The wind rolled low through the hills east of Kyoto, carrying with it the sound of distant temple bells and the faint clang of steel. Asaki turned her head instinctively, sharp ears catching each chime. But beside her, it was Yumi who froze.
The girl's small fingers clenched the hem of her cloak. Her wide eyes, once filled with innocent wonder, now flicked back and forth as if searching for something not there—someone. A twitch ran through her jaw. Her lips parted.
"You alright, Yumi?" Asaki asked, kneeling beside her.
Yumi didn't answer.
Her eyes were locked toward the distant mountains, to a shadowed shrine nestled at their feet.
Then the bells tolled again.
And Yumi screamed.
---
That night, they camped near a hillside orchard, the branches heavy with dark plums. Sayaka prepared stew, her hands as methodical as ever, while Ishikawa stood off a short distance, gazing at the embers of their fire like a man waiting to be judged.
Yumi had stopped speaking. She sat under a willow tree, legs curled up, her forehead resting on her knees. Her breath was slow, steady. But Asaki hadn't missed the tremble in her spine earlier.
"She's been… off ever since we neared Kyoto," Asaki muttered, stirring the pot with a branch. "It's not just fear. Something's waking up in her."
Sayaka didn't reply. Not immediately. She sprinkled dried ginkgo into the broth and exhaled, deeply, like she'd been holding it for years.
"I was going to wait," she said softly. "But maybe it's time."
Asaki looked up. "Wait for what?"
Sayaka didn't meet her eyes.
"When Tomoie died… she wasn't alone."
Asaki's breath caught.
"You mean Ishikawa was with her?"
"No." Sayaka's voice tightened. "I mean… she was with child. Months along."
The spoon fell from Asaki's hand.
"She never told anyone. Only me. Said she wanted to tell Ishikawa herself after the war. That she was afraid… afraid that if anyone knew, they'd come for the child."
Asaki's chest tightened. "But… but she died. They said she died with the child."
Sayaka nodded slowly. "That's what we believed. Her body was burned in that final battle. The flames were too strong. There was barely anything left."
"…But no body was ever recovered," Asaki whispered. "Only the sword."
Sayaka's lips trembled. "Exactly."
A long silence stretched between them, heavy as ash.
---
Later that night, as the fire dimmed and the others slept, Yumi whimpered in her sleep. Asaki stirred instantly, her hand reaching for the dagger she kept near her pillow. But this was no enemy creeping in from the dark.
It was Yumi.
Tears streamed from the corners of her shut eyes. Her fingers clutched at her chest, where her robe had slipped down—revealing, beneath her collarbone, a faint birthmark.
It was shaped like wings.
A phoenix.
"Asaki…?" she whispered through sleep, trembling. "It's burning… again…"
Asaki leaned closer, brushing the sweat from her brow.
"What's burning?"
"…The temple… Mother said run… but the blood… it wouldn't stop—"
Yumi screamed again and sat up, eyes wide and glazed. They glowed, just for a moment, with a golden hue—then faded.
She clutched her arms and sobbed. "He said… the seal must never be broken…"
Asaki held her tightly, rocking her. "It's okay. I've got you. You're safe now. It's just a dream."
But in her heart, she knew it wasn't.
---
The next morning, Ishikawa stood before the smoldering remains of the cooking fire. His face looked drawn, older than the night before. His fingers rested loosely on the hilt of Kurayami, but he hadn't drawn the blade.
Asaki approached cautiously.
"She had another dream," she said.
He nodded once.
"She mentioned a seal. And fire. Blood. A man."
Ishikawa didn't move.
"She has a mark," Asaki continued. "Like a phoenix crest. You know what that means."
He closed his eyes.
"I know."
"Sayaka told me. About Tomoie."
He didn't react.
"She said Tomoie was pregnant. That there was no body. That maybe…" Her voice caught in her throat. "Maybe Yumi isn't just some random child."
"I know," he said again.
Asaki stepped forward, her voice rising. "Then why haven't you said anything? Don't you want to know if she's—?"
"I don't!" Ishikawa snapped, eyes burning.
Asaki recoiled, stunned.
He turned away, shoulders shaking. "Do you think I want to believe she lived? That I let my wife die while our child survived somewhere out there—alone? That every time I looked away, I turned my back on her?"
The words echoed through the trees like a confession shouted to the gods.
Asaki didn't speak. She just stood there, watching the man she had idolized crumble into something vulnerable and broken.
"She has her mother's eyes," he whispered. "And when she screams in her sleep… it's the same scream I heard when I found Tomoie's body in the fire."
"…Then you do believe it?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he looked eastward—toward Kyoto. Toward the storm.
"If she is my daughter… then the enemy will come for her. That mark, that power—it's not just a blessing. It's a beacon."
Asaki stepped beside him, placing a hand on his arm.
"Then we protect her. Together."
Ishikawa said nothing. But his silence no longer felt like running.
---
That afternoon, Sayaka gently approached Yumi with a bowl of sweet soup.
"Drink this," she said softly. "It'll calm the burning in your chest."
Yumi took the bowl, her hands shaking.
"Was it real?" she whispered.
Sayaka paused. "What?"
"The fire. The temple. The man with silver eyes. He said… if the seal breaks… everything dies."
Sayaka sat beside her.
"I don't know what dreams are real and what dreams are warnings, child," she said. "But I do know this—your life matters. Not because of power. But because you're still here."
Yumi looked up at her. "Do you think I'm her? The baby who didn't die?"
Sayaka didn't smile. She just brushed a lock of hair behind Yumi's ear and said,
"I think you're who you choose to become."
---
That evening, Ishikawa unsheathed Kurasa, his shorter blade, and stared at the inscription etched into its spine—"Blood for Blood. Fire for Fire."
Tomoie's words.
He remembered the day Shun had given them their final test—the day Ishikawa had unlocked Ketsuen-no-Kami, and Shun had looked at him not with pride, but pity.
"You are too soft," Shun had said. "Too bound by the people you love. One day, your weakness will bring ruin."
Now Shun was near Kyoto.
And Yumi was having visions of fire.
Ishikawa gripped the blade tighter.
If she truly was Tomoie's daughter… if Phoenix Blood stirred in her veins…
Then she was more than just his child.
She was the last key to a forgotten power—one the Shogunate would kill to erase.
---
In the distance, temple bells rang again.
And Yumi, watching from the hilltop, did not flinch.
She only whispered the same words again and again:
"The seal must never be broken."
---