The wisteria trees were heavy with bloom, their violet clusters drooping like quiet bells above the courtyard. Lanterns trembled in the evening wind, scattering petals across the gravel. Every footstep sounded hushed, as if even the stones knew this night would bind fates.
I stood among a row of girls dressed in pale silks, our breaths shallow behind veils. None of us had chosen to be here. The Ubuyashiki family had summoned us by letter—polite, unbending ink promising honor in exchange for obedience.
Tonight, each Hashira would take a bride.
"Keep your head bowed," an attendant whispered. Her voice quivered despite the careful stillness of her posture. "Don't stare when they enter. It's considered… disrespectful."
I nodded, fingers tightening around the hem of my sleeve. The silk felt cool, almost damp, against my skin. Wisteria perfume wrapped the air until breathing it felt like swallowing clouds.
A bell tolled once, soft and far away. The music stopped.
They were here.
One by one, the Hashira stepped beneath the trellis lights. I'd seen sketches of them before—heroes drawn with reverent hands—but reality made the air itself shift. Rengoku's fiery mane, Giyuu's quiet composure, Sanemi's sharp grin like a blade catching sun. Each was followed by the faint scrape of sandals, each presence changing the temperature around them.
Then came him.
Muichiro Tokito.
The Mist Hashira moved as if carried by the air rather than walking through it. His haori trailed faintly, pale at the edges, and his eyes—green tinged with blue—didn't settle anywhere for long. He seemed lost in thought or maybe in some place beyond sight. While others bowed to Master Ubuyashiki, Muichiro's head tilted slightly, as though he were listening to something only he could hear.
When his gaze swept across the brides, it brushed over me like wind through reeds—barely there, yet enough to raise every fine hair on my arms. I didn't know if he had truly seen me.
Still, my pulse stumbled.
Master Ubuyashiki took his seat. The lamps behind him formed halos around the scars on his face. "Tonight," he said, voice soft enough that silence had to lean closer to catch it, "we celebrate both courage and continuity. The pillars who hold our world must not stand alone forever. In unity, there is strength—and remembrance."
Remembrance.
The word rippled through the courtyard like distant thunder.
He gestured to the attendants. They carried forward a tray holding folded slips of parchment, each marked with ink symbols. Fate reduced to paper.
The first name was called, then another. Applause rose politely with each pairing, though the brides' smiles trembled at the edges. Some Hashira accepted their chosen partners with gentle nods, others with visible reluctance. My turn crept nearer, heartbeat syncing with the rhythm of names.
"Tokito Muichiro," the master murmured.
The Mist Hashira stepped forward, expression unreadable. For a moment, he simply stared at the tray—as if deciphering the ink itself. Then his eyes drifted upward, slow as mist curling toward dawn.
They stopped on me.
The world held its breath.
He didn't ask questions, didn't request a different name. He only said, quiet but firm,
"This one."
The hall stilled. I felt the weight of a hundred stares. The attendant beside me nudged gently, urging me to step forward.
I did.
My legs moved though my mind lagged behind, every heartbeat echoing in my ears. The gravel underfoot seemed louder than it should have been. When I reached him, I lowered myself into a bow.
Muichiro studied me in silence. His eyes were impossibly clear—like still water concealing unfathomable depth. Then he turned away, speaking only to the master.
"It is decided."
No smile. No warmth. Just a simple statement that sealed a future I hadn't imagined.
The ceremony dissolved into hushed conversation and clinking cups. The wisteria petals continued to fall, drifting onto hair and shoulders like small decrees. I stood aside, numb fingers clasped before me.
"You'll live at the Mist Estate starting tomorrow," an attendant informed me, eyes carefully averted. "You'll receive instructions at dawn."
"Tomorrow?" I echoed.
She nodded. "The Hashira leave early. Travel arrangements are already prepared."
Her words blurred together after that. Somewhere behind us, Muichiro was speaking with another swordsman, his tone even, distant. He didn't glance my way again.
When the guests began to depart, I lingered beneath the trees. Lanternlight pooled across the stones like spilled honey. I pressed a petal between my palms and tried to imagine the life that awaited beyond the mountains—fog, silence, a stranger bound to me by duty.
A second bell rang in the distance.
Yet when I looked toward the path where Muichiro had disappeared, the mist there already seemed thicker, as if claiming him back.
Dawn arrived pale and metallic. The estate provided a small carriage, its wood lacquered and faintly perfumed. I climbed inside with a satchel of clothes and little else. The driver bowed once. We set off before the sun cleared the horizon.
The city fell away quickly, replaced by forests that deepened into endless shades of green. Dew beaded on the window like breath. Now and then I caught glimpses of crows following us, black commas in a white sky.
Hours passed. The road grew narrower, mist rising from unseen rivers until the world itself blurred. When the carriage stopped, I realized we'd reached the base of a mountain.
"The Mist Estate," the driver said, sliding open the door. His voice dropped to a respectful whisper. "He awaits near the gate."
I stepped out. Cool air struck first—sharp, clean, threaded with pine. The estate stretched upward along stone terraces, roofs curved like wings. Wisteria hung here too, though paler, nearly silver in the dim light.
Muichiro stood near the entrance path, hands folded inside his sleeves. He didn't look at me immediately. The faint white breath escaping his lips made him seem half ghost, half boy.
"Follow," he said simply, turning before I could answer.
I obeyed, sandals whispering against stone. The quiet was immense—no servants bustling, no birds. Only the sigh of mist brushing wooden railings. The deeper we went, the more the world felt suspended, detached from time.
He stopped before a small house tucked beside a koi pond. The door slid open at his touch. Inside: tatami mats, a futon, a single lantern, a folded robe. Sparse to the point of austerity.
"This will be yours," he said.
I bowed lightly. "Thank you."
He regarded me for a heartbeat longer than politeness required. "Do you have questions?"
Dozens, but none that would find answers yet.
"Only one," I managed. "Why me?"
His lashes lowered. "The wisteria chose." Then, almost as if correcting himself, "Perhaps I did. I'm not sure."
The admission startled me more than any clear answer might have. He stepped back into the corridor before silence could swallow us completely.
"Rest," he murmured. "The mountain fog thickens after nightfall. Don't wander."
And he was gone, footsteps dissolving like rain.
Evening found me kneeling by the open window. Mist drifted through the slats, cool and damp on my skin. Somewhere below, water trickled over stones—a sound steady enough to measure thoughts by.
I unpacked my satchel, folding garments into a neat pile. Beneath them lay the hair ribbon my mother had tied the morning I left. I wound it once around my fingers, the color of faded plum, and set it beside the futon. The lantern burned low.
Outside, the forest sighed.
Then—soft, almost imperceptible—a bell chimed.
Once.
Twice.
The sound came not from the village below nor any temple I knew of. It seemed to rise from the mist itself, thin as breath. I crossed to the window and peered out. The courtyard was empty. The gate remained closed.
Still, the bell's echo lingered long after the sound died, curling into the corners of the room like invisible smoke.
I closed the window and lay down, but sleep clung warily to the edges of consciousness. Every time I began to drift, I thought I heard footsteps outside, slow and measured, stopping just beyond the door.
When I opened my eyes again, dawn light had already slipped across the tatami. The air smelled faintly of rain. I rose and slid the door open.
The corridor was empty.
Only a single wisteria petal lay near the threshold—frozen in dew as if someone had placed it there deliberately.