The summons came at sunrise.
A messenger crow landed on the veranda, shaking the mist from its wings. A narrow scroll dangled from its leg, sealed with the Ubuyashiki crest.
"Training assembly," Muichiro said after reading it. His voice was calm, as if he'd expected this. "All Hashira. You'll attend."
"Me?"
He nodded once. "The brides are to observe. Some will participate."
The way he said some made me uneasy.
He turned to leave, pausing at the doorway. "Stay near me. Sanemi doesn't know how to hold back."
I frowned. "Hold back from what?"
His gaze flicked toward me — a flicker of something unreadable passing through those mist-colored eyes. "You'll see."
The training grounds sprawled beneath a wide stretch of sky. The morning sun hadn't burned the mist away yet, and the air shimmered faintly between warmth and chill. Hashira lined the field — Sanemi with his wild grin, Rengoku already radiating encouragement, Shinobu's polite smile hiding razor edges, and Giyuu standing off to the side like he'd rather dissolve into the trees.
Muichiro took his place among them without a word, movements precise as ever.
The brides stood in a cluster behind the line, murmuring nervously. I recognized a few faces from the ceremony, all bright silks and anxious hands.
When the master's attendant announced the start, Sanemi cracked his knuckles and grinned. "We're testing reflexes today," he said. "And discipline."
His eyes swept the line of brides until they landed on me. "Let's see if Mist's bride can stand without trembling."
A low ripple of laughter ran through some of the Hashira. Not cruel — just entertained.
Muichiro didn't move. He didn't even glance my way.
"Sanemi," Shinobu warned lightly, "try not to break another one. Last time, Himejima had to carry her to the infirmary."
Sanemi rolled his shoulders. "She'll be fine. I'll keep it educational."
He gestured toward the practice circle. "Come on then. Let's see what kind of spine the Mist picked."
I hesitated, glancing toward Muichiro. He didn't look at me, but his hand rested loosely on his sword — not threatening, just poised.
That, somehow, was enough courage to step forward.
The circle was marked with chalk and crushed gravel. My feet sank slightly into the soft earth. Sanemi towered in front of me, all sinew and scars, his grin sharp as a blade.
"Show me your stance," he said.
I mirrored the basic form Muichiro had shown me during observation: feet aligned, center balanced, hands raised defensively.
Sanemi snorted. "Pretty. But it won't save you."
He lunged.
The first strike was a blur — not a true hit, just a test of speed. I barely sidestepped, the air whistling beside my ear. My pulse kicked.
"Not bad," he said, circling. "Again."
He came faster this time. The world narrowed to movement and breath. I ducked under a swing, nearly lost my balance, then caught myself.
Shinobu's voice drifted faintly from the sidelines. "He's enjoying this too much."
"I told him to be gentle," Giyuu muttered.
Sanemi laughed and struck again, this time aiming low. The impact clipped my wrist before I could deflect. Pain flared sharp and hot.
I winced but didn't retreat.
That only seemed to encourage him.
"Good," he said. "Keep standing. The Mist better have picked someone worth keeping alive."
He drove forward, relentless. Dust rose around us, sunlight breaking through the mist in fractured beams. I could feel the other Hashira watching — curious, impassive, testing.
When his next blow came, my knees buckled. The staff knocked the breath from my lungs. I fell back hard, catching myself with scraped palms.
The world tilted.
Sanemi stepped closer, lowering his weapon just enough to tilt his head. "Done already?"
Before I could answer, a shadow crossed between us.
Muichiro.
He hadn't made a sound approaching. One moment I was staring at Sanemi's grin, the next I was staring at the back of Muichiro's haori — pale, flowing, marked by faint streaks of mist-colored light.
"Enough," he said quietly.
Sanemi blinked. "What?"
"She's not your opponent."
Sanemi scoffed. "She's the one who stepped in."
"She followed orders," Muichiro said evenly. "You, on the other hand, forgot them."
The tone wasn't loud, but it carried. The entire field stilled.
Sanemi's grin faded, replaced by something almost like amusement. "You planning to stop me, kid?"
Muichiro's hand never left his sword hilt. His expression didn't change, but the air thickened — heavy, cool, dense as fog rolling off a cliff.
"If I must."
The words were soft, but every syllable landed like a blade edge.
For a long moment, neither moved. Sanemi's grin twitched back into place. "Tch. You're no fun."
He stepped back, tossing his weapon onto the ground with a thud. "Fine. Take your bride. I'll find someone else who doesn't look like they'll faint."
He brushed past, and the tension broke like a wave.
Rengoku clapped once, voice bright as ever. "Splendid restraint, both of you! Truly the spirit of comradeship!"
Shinobu sighed behind her smile. "I'd call it something else."
Muichiro ignored them all. He turned, gaze falling on me.
"You're hurt," he said, noticing the scrape on my wrist.
"It's nothing."
He crouched, taking my hand before I could hide it. His fingers were cold, precise, brushing lightly over the reddened skin. "You should still treat it."
"I didn't ask you to—"
"You don't have to."
He rose, still holding my wrist loosely until I steadied myself. Then he released it, careful not to meet my eyes for too long.
"You stood your ground," he said quietly. "That's enough."
"That's not praise," I said before I could stop myself.
A faint exhale — not quite laughter. "I don't give praise. It makes people careless."
"Then why sound like you almost did?"
That earned me a glance — brief but sharper than any smile. "Maybe because you didn't fall apart."
His tone softened at the end, almost imperceptibly.
He turned to the others. "Training's over for her."
Shinobu tilted her head. "You're unusually talkative today, Tokito."
He didn't respond.
Later, back at the estate, I found him in the courtyard sharpening his blade beneath the fading light. The mist had returned, curling around the stones in ribbons.
I lingered near the doorway. "You didn't have to step in."
He didn't look up. "Yes, I did."
"Why?"
The whetstone paused. "Because he forgot she's not a soldier."
"She?"
His hand stilled completely. "You."
Something about the way he said it — quiet, deliberate — made my chest tighten.
I stepped closer. "You risked angering another Hashira."
"He'll live," Muichiro said simply. "He always does."
Silence stretched between us, filled only by the scrape of the whetstone resuming its rhythm.
After a moment, I asked softly, "Would you have really fought him?"
He didn't answer at once. Then, without looking up: "Yes."
"Even though he's stronger?"
That made him finally glance at me. His expression didn't change, but his eyes — pale, clear, unblinking — held an edge that could cut mist itself.
"Strength isn't measured by noise," he said. "Sanemi likes the sound of his own violence. I don't."
I sat down beside him, careful to leave space between us. "You make it sound simple."
"It is." His tone gentled. "You either protect what matters, or you don't."
"And do I… matter?"
The question slipped out before I could stop it.
He paused again, the faintest furrow in his brow. For a long time, he said nothing — the only sound the whisper of mist against stone, the slow rasp of the whetstone stopping midstroke.
Finally, his voice — quiet, fragile as breath:
"I don't know yet."
The honesty stung, but there was no cruelty in it. Only truth — the same truth that had followed him since the beginning.
He rose, sheathing his sword. "It's getting late."
"Will you keep watch again tonight?"
A flicker of hesitation. Then: "Yes."
"Because of the bell?"
"Because of you," he said softly.
He walked past me into the gathering fog, his silhouette fading until only the sound of his footsteps remained — slow, steady, unhurried.
And even when he was gone, the air where he'd stood still felt colder, heavier… but safe.