. Either he'd gotten into trouble, or worse, trouble had found him. She didn't care. Either way, it meant he was exposed, and she couldn't risk a full-blown conflict with a single wrong name whispered. Not in Kyoto.
So, no more time.
Kaoru darted into a tight alley wedged between two ramshackle homes, the space barely wide enough for her shoulders. Checking over her shoulder to make sure no one had followed, she dropped to one knee, hands sliding into a seal. Just enough cursed energy, no more, barely a spark.
From her shadow, something emerged. Something... small.
A tiny white Divine Dog crept out soundlessly, smaller than usual almost comically so, in fact. It looked more like a puppy than a hunting beast, with pointed ears and a round, downy body. Small enough to dart through the crowd unseen. Anything too big would attract attention, and she could not afford to be seen, not as Kaoru Zenin.
She reached out and patted its tiny head once. The creature's ears twitched once. "Find Yoshinobu. I'll find Hajime," she whispered.
The puppy gave a soft snort and vanished out of the alley, silent as falling snow.
Good. That would buy her time. Kaoru exhaled, straightening. "One down," she muttered.
She rose quickly, ducking out of the alley. The festival's lights glittered all around her, warm and festive. It felt wrong. Everything about this felt wrong. The smoke was still curling above the rooftops and the crowd was already reacting, half retreating, half running toward the excitement, all of them shouting.
She bolted for the smoke. Or... tried to. The first step was a mistake. The second, a disaster. The third... The geta wobbled under her. The tight kimono yanked at her legs. Her arms flailed just slightly, a horrible premonition whispering too late—
Kaoru hit the ground. Hard. Faceplanted into the dirt like a dropped radish.
There was a moment of complete, catastrophic stillness. And then... the slow rising giggle of some nearby festival-goer who had definitely seen it happen. If humiliation had a texture, Kaoru decided, it would be gravel in your mouth and your obi pinching in all the wrong places.
She spat dust and pressed herself up, fabric tangled around her legs. Stupid kimono. Stupid geta. Stupid feminine disguise. And she had the nerve to find it pretty earlier?
Never again. She had fought in blood-soaked forests, she had faced death more times than she could count, she had survived curses, betrayal, and war.
But this, this was too much.
She was halfway upright, cursing herself in four different registers, when a shadow fell over her. It blocked the lantern light. Large. Tall.
"Well, well," a man voice drawled overhead, low, amused, masculine, a little hoarse. "That was quite the fall, young lady."
The voice wasn't angry, not mocking either. Worse, it was entertained.
Kaoru went still. Stone-still. One strand of her hair had slipped free from its twist and now dangled by her jaw, framing her lowered eyes. Her pulse had already leapt in her throat. She couldn't be recognized. Her fingers curled slowly into the dirt, instinct and muscle memory screaming for her katana—except it wasn't there, Yoshinobu still had it. Her only weapon was herself, dressed in springtime silk and a fucking wooden comb in her sleeve.
Damn it.
The voice came again, that same curious lilt, edged with faint mockery. "Hmm. Those pretty geta don't look built for running." The shadow didn't move, the man didn't walk away. Instead, she heard the sound of him shifting, as he folded his arms. Then, the sound of one boot stepping forward, slow and curious.
A soft chuckle. "You know," the voice continued lightly, "I saw a shikigami run past a moment ago. Small, white, pretty fast for a mutt."
She still didn't move, didn't breathe.
"Shadow-born shikigami, if I had to guess. Only a few sorcerers can summon them. Fewer still make them so… discreet," he added. "I can't recall many clans with that kind of ability, across the country."
Kaoru swallowed, heart pounding beneath the colored silk of her obi. A single bead of sweat rolled down her temple.
Shit.
She inhaled once and steeled herself. Then, in the softest, most sweet voice she could muster, pitched light and high, with just a hint of Kyoto lilt, she said: "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."
Silence. Another step, far too close, then—click. That little tongue-smack of amusement.
"I think you do."