She had lost.
There was no doubt. The strike had come faster than thought, the blunt back of his blade brushing her throat before her fingers even found her hilt. It had not been a contest. It had been a lesson so she honored it.
“I don’t like oily food,” she said, without turning back, her voice low and soft—like a lullaby.
The scent of earth and fermented things lingered behind her. Aichi's footsteps followed, heavier, but still quiet. He no longer carried the illusion of clumsy drunkenness. That mask had been cast off with a single motion of his blade.
Tsuki didn’t speak again for a while. Her gaze was distant, fixed ahead toward the faint outline of the village, her expression unreadable beneath half-lidded eyes. Her breath was slow, measured and calm.
She wasn’t angry, it was natural. She was weak, he was strong. Instead, she was curious.
“I’ve seen men like you before,” she said eventually, barely more than a murmur. “But only at the end. On battlefields. At deathbeds. They always came too late. Or too early.”
A mushroom sprouted from the curve of her collarbone, small and luminous, opening in the cool evening air. She did not acknowledge it. They bloomed when they were ready.
She walked with a grace that made her seem more like a spirit, her steps were too quiet, her presence too soft for someone wearing iron.
“I’m only going with you,” she said, pausing to look back at him, “because you struck first and I honor my agreements.”
Her eyes, dull green and strangely deep, fixed on him without emotion—without accusation. There was no bitterness in her voice. Only truth.
“I agreed to listen. So I will.”
She turned and began walking again, humming lowly under her breath. The tune had no words. But it made the mushrooms on her back sway gently, like children rocked to sleep.
Spores drifted behind her, disappearing into the wind.
Word countShow
440
