Aoi knew before she saw them.
The land told her—not with words, but with resistance. A subtle drag in the air. A place where the cold settled too neatly, smoothed over by foreign intent.
She paused on the outer path, boot resting on packed snow, and let her breath fog once.
Too even.
Mist shinobi masked their chakra well, but they couldn't mask how they treated the environment. They observed from above. From a distance. From positions that assumed the land was neutral.
It wasn't.
She continued walking, unhurried, as if inspecting a seal line that didn't exist. Her chakra stayed compressed, disciplined—no flares, no tells.
Count them, she told herself.
One to the east, high.
One lower, southwest, rotating position.
At least three further back, overlapping lines.
A net, loosely cast.
They weren't hunting yet.
They were listening.
Aoi stopped at the ridge and knelt, brushing a thin layer of snow aside with her fingers. Beneath it, ice etched with old clan markings caught the pale light. Not a seal. A reminder.
She pressed her palm to it.
The cold responded.
Not violently. Not defensively.
The temperature across the slope shifted by a fraction—barely measurable, but enough to upset delicate calibrations. Snow softened where sensors would be planted. Wind altered its path just enough to introduce noise.
Aoi rose and continued.
Behind her, a Mist observer frowned as his readings blurred.
"Interference," he muttered into his bead.
Aoi didn't smile.
She turned her head just enough that her gaze swept across the treeline where she knew someone was watching. Her eyes did not linger. She offered no challenge.
Just acknowledgment.
I know you're here.
I am letting you stay.
She returned to the compound as evening settled in, posture relaxed, movements ordinary. Inside, she found Shigen seated near the window, stretching his fingers carefully.
"You're walking too much," he said without looking up.
"They're close," she replied.
That got his attention.
"Mist?"
"Yes."
"How many?"
"Enough."
He exhaled slowly. "That bad?"
"They aren't here to strike," Aoi said. "They're here to decide if striking is worth it."
Shigen leaned back, eyes shadowed. "And your verdict?"
"They already have one," she said. "They just haven't written it yet."
Outside, snow continued to fall—patient, unbroken.
Aoi stood near the window, watching it drift past the dark.
The land remembered her.
The watchers did too.
And the longer they remained, the more inevitable the next move became—not from her, but from those who mistook stillness for weakness.