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The crack of wood against wood echoed through the training grounds.
Mitsuri kept her guard high, knowing a strike could come from any direction if she didn't keep her eyes locked on Shinobu's subtle shifts in stance.
A single second of losing sight of her would be a fatal mistake.
"ABOVE YOU!" Her master's firm voice cut through the air like a blade.
Mitsuri stepped back just as Shinobu's wooden katana slammed into the earth where she'd been standing.
"Hit her right side, Nobu!" the Flower Hashira called out, coaching from the sidelines.
Kyojuro and Kanae had stationed themselves at the corner of the engawa, just on the steps leading into the mansion.
Both held glasses of juice, a plate of cookies sitting between them—provisions Senjuro Rengoku had brought out minutes ago when the sparring session first began.
Mitsuri and Shinobu were both breathing hard now, their white haori discarded and resting on a low-hanging branch just a few feet from the training circle.
Mitsuri dodged the younger girl's attack again, the wooden blade whistling past her ear a heartbeat before impact.
Shinobu's eyes widened in surprise as Mitsuri suddenly stepped forward instead of back, reversing into an attack. But muscle memory took over—Shinobu's sword snapped up, blocking the strike with a sharp thwack.
"INCREDIBLE!" Kyojuro's praise thundered across the grounds.
Kanae watched her friend interrupt the training with his near-shouts, sighed fondly, and plucked a cookie from the plate.
Before Kyojuro could bellow again, she'd practically pressed it to his lips.
"You can continue," Kanae assured the fighters with a serene smile, lifting the tray in offering.
Mitsuri hadn't taken her eyes off Shinobu.
And Shinobu hadn't taken hers off Mitsuri.
The sparring continued.
Mitsuri could feel the rhythm of it now—the way Shinobu's feet kissed the earth, the precise angle of her strikes, the calculated patterns of a prodigy who had been trained since childhood.
But Mitsuri had something else. Something she couldn't name.
Instinct, maybe.
Or perhaps just the desperate desire to prove she belonged here, on this ground, with these people.
There.
Shinobu committed too early to a thrust. Just a fraction of a second. Just enough.
Mitsuri twisted, her wooden blade slicing through the air in a tight arc—and connected solidly with Shinobu's forearm.
Thwack.
The sound was sharper than any that had come before. Mitsuri's eyes went wide. She froze mid-step, her sword dropping from suddenly numb fingers as it clattered against the dirt.
"Oh no—Shinobu-chan, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to hit that hard, are you okay? Does it hurt?" The words tumbled out in a panicked rush as Mitsuri lurched forward, reaching for her friend's arm with trembling hands.
Shinobu blinked, flexing her fingers experimentally.
A red mark was already blooming across her pale skin. She looked at it, then at Mitsuri's horrified face, and something soft flickered behind her violet eyes.
"Mitsuri-san." Her voice was calm. Steady. "I'm fine. It wasn't that bad. Really." She rotated her wrist, demonstrating its full range of motion. "See? Still works."
"Enough for today, I think." Kanae's gentle voice cut through the tension as she rose from the engawa steps, her wooden sandals clicking against the stone as she approached. She placed a hand on each of their shoulders, a silent benediction. "You both did beautifully."
Before Mitsuri could apologize again, a towel landed on her head with soft, damp weight.
Another landed on Shinobu's.
"SPECTACULAR!" Kyojuro's voice thundered with enough force to startle birds from nearby trees. He stood beaming at them, hands on his hips like a satisfied sun.
"That final exchange! The commitment! The precision! Mitsuri, your read of the opening was EXQUISITE! And Shinobu, your recovery time—" he made an explosion gesture with his hands, "—MAGNIFICENT!"
Mitsuri pulled the towel from her face, offering a weak smile. But her eyes were on Shinobu.
Something was different.
Shinobu stood quietly, dabbing at her neck with the towel. Her expression had settled into something more reserved than usual—not angry, not cold, just... elsewhere. She was staring at the wooden katana still lying in the dirt where Mitsuri had dropped it. Staring at it like it held answers to questions no one had asked yet.
Then, softly, Shinobu sighed.
She turned and walked toward the tree where their haori hung like white ghosts among the leaves. Her steps were measured. Thoughtful.
"You two really pushed each other today," Kanae said warmly, falling into step beside Mitsuri as they followed. "I could see it in your stances—you're learning from each other."
She glanced at her younger sister, who had reached up to retrieve her haori and was now shrugging it on with careful, deliberate movements. "Shinobu doesn't open up to many people like that."
Mitsuri bit her lip. "She seemed... quiet. At the end. Did I actually hurt her? I know she said—"
"She said she's fine." Kanae's serene smile didn't waver, but her eyes held something knowing. "And she is. But sometimes, for Shinobu, being fine and feeling fine are two different conversations." She squeezed Mitsuri's arm gently. "Give her a moment."
Mitsuri nodded, watching as Shinobu adjusted her haori's collar, her back still turned.
The afternoon sun caught the edges of her dark hair, turning them violet-soft.
And Mitsuri wondered, suddenly, what it would be like to know what Shinobu was thinking right now.
"Oi, Shinobu!" Kyojuro's voice boomed across the training ground once more. "Save some of that fire for our next session! I want a rematch!"
Shinobu turned, and for just a moment—just a flicker—her eyes met Mitsuri's.
Then she smiled.
"We'll see, Kyojuro-san," she called back. "If you can keep up."
But Mitsuri caught it. That moment before the smile. That split second of something unguarded.
And she held it close.
"Maybe you should start training as my Tsuguko and leave a certain Flower Hashira behind!" Kyojuro's voice shattered the tranquil silence, a teasing grin evident in his tone.
Mitsuri clapped both hands over her mouth as Kanae materialized in the courtyard once more.
"Rengoku-san, that's not very kind of you!" the older sister protested, lightly smacking her friend's shoulder.
Shinobu and Mitsuri exchanged glances before dissolving into quiet laughter together. Without realizing it, the pink-haired girl had drifted closer to her friend, who seemed considerably brighter than she had moments ago.
"I didn't hurt you, right?" Mitsuri asked again, carefully cradling her friend's wrist in her hands.
Shinobu sighed but didn't pull away, allowing the pink-haired girl to examine her. Nothing that a little ice and rest couldn't fix—the red mark would fade completely within minutes if she didn't strain it.
"No! I'm fine." Shinobu smiled.
Mitsuri didn't overthink it. She pressed a quick kiss to the bruise—so fast she was certain her lips hadn't actually made contact, but Shinobu laughed anyway.
Encouraged by the positive reaction, Mitsuri looped both arms around her friend's shoulders and leaned into a playful sway.
"I'm SO sorry, Shinobu-chan~!" She pouted dramatically, rocking their bodies together.
The raven-haired girl tried to hide her face behind both hands, laughing in spite of herself as she let Mitsuri embrace her.
"I already told you, it was nothing."
They stayed like that for a few minutes, laughter weaving through the cooling afternoon air, until Kanae announced they needed to head home.
She offered her thanks for the intense training session, her serene smile never wavering.
As the sisters began to walk away, Kanae slowed her steps—just enough to create a small distance between herself and Shinobu. Her smile remained serene, but her eyes held a conspiratorial sparkle when she glanced back at Mitsuri.
"Mitsuri-chan," she called softly, low enough that her sister wouldn't hear. "A word?"
Mitsuri blinked but approached without hesitation, curiosity blooming in her chest.
Kanae leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a whisper.
"In two days. Shinobu's birthday."
Mitsuri's eyes went wide. "What? She didn't tell me—"
Kanae's quiet laugh was like wind chimes. "She wouldn't. My sister doesn't like attention, even on her birthday. She'd rather the day pass unnoticed than be the center of it." Something fond and sad flickered across her features.
"Oh." Mitsuri's gaze drifted to Shinobu, who had stopped a few paces ahead, clearly pretending not to notice they were talking about her.
The afternoon light softened her edges, made her look younger.
"But," Kanae continued, drawing Mitsuri's attention back, "I think she'd be happy to see you. Truly." She pressed her hands together in a gesture of gratitude. "You've been good for her, Mitsuri-san. She laughs more when you're around."
Mitsuri felt warmth creep up her neck. "I'll... I'll try to come. If you think she'd want me there."
"I know she would." Kanae's smile deepened. "Just don't make a big fuss. Maybe bring something small. She'd never admit it, but she treasures little things."
"Nee-san." Shinobu's voice floated back to them, carrying a note of suspicion. "What are you telling her?"
"Nothing at all, Shinobu!" Kanae called back sweetly, already gliding away to rejoin her.
Over her shoulder, she mouthed silently to Mitsuri: Two days.
Mitsuri nodded, pressing a hand to her heart in silent acknowledgment.
Kyojuro, who had been uncharacteristically quiet during this exchange, suddenly stepped forward and cupped his hands around his mouth.
"FAREWELL, FLOWER SISTERS! MAY YOUR PATH BE BRIGHT AND YOUR TRAINING FRUITFUL!" His voice echoed across the training grounds and probably into the next village.
Kanae laughed, waving back without turning.
Even Shinobu's shoulders shook with silent amusement.
Mitsuri clasped her hands in front of her, raising her voice to carry across the growing distance. "We'll train together again soon, Shinobu! I promise!"
Shinobu paused. Turned.
For a moment, she just looked at Mitsuri. Then, slowly, she lifted her hand in a small wave.
Mitsuri waved back with both arms, wide and enthusiastic, until the sisters disappeared around the bend in the path.
Only then did Kyojuro clap her on the shoulder with enough force to make her stumble.
"So! A birthday, is it?" His grin was enormous, his eyes practically sparkling. "We'll need a plan! A strategy! Something worthy of the occasion!"
"Kyojuro-san, please don't yell it," Mitsuri whispered urgently, even though Shinobu was long gone. "Kanae-san said she doesn't like attention—"
"NONSENSE! Everyone likes attention on their birthday! They just don't know it yet!" He crossed his arms, already deep in thought. "Hmm. Something small, she said? But meaningful? What does Shinobu even like?"
Mitsuri opened her mouth to answer—then stopped.
What did Shinobu like?
She knew Shinobu's stance, her fighting rhythm, the exact angle of her smile when she landed a good hit.
She knew the sound of her laugh, the way her eyes crinkled at the corners. She knew she was fierce and sharp and softer than she wanted anyone to see.
But what did she like?
"I..." Mitsuri bit her lip. "I don't actually know."
Kyojuro's expression softened, just for a moment. "Then I suppose you have two days to find out."
Mitsuri pulled the estate gate closed behind her before falling into step beside Kyojuro.
"How about we invite Senjuro and go eat something in town?! There's a new restaurant we haven't tried yet!" the boy proposed, his fist pumping toward the sky with characteristic enthusiasm.
"Really?! We have to go! Senjuro-kun!" Mitsuri called out to the little boy.
If she had a full stomach, surely more ideas for Shinobu's gift would come to her!
___________
Shinobu turned over in her futon, acutely aware that sunlight had already crept through her window, accompanied by the distant sounds of footsteps echoing through the mansion corridors—unmistakable signs that the day had begun whether she was ready for it or not.
She had been dreaming of something.
Something warm.
She couldn't remember the details now—only the feeling lingered, soft and pink around the edges.
Just as she rolled to her right, Shinobu nearly let out a shriek.
Two dark eyes stared back at her with innocent happiness, a small face inches from her own.
Naho grinned, lifting her tiny hand in greeting.
The girl must have been waiting there for some time—her cheeks were slightly flushed, her dark hair already neatly combed and tied with a crimson ribbon.
"Happy birthday, Shinobu-sama!" the five-year-old chirped, her voice barely above a whisper but brimming with excitement.
Shinobu shot upright in bed, one hand flying to her chest as she willed her startled heart to calm down.
Her sleeping yukata had twisted around her shoulders during the night, and she quickly adjusted it, buying herself a moment to compose her features.
"Ah... Naho!" She managed a smile, reaching out to stroke the girl's hair. The soft strands slipped through her fingers like water. "Thank you very much."
Naho beamed, leaning into the touch like a small cat.
"Kanae-sama said to wish you happy birthday first before anyone else could! So I came very early and waited very quietly!"
"That was very kind of you," Shinobu murmured, warmth blooming unexpectedly in her chest. "And very stealthy. I didn't hear you at all."
"I'm going to be a kunoichi someday!" Naho declared with absolute seriousness, puffing out her small chest.
Shinobu couldn't help the laugh that escaped her—soft and surprised, like she'd forgotten she was capable of it first thing in the morning.
"I don't doubt it for a moment."
From beyond the sliding door, the sounds of the mansion grew louder—the padding of feet, the distant clatter of preparations, Kanae's gentle voice giving instructions to someone.
The day was truly beginning now. Her birthday had officially arrived, whether she wanted it or not.
Naho scrambled to her feet, clearly remembering some instruction.
"Kanae-sama said to tell you that breakfast will be special today! And that you should wear the blue kimono because it's your favorite even though you never say it is!" She delivered this message in a rapid, rehearsed rush, then clamped both hands over her mouth as if she'd revealed a state secret.
Shinobu blinked. Her favorite? She didn't have a favorite. Did she?
"Tell Kanae I'll be there shortly," she said gently. "And thank you, Naho. For being my first visitor."
Naho's entire face lit up. She bowed quickly—almost tipping over in her enthusiasm—before scurrying toward the door.
Just before sliding it open, she paused and looked back.
"Shinobu-sama? I hope you have the bestest birthday ever!"
Then she was gone, the door sliding shut behind her with a soft click.
Shinobu sat alone in the growing light, her hand still raised where it had rested on Naho's head.
Outside, she could hear the girl's excited footsteps pattering down the hallway, undoubtedly racing to report the success of her mission to Kanae.
The morning passed quietly after the initial surprise.
Kanae and Aoi had prepared an absurd amount of food.
There was sekihan—red rice, festive and celebratory—alongside ama-zuke shōga, pickled ginger with just the right balance of sweet and sharp, and enough onigiri to feed a small army.
The rice balls sat in neat rows on wooden platters, some filled with umeboshi, others with salted salmon, their nori wrappers glistening faintly in the morning light.
Kanao was the first to approach Shinobu when she entered the dining hall.
The younger girl executed a small, precise bow—perfectly practiced—and when she straightened, something rare flickered across her features.
A smile.
Barely there, hesitant, as if her lips weren't quite sure how to form it. But it was there.
The faintest ghost of warmth that Shinobu made sure to memorize, to hold somewhere safe.
"Happy birthday, Shinobu-sama," Kanao said softly. The words were deliberate, carefully chosen, each syllable placed with the precision of someone still learning the rhythm of human connection.
Shinobu's heart squeezed.
Kanae, she thought. Her sister must have spent hours this morning—hours—explaining what a birthday was, why it mattered, helping Kanao select the right words, practicing the delivery until it felt natural.
Or at least until it felt possible.
That was why Kanae hadn't been the first to greet her this morning.
Shinobu smiled, reaching out to gently touch Kanao's shoulder. "Thank you, Kanao. That means a great deal to me."
Kanao's eyes widened slightly—just a fraction—before she nodded and stepped back, retreating to her usual spot near the corner of the room where she could observe without being the center of attention.
Shinobu settled onto her cushion, surveying the feast before her with a mixture of amusement and exasperation.
The table groaned under the weight of it all.
Plates and bowls covered every available surface, steam still rising from the rice, the pickles glistening like jewels.
"Why so much food, hmm?" she questioned, glancing pointedly at her sister. "There's no way the seven of us can finish all of this."
Even with the recent additions to the mansion—Naho, Kiyo and Sumi—the math simply didn't add up.
Kanae settled across from her, serene and unbothered, pouring tea with deliberate grace.
"Who said anything about us finishing it?"
Shinobu's chopsticks paused halfway to a piece of tamagoyaki.
"You invited people."
It wasn't a question.
____________
The moment Mitsuri appeared at the mansion's entrance, something strange stirred in Shinobu's chest.
Her eyes traced the pink-haired girl's every movement without permission—the way she paused to bow politely at the threshold, the soft swing of her distinctive braids, the brightness of her smile as she took in the gathered group.
Shinobu's palms grew damp against the fabric of her kimono.
Her heartbeat swelled in her ears until it was all she could hear, as if every part of her was sounding an alarm—warning, warning, something inevitable is approaching.
Mitsuri greeted everyone with her characteristic warmth, but something was different. She moved more carefully than usual, her usual boundless energy tempered into something almost shy.
When her gaze finally found Shinobu's across the room, she smiled and Shinobu noticed her hands were clasped tightly around something.
"Shinobu-chan." Mitsuri's voice was uncharacteristically quiet as she approached. "Happy birthday."
The way she said it—tentative, hopeful, like she was offering something fragile—made Shinobu's chest ache in ways she couldn't name.
"Thank you very much, Mitsuri-san." Shinobu inclined her head gracefully, then added, softer than she intended: "I'm grateful you came."
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught her sister's serene expression.
Kanae's smile held just a fraction too much innocence, which meant she was absolutely responsible for whatever was happening.
Shinobu filed that away for later discussion.
As if responding to some unspoken signal, the younger girls began drifting away from the table.
Naho suddenly remembered she needed to show Kiyo something immediately.
Sumi announced she should help Aoi with dishes—a task she'd never volunteered for in her life.
Even Kanao, after a meaningful glance from Kanae, quietly excused herself.
Kanae rose last, placing a gentle hand on Shinobu's shoulder as she passed.
"Don't let the tea get cold," she murmured, and then she was gone too, sliding the door partially closed behind her.
Suddenly, they were alone.
Mitsuri shifted on her cushion, fidgeting with the object in her hands.
"I wasn't really sure what you might like as a gift..." She trailed off, her cheeks flushing prettily.
"I wanted to get you something perfect, but I didn't want to ask anyone because it felt like it should be my idea, you know? But then I kept second-guessing everything and Kyojuro-san was not helpful because he just kept yelling about how ANY gift from the HEART is MAGNIFICENT, which—I mean, he's not wrong, but—" She cut herself off with a small laugh. "I'm rambling. Sorry."
Shinobu smiled—genuinely, without reservation. She reached across the table, just slightly. "You don't need to bring anything. Your presence is enough."
It was true.
Birthdays weren't about gifts in the Kochou household. But Mitsuri looked so hopeful, so eager, her entire being radiating the desire to give something meaningful.
Shinobu found she couldn't bear to dim that light.
"Here." Mitsuri finally extended her hands, placing two items on the table between them. "I hope you like it. Them. I hope you like them."
Shinobu's eyes widened.
In her palms rested a bracelet—intricately woven, delicate, clearly handmade.
The pattern alternated between deep purple and warm brown, tiny hearts worked into the design with painstaking care.
Each heart was perfectly formed, impossibly small, a testament to hours of focused effort.
Beside it lay a handkerchief.
Pale pink, soft as cherry blossoms, with characters embroidered neatly in one corner. Shinobu traced the thread with her fingertip, reading the name written there in beautiful script:
胡蝶 しのぶ
Kochou Shinobu.
Her name. Embroidered by Mitsuri's hand.
"I know it's probably silly," Mitsuri rushed to fill the silence, her voice carrying an edge of nervousness.
"The handkerchief, I mean. You probably have hundreds. But I thought—I hoped—maybe you could carry it with you? And whenever you used it, you'd know someone was thinking of you? Even when you're working hard or fighting or just having a difficult day? And the bracelet—I wasn't sure about the colors, but I remembered you wore purple that one time and it looked really beautiful, and brown because it's warm like—like—"
She stopped, flustered, pressing her hands to her warm cheeks. "I'm making this weird. I'm sorry. I just wanted you to feel special. Because you are special. To me."
Silence settled between them.
Shinobu stared at the gifts.
At the tiny hearts, each one a small piece of Mitsuri's time, her attention, her affection.
She blinked rapidly.
"Shinobu-chan?" Mitsuri's voice was small, uncertain.
"I love it."
The words came out thick, rough around the edges.
Shinobu cleared her throat, willing herself to maintain composure.
When she looked up, her violet eyes were bright but she didn't look away.
"I love them," she repeated, stronger this time. She picked up the bracelet, turning it over in her fingers. "You made this?"
"Yeah..." Mitsuri admitted sheepishly.
"My fingers hurt a little at first but I got faster! Kyojuro-san kept yelling encouragement from the other side of the wall which was not helpful for concentration but very on-brand for him, and Shinjuro-kun tried to help by holding the thread but he fell asleep halfway through and I didn't have the heart to move him so he just... stayed there. On my floor. For like three hours."
A laugh escaped Shinobu—wet, surprised, genuine.
She pressed her free hand to her mouth, but more laughter followed, bubbling up from somewhere deep she hadn't known existed.
Mitsuri stared at her, transfixed.
"I'm sorry," Shinobu gasped between laughs. "I'm not—this isn't—three hours? He just slept on your floor?"
"Kids do that!" Mitsuri defended, but she was laughing too now, the tension between them dissolving into shared warmth. "I couldn't wake him up! He looked so peaceful!"
They laughed together.
Finally, gradually, they quieted.
Shinobu looked down at the bracelet still in her hands.
Slowly, deliberately, she fastened it around her left wrist.
The weave was soft against her skin, warm from her touch. Purple and brown.
"There." She held up her wrist, showing it off with a small, genuine smile. "Perfect fit."
Mitsuri's entire face lit up like sunrise. "Really? It's comfortable? Not too tight? I was worried about the size because I couldn't exactly measure your wrist without making it obvious and—"
"It's perfect, Mitsuri." Shinobu cut her off gently. "Truly."
She folded the handkerchief carefully, reverently, and tucked it into the sleeve of her kimono.
Close to her heart.
"Mitsuri." Shinobu's voice was quiet, but steady. "Thank you."
Mitsuri's smile finally bloomed into something enormous—one of those smiles that required her whole body to express, her arms shooting up in triumphant celebration.
"I'm so happy!"
Shinobu watched her for a moment, something warm and unfamiliar settling in her chest.
Then, almost without thinking, a quiet idea began to form.
She knew exactly where the handkerchief belonged.
"I have an idea," she murmured, already rising. "Follow me, Mitsuri-san."
They slipped out of the dining hall and navigated the left corridor of the mansion, their footsteps soft against the polished wood.
Shinobu paused at a particular sliding door, glancing back at Mitsuri with something almost like shyness.
"This is my room," she said quietly, and slid the door open.
Mitsuri's eyes widened as she stepped inside, her gaze sweeping across the space with open curiosity.
The room was modest but elegant—a low writing desk near the window, a simple futon rolled neatly in the corner, a small alcove displaying a single iris in a ceramic vase.
Books stacked with precision.
Mitsuri clasped both hands behind her back, suddenly aware she was somewhere private. Somewhere intimate.
Her cheeks warmed, but she couldn't stop looking.
"What are you thinking?" she asked, curiosity getting the better of her.
Shinobu moved to the corner where her katana rested on its stand. She lifted the weapon with careful reverence, then reached into her sleeve and produced the pink handkerchief.
A triumphant smile—small but genuine—curved her lips.
"Since we have new katanas," she explained, her voice carrying a note of playful mystery, "I thought I might show off a little."
Mitsuri watched, as Shinobu positioned the handkerchief against the hilt of her blade.
With deliberate care, she tied it there—once, twice, pulling each knot snug to ensure it wouldn't come loose.
The pale pink fabric stood out beautifully against the dark wrapping of the tsuka.
When she finished, Shinobu lifted the katana, holding it horizontally before her.
The blade caught the light filtering through the paper screens, and the handkerchief fluttered gently.
"There," she said softly. "Perfect."
Mitsuri pressed both hands to her chest, her heart threatening to escape entirely.
Shinobu was carrying her gift into battle.
"I'll think of you," Shinobu continued, almost to herself, her violet eyes fixed on the handkerchief, "every time I draw this blade. Every time I fight. Every time I return it to its stand." She finally looked up, meeting Mitsuri's gaze directly. "You'll be with me. Always."
The words hung between them, heavy with meaning neither of them dared name.
Mitsuri's eyes grew bright.
"Shinobu-chan..."
The words hung between them, heavy with meaning.
Then Shinobu's expression shifted—a spark of mischief replacing the earlier vulnerability.
She tilted her chin up, fixing Mitsuri with a look of exaggerated haughtiness.
"Not that you get any say in where I put it," she added, her tone teasing. "It's my gift now. I could tie it to my sandal if I wanted to."
Mitsuri blinked, then laughed, delighted by the sudden playfulness. "I would never dream of telling the great Kochou Shinobu what to do with her belongings!"
"Good." Shinobu sniffed primly, but the corner of her mouth twitched. "Because if you tried, I'd have to—"
She never finished the threat.
Mitsuri stepped forward, gently poking her cheek.
"You'd have to what? Hmm? Sting me with your bee stingers?"
"I don't have stingers, I have a blade, and it's right here—" Shinobu gestured with the katana, still holding it, which made the motion awkward and clumsy rather than threatening.
Mitsuri dissolved into giggles. "You look like you're trying to threaten me with a very fancy stick!"
"This is NOT a stick! This is a precision instrument of—" Shinobu tried to maintain her indignant expression, but Mitsuri's laughter was infectious.
A snort escaped her.
Then another.
Soon she was laughing too, the katana lowering as she pressed her free hand to her mouth.
"You're ridiculous," she managed between giggles.
"You're the one who tied a handkerchief to her sword!"
"It's a fashion statement!"
They laughed until tears pricked at Shinobu's eyes, until she had to set the katana carefully against the wall so she wouldn't drop it.
Mitsuri swayed closer, still chuckling, and Shinobu found herself leaning into her warmth without thinking.
Mitsuri finally pulled back just enough to look at Shinobu's face, her arm still draped comfortably across her shoulders.
A mischievous glint sparked in her eyes.
"Hey, Shinobu-chan," she began, her tone deliberately casual. "Since you have your new katana all decorated now... want to practice with it? Train with me?"
Shinobu tilted her head, considering the question. Then her expression flickered—something shuttering behind her eyes before she could hide it.
"It would be pointless," she admitted quietly.
Mitsuri's playful smile faltered. "Pointless? What do you mean?"
The memory of their last training session, just two days ago, surfaced between them.
"Did something happen?" Mitsuri pressed gently, her voice losing its teasing edge.
"At the end of our last sparring match, you seemed... different. Quieter than usual. Was it because I hit you too hard? I keep thinking maybe I really did hurt you and you just didn't want to say—"
"No." Shinobu cut her off, perhaps too quickly. She looked away, her profile sharp against the afternoon light filtering through the paper screens. "You didn't hurt me. That's not—" She stopped, swallowed. "It's not about that."
"Then what is it?"
Silence stretched between them.
Shinobu's voice, when it finally came, was barely above a whisper. "Training with me wouldn't help you anymore, Mitsuri. That's what I mean by pointless."
Mitsuri blinked, genuinely confused. "That doesn't make any sense. We've been training together for weeks. We've both improved—"
"You've improved," Shinobu corrected, still not meeting her eyes. "I've stayed the same. Maybe even fallen behind."
"Shinobu..."
"I'm too weak." The words came out flat, matter-of-fact, as if she were discussing the weather rather than exposing something raw beneath her ribs.
"You should train more with Kyojuro-san. With Kanae. With anyone who can actually push you further. If you keep training with me, you'll only..."
She trailed off, then forced herself to continue. "You'll only be held back."
Mitsuri stared at her, stunned into momentary silence.
Shinobu finally glanced up, and when she did, she was smiling.
A real smile—gentle, almost fond—which somehow made everything worse.
"You're so strong now, Mitsuri. I've watched you grow these past weeks. Your instincts, your reflexes, your power—it's incredible. You're going to be one of the strongest among us, I'm certain of it." Her smile softened further. "I'm proud of you. Truly."
Mitsuri's brow furrowed. Something hot and indignant sparked in her chest.
"That's—" She shook her head, pulling away slightly so she could face Shinobu directly. "That's not true. Any of it."
Shinobu's smile flickered. "Mitsuri—"
"Do you remember our first training session?" Mitsuri pressed on, her voice gaining strength.
"I could barely keep up with you. You were so fast I couldn't even see your strikes coming. Every time I thought I'd figured out your rhythm, you changed it. You pushed me so hard I could barely walk afterward."
Shinobu opened her mouth, but Mitsuri wasn't finished.
"And the session after that? And the one after that? Every single time, you challenged me. You made me better. You are making me better."
She reached out, catching Shinobu's hand before she could retreat further. "Kyojuro-san said we both improved during that match. Kanae-san said the same thing. Did you think they were lying?"
Shinobu's throat worked silently. "They were being kind—"
"They were being honest." Mitsuri squeezed her hand, firm and warm. "I know kindness. I know when someone is saying something just to make me feel better. That wasn't it. They meant what they said. I mean what I say."
Shinobu finally looked at her and something in her expression cracked, just slightly.
"Mitsuri, I—"
"You're not weak." Mitsuri's voice softened, but lost none of its conviction.
"You're one of the strongest people I know. Not just physically—though you are incredibly fast and precise and I still can't figure out how you move like that—but inside, too. The way you care about everyone in this mansion. The way you fight for people who can't fight for themselves. The way you keep going, every single day, even when..."
She trailed off, then pushed forward. "Even when it's hard. I see that."
Shinobu's breath caught. Her hand trembled slightly in Mitsuri's grip.
"I think of you as someone I want to be like," Mitsuri continued, her voice dropping to something almost shy.
"As a person. As a fighter. When I'm training, sometimes I think—what would Shinobu do? How would she move? How would she handle this? And it helps."
The words hung in the air between them, fragile and luminous.
Shinobu stared at her, violet eyes wide. Her lips parted, but no sound emerged. For once in her life, the sharp-tongued self had nothing to say.
Mitsuri waited, patient and warm, still holding her hand.
Shinobu's heart spiraled into chaos once more—there was simply too much happening in this single moment.
Mitsuri was watching her with that sincere, sweet smile, mere inches away, both of them seated on the floor of her room.
Shinobu couldn't even remember how they'd ended up in this position.
She was acutely aware of her palms growing damp again, and she thought about letting go of her friend's hands—but Mitsuri wouldn't allow it.
With an even shyer smile, the pink-haired girl squeezed their joined hands again.
Shinobu blinked. Her breath hitched, stuttered in her chest.
Everything was spinning—Mitsuri's encouraging words, her raw honesty, and the terror that flooded through her when she realized she was staring at her friend's lips without an ounce of shame.
Mitsuri didn't seem to notice.
Or maybe she was pretending not to.
Shinobu tilted her head slightly—a question.
Every nerve in her body screamed that surely, surely Mitsuri would pull away the moment she understood what was happening.
But Mitsuri didn't move away.
And that terrified her even more.
The space between them collapsed like a breath held too long.
Shinobu leaned in—slowly, carefully, giving Mitsuri every chance to retreat, to laugh, to turn this into something safe and forgivable.
But Mitsuri stayed perfectly still, her eyes wide and questioning, her lips parted just slightly as if she might speak.
She didn't speak.
And so Shinobu closed the distance.
The first contact was clumsy—inexperience guiding them both.
Their noses bumped, just slightly, and Shinobu felt Mitsuri's soft gasp against her mouth before their lips properly met.
It was tentative.
Two people who had read about kisses in stories but never practiced them.
Mitsuri's eyes flew open at the initial contact, surprise flickering through her gaze.
But even as shock registered, something else bloomed there—acceptance, wonder, a quiet oh that needed no words.
Her eyelids fluttered, then slowly drifted closed.
Shinobu's hands trembled in Mitsuri's grip. She didn't know where to put her lips, how much pressure to apply, whether this was right or wrong or something in between.
The kiss was soft, inexpert, lasting only seconds—a gentle press of mouth against mouth, exploration without map.
Mitsuri's lips were warm.
Softer than Shinobu had imagined in those private moments she'd never admit to.
They tasted faintly of the tea from breakfast, of something sweet and fundamentally Mitsuri.
For a few heartbeats, the world narrowed to this single point of contact.
Then reality rushed back in.
They broke apart simultaneously, as if pulled by the same invisible thread.
Shinobu's face burned—she could feel the heat crawling up her neck, across her cheeks, settling into her ears with mortifying intensity.
Mitsuri was no better; her entire complexion had shifted to a shade that rivaled her hair, her eyes wide and darting anywhere but at Shinobu.
The silence between them was deafening.
Shinobu's lips tingled. She pressed her free hand to them without thinking, then immediately wished she hadn't, because now Mitsuri was looking at that hand, and oh no, this was—
"I—" Mitsuri started.
"We shouldn't—" Shinobu began at the exact same moment.
They both stopped. The silence returned, somehow even louder than before.
Mitsuri's hands were still holding Shinobu's.
Neither of them had let go.
Outside, the mansion continued its peaceful rhythm—distant footsteps, muffled conversations, the ordinary sounds of life moving forward.
Shinobu's heart hammered so violently she was certain Mitsuri must feel it through their joined palms.
She forced herself to look up, to meet those emerald eyes she'd somehow become addicted to without noticing.
Mitsuri was staring at her like she'd never seen her before.
"That was..." Mitsuri's voice came out breathless, barely above a whisper.
"I know," Shinobu replied, equally quiet.
"Did you—was that—"
"Yes."
Mitsuri's blush deepened impossibly further. "Oh."
More silence. More shared heat. More of that terrible, wonderful tension winding between them like silk.
Finally, Mitsuri let out a small, nervous laugh. "I don't really know how to do that. The... the kissing thing. I've never—"
"Neither have I." Shinobu's admission was soft, almost shy. "It probably wasn't very good. I'm sorry if—"
"No!" Mitsuri's denial came quickly, her hands tightening around Shinobu's.
"No, it was—I mean, I don't have anything to compare it to, but—" She ducked her head, a strand of pink hair falling across her burning cheek. "I liked it. That it was you. That it was... us."
Shinobu's breath caught.
Us.
The word settled somewhere deep in her chest, warm and terrifying and precious.
"We should probably..." She gestured vaguely at the door, at the mansion beyond, at the world waiting for them.
"Probably," Mitsuri agreed. But neither of them moved.
They sat there in the fading afternoon light, hands still intertwined, faces still flushed, neither willing to be the first to break whatever spell had settled over them.
Eventually—seconds or minutes or hours later, Shinobu couldn't say—Mitsuri squeezed her hands one more time and finally, reluctantly, began to stand.
"I should... go. Before someone comes looking." She tugged Shinobu gently upward, helping her rise from the floor.
They stood close, too close, the memory of those brief seconds still burning between them.
At the door, Mitsuri paused. She turned back, her expression a mixture of shyness and something braver.
Shinobu's heart hadn't settled—probably wouldn't settle for the next decade, if ever. She stood frozen near the center of her room, watching Mitsuri hesitate at the door like she might turn back at any moment, like she might stay.
"Shinobu-chan?"
The question was soft, uncertain. Shinobu's pulse skyrocketed again.
"Yes?!" The word came out too fast, too eager. She felt heat crawl up her neck.
Mitsuri's cheeks were still that beautiful shade of pink, her green eyes darting anywhere but directly at Shinobu. She gripped the door frame like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
"...Same time tomorrow?"
Shinobu's breath caught.
Same time tomorrow?
The words echoed in her mind, layered with meaning.
Same time. Tomorrow. Here.
In this room. Just the two of them.
Doing... what they'd just done.
Her lips still tingled from the memory. Her hands still remembered the warmth of Mitsuri's grip.
Her heart was staging a full rebellion in her chest.
She wants—she wants to—again—
Shinobu's mouth opened before her brain could catch up.
"Yes."
The word was quiet. Firm.
Mitsuri's eyes finally met hers, wide with surprise—and something else. Something that made Shinobu's knees weak.
Then Mitsuri's entire face cycled through approximately seventeen shades of red in two seconds flat.
"F-FOR TRAINING!" Mitsuri practically shouted, waving her free hand frantically. "I MEANT FOR TRAINING! TOGETHER! WITH OUR KATANAS! THE WOODEN ONES! IN THE YARD! WITH KANAE-SAN PROBABLY YELLING IN THE BACKGROUND! NOT—NOT THAT—I MEAN, NOT THAT I WOULDN'T—BUT I MEAN—FOR TRAINING!"
Her voice climbed higher with each word until she was almost squeaking, both hands now pressed to her blazing cheeks.
Shinobu blinked.
Then blinked again.
Oh.
Oh no.
She meant training. Actual training.
And I just—
"YES," Shinobu said again, even faster this time, her own face now matching Mitsuri's shade of crimson. "FOR TRAINING. THAT'S WHAT I—OF COURSE THAT'S WHAT I—I KNEW YOU MEANT TRAINING. OBVIOUSLY. TRAINING. YES."
She was nodding. Too vigorously. She could feel how vigorously she was nodding and couldn't stop.
Mitsuri stared at her.
Shinobu stared back.
The silence stretched, filled with mutual embarrassment and the lingering ghost of lips that had met far too briefly.
Then Mitsuri made a sound—something between a giggle and a squeak—and suddenly they were both laughing.
Not gracefully, not elegantly, but the way young people laugh when they've survived something terrifying and wonderful and don't know what else to do with the feeling.
"Training," Mitsuri repeated, still giggling. "Tomorrow. Same time."
"Training," Shinobu confirmed, a helpless smile breaking through her embarrassment. "Tomorrow. Same time."
Mitsuri nodded, still pink, still radiant. She slid the door open just enough to slip through, then paused one final time.
"Shinobu-chan?"
"Yes?"
"...I'm glad it was you tho."
The door closed before Shinobu could respond.
She stood alone in her room, surrounded by afternoon light and the echo of those words.
Slowly, she raised her hand to her lips—still warm, still tingling—and let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
Tomorrow. Same time.
For training.
...Probably.
Her heart didn't care about the clarification. It was already counting the hours.
____________
Mitsuri burst through the mansion gate at a near-run.
Her crow soared overhead, cawing what sounded suspiciously like laughter—as if the wretched bird found her predicament absolutely delightful.
Mitsuri's feet flew across the courtyard, scrambling over the stone path.
On the engawa steps sat Kyojuro and Senjuro, the brothers pausing mid-conversation as she approached.
Two wooden katanas rested beside them, evidence of recent training.
Senjuro still held a rice cracker in one small hand, frozen halfway to his mouth.
Mitsuri also registered Tengen Uzui lounging against the wall nearby, his arms crossed and an amused smirk playing on his lips—clearly entertained by whatever Kyojuro had been enthusiastically declaring before her arrival.
All three men stopped talking the moment they saw her.
She stood two steps from the entrance, her face burning so intensely it must have been visible from space.
Her complexion had shifted to a shade that rivaled the sekihan from breakfast.
"Mitsuri-san!" Kyojuro's voice boomed with his characteristic enthusiasm. "Did Shinobu like the gift?!"
The gift, the handkerchief and the bracelet.
The way Shinobu had tied pink fabric to her katana like a vow.
The way they'd sat on the floor, hands intertwined.
The way Shinobu had leaned in—
The way their lips had met—
A strangled sound escaped Mitsuri's throat.
Without a word, without explanation, she pivoted and flew through the mansion entrance, her sandals slipping against the wood as she disappeared inside.
A small, high-pitched squeal echoed behind her.
Senjuro blinked. His rice cracker finally reached his mouth, but he chewed without tasting it, utterly bewildered.
Kyojuro turned to his brother, then to Tengen, then back to the empty doorway where Mitsuri had vanished.
"...Was it something I said?" he asked, genuinely confused.