She moved her fingers first.
Stiff, slow, numb — but alive.
The coarse linen blanket lay heavy on her body, stitched with symbols of protection by Yoshinobu's trembling hands. Her breath, shallow and even, formed pale mist in the chill air. She opened her eyes. The ceiling of the old hunter's hut was patched with soot, beams blackened from an old fire that never quite died.
The silence felt sacred.
"Asaki."
The name was spoken softly. A voice like quiet gravel over wood — Ishikawa.
She turned her head. He sat near the hearth, arms crossed, eyes sunken from sleepless nights. The flicker of firelight painted him in shadow, silver dusting his temple and jaw.
"You shouldn't be up yet."
She sat anyway.
Pain crackled down her spine like dry lightning. Her ribs protested. Her right arm — the one that had first lifted Kiyoku in defiance of death — trembled under her weight. Still, she rose.
"I'm not dead."
"You should be," Ishikawa replied, his tone dry, but the edge behind it was real. "You used Shikkiri for the first time. That's not something people wake up from."
Asaki said nothing.
Instead, she glanced around. The hut was unchanged. Straw bedding. A few herbs hanging from the rafters. Yoshinobu was outside, tending to the coals and muttering softly to himself. And there, by the door, resting against its scabbard, was Kiyoku.
Her blade.
Her mirror.
She reached for it.
"Don't," Ishikawa said.
But her fingers were already brushing the sheath. A soft hum stirred the air, like wind across a frozen lake.
Kiyoku.
Even at rest, the sword shimmered. The pale steel pulsed faintly, as though it still breathed. The silver veins down its center glowed with a light not of fire, but of memory.
She touched it.
And in that moment, she heard her name whispered through snow.
She exhaled.
Ishikawa stood. His voice was quieter now, gentler. "You're pushing yourself too fast."
"I don't have time," Asaki replied, sliding her legs off the bedding. "Hayate is still alive. So is Jin. Aizu is bleeding under their boots."
Yoshinobu entered, stamping snow from his sandals. He paused mid-step when he saw her upright.
"You're… awake?"
"She shouldn't be," Ishikawa muttered.
"I'm fine," Asaki said, slowly rising to her feet.
"You're not fine," Ishikawa snapped. "You tore your spirit wide open calling on Shikkiri. That sword — Kiyoku — isn't a toy. It's alive. It's older than all of us. You barely survived binding to it."
"I did more than survive," she said coldly. "I awakened it."
Ishikawa stared at her.
Yoshinobu tried to interject with a chuckle. "She's got her fire back."
But Ishikawa wasn't smiling.
She turned away from them both, stepping toward the door, wrapping her scarf tighter around her neck.
"I'm going to Aizu. To the capital. Hayate is there. So is Jin."
"No, you're not," Ishikawa said flatly.
She paused.
"What?"
"You're not ready. You think because you won once, you're untouchable now?" he stepped forward, eyes sharp. "You barely survived Kabu."
"And I killed him."
"You got lucky."
She turned, slowly. Her face was pale from healing, but her eyes burned with quiet intensity. "It wasn't luck. It was resolve. That man murdered children. Sold bodies to the Black Guard. You hesitated. I didn't."
His jaw clenched.
"Every time you draw that sword," he said, "you get a little colder."
"I'm focused."
"No — you're numb."
Asaki held his gaze. "You're afraid."
"Of what?"
"That I'm becoming better than you."
He exhaled sharply through his nose. "I'm afraid you're becoming him. Takayasu. Nakajima. All those killers who stopped feeling."
"I feel just fine," she said. "But I refuse to pity men who live off suffering."
Ishikawa's voice dropped to a near whisper.
"And when you've killed them all… what then, Asaki?"
She looked at Kiyoku.
The sword hummed again, faintly.
She whispered, "Then I find peace."
---
Later, beneath the pines, snow fell.
Yoshinobu stood near the fire, watching her retreating figure vanish into the mist. He didn't say a word. Only stirred the broth, as if it mattered anymore.
Ishikawa sat beside him. Silent.
"You can't stop her now," the old smith said after a while.
"I know," Ishikawa murmured.
"She's got that look."
"I saw it once before."
"Who?"
"My brother," Ishikawa said softly. "Before he left for the last war. Same eyes. Same calm. He never came back."
---
To be continued...