The wisteria branches swayed above them like a ceiling made of breath and memory.

  Tsukiko’s sobs had turned quieter, but they hadn’t stopped. They came in waves now—shaking, ragged, forced through a throat that kept trying to close. Her hands were clenched so tightly that her nails cut crescents into her palms.

  Shinobu stayed beside her on the cold ground.

  Not as the Insect Hashira.

  Not as the doctor who measured pain and dosages.

  As a sister who had already held one dying body in her arms and refused—refused—to live through it again.

  “Look at me,” Shinobu said softly.

  Tsukiko didn’t.

  Her gaze was fixed somewhere beyond the mansion walls, beyond the trees—on a place that didn’t exist yet but already felt like destiny.

  “I’m going,” Tsukiko whispered.

  Shinobu’s chest tightened. “Not tonight.”

  Tsukiko laughed—a cracked sound that wasn’t humor. “Then tomorrow.”

  Shinobu reached out and took Tsukiko’s wrists, gently but firmly, anchoring her.

  “You don’t understand what you’re saying,” Shinobu insisted.

  Tsukiko finally turned her head.

  Her eyes were swollen and red, but there was a frightening clarity behind them—like grief had burned away everything soft.

  “I understand perfectly,” she said. “Kanae is dead.”

  Shinobu flinched at the name.

  Tsukiko’s voice dropped. “And the one who did it is still breathing.”

  Shinobu swallowed hard. “That’s exactly why you can’t go.”

  Tsukiko’s brows knit, confusion flashing into anger. “Why? Because you think I’m weak?”

  “No,” Shinobu said, voice shaking with the force of her restraint. “Because I know what an Upper Moon is.”

  Tsukiko jerked her hands free. “I’ve killed demons.”

  Shinobu’s smile—her usual mask—didn’t appear. What showed on her face instead was raw fear.

  “Not like this,” she said. “Not that.”

  Tsukiko stared at her.

  Shinobu leaned closer, words coming faster now, urgent.

  “Upper Moons are not strong demons,” she said. “They are disasters that wear faces. They don’t fight like demons you’ve met in villages. They don’t run. They don’t panic. They don’t lose because you’re determined.”

  Tsukiko’s jaw tightened.

  “You think Kanae wasn’t determined?” Shinobu whispered.

  The question hit like a slap.

  Tsukiko’s expression wavered.

  Shinobu’s voice broke. “Kanae fought beautifully. She fought kindly. She fought like she always did—trying to save people while she died.”

  Tsukiko’s breath hitched again.

  Shinobu pressed on, because she had to—because if she didn’t say it now, Tsukiko would leave with an empty heart full of fire and nothing else.

  “She died,” Shinobu said, “and even in her last moments, she was still worried about me. She was still telling me to live.”

  Tsukiko’s hands rose to her face again, shaking.

  “I wasn’t there,” she whispered.

  “I know,” Shinobu said immediately, softer. “I know, Tsukiko.”

  For a moment, the night held them both—two sisters kneeling under wisteria, mourning a third.

  Then Tsukiko lowered her hands.

  Her voice was very quiet.

  “I trained for her,” she said. “Every breath. Every day. I didn’t sleep because I wanted to arrive strong enough to protect you both.”

  Her lips trembled.

  “And now you’re telling me I’m too late,” she whispered. “And too weak.”

  Shinobu’s heart split.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  She shook her head fiercely. “I’m telling you the opposite.”

  Tsukiko looked at her, startled.

  Shinobu grabbed her shoulders.

  “I’m telling you you’re alive,” Shinobu said. “And because you’re alive, you’re allowed to be smart.”

  Tsukiko’s eyes flickered—hurt, anger, disbelief.

  Shinobu steadied her breathing.

  “You’re still injured,” she continued. “Your body is strained. You collapse after fights. I’ve seen it. You hide it, but your muscles don’t lie.”

  Tsukiko’s expression tightened. “You don’t know what I can do.”

  Shinobu froze at that.

  Because Tsukiko was right.

  Shinobu didn’t know.

  And that—more than anything—terrified her.

  “Then tell me,” Shinobu said.

  Tsukiko’s mouth opened.

  Then closed.

  Her throat worked like she was swallowing something dangerous.

  “I can’t,” she said finally.

  Shinobu stared at her.

  “…Why?”

  Tsukiko’s voice dropped to a whisper.

  “Because if I say it out loud,” she said, “it becomes real. And if it becomes real… then Kanae is really gone.”

  The words were childish and devastating.

  Shinobu’s eyes filled again.

  She pulled Tsukiko into her arms and held her tightly, the way she hadn’t dared to hold anyone since Kanae.

  “You don’t have to carry it alone,” Shinobu whispered. “Not anymore.”

  Tsukiko clung to her.

  For a few seconds, she was just a girl again—sixteen, seventeen—someone who had wanted her family back and found only half of it.

  Then she pulled away.

  Her voice was colder.

  “But I will still kill him,” she said.

  Shinobu didn’t argue that part.

  She only changed the shape of it.

  “Then you will do it with the Corps,” Shinobu said, each word firm. “With planning. With support. With me.”

  Tsukiko blinked. “You’ll help me?”

  Shinobu’s smile flashed briefly—thin, painful.

  “I have wanted Doma dead for years,” she admitted. “You think I don’t understand revenge?”

  Tsukiko’s throat tightened.

  “But you’re going to do it the right way,” Shinobu continued, voice hardening. “Not by throwing yourself at him like a prayer.”

  Tsukiko’s hands clenched. “You don’t trust my strength.”

  “I don’t trust grief,” Shinobu replied instantly. “Grief makes us stupid.”

  The bluntness stung.

  Tsukiko looked away.

  Shinobu softened again. “Come inside.”

  Tsukiko didn’t move.

  Shinobu leaned forward. “Tsukiko. Please. Your feet are bleeding.”

  Only then did Tsukiko glance down and realize she’d run out barefoot. Small streaks of blood dotted the stone path like petals.

  Shinobu exhaled shakily.

  “You don’t even feel it,” she murmured.

  Tsukiko’s voice was small again. “…I don’t want to sleep.”

  “I won’t force you,” Shinobu said. “But you’re not leaving.”

  Tsukiko’s gaze snapped up. “You can’t stop me.”

  Shinobu met her eyes.

  The air between them went still.

  “Yes,” Shinobu said softly. “I can.”

  Tsukiko stared.

  Shinobu’s voice didn’t rise. It didn’t threaten. It simply became immovable.

  “I lost Kanae in my arms,” Shinobu said. “I will not lose you to your own rage.”

  Tsukiko’s breath shuddered.

  “I’m not trying to die,” she whispered.

  “I know,” Shinobu said. “That’s what scares me. You’re trying to live… for something that will destroy you.”

  Tsukiko’s expression cracked.

  For a moment she looked young again—lost.

  Shinobu stepped closer and took her hand.

  “Come inside,” Shinobu repeated. “We’re going to do this properly.”

  Kanao was waiting near the corridor when they entered.

  Her eyes were wide, posture still, but her fingers were curled tightly around the edge of her sleeve.

  She had heard the shaking.

  She had seen the lanterns fall.

  She looked at Tsukiko with something between fear and curiosity—like she was staring at a storm that had walked into a house.

  Shinobu noticed immediately.

  “Kanao,” Shinobu said gently, “go make tea.”

  Kanao nodded at once, then hesitated.

  Her gaze flicked back to Tsukiko.

  “…Is she… family?” Kanao asked quietly.

  Tsukiko stiffened.

  Shinobu’s hand tightened around Tsukiko’s.

  “Yes,” Shinobu said. “She is.”

  Kanao lowered her eyes. “I see.”

  She moved away, silent as always, but Tsukiko felt something strange as she watched her go.

  A ghost of familiarity.

  A shape of grief.

  “She’s…” Tsukiko began.

  Shinobu answered before she could finish.

  “Kanao came after you disappeared,” Shinobu said. “Kanae brought her here.”

  Tsukiko swallowed hard.

  “She looks like—”

  “I know,” Shinobu whispered.

  They didn’t say Kanae’s name again.

  It was too sharp.

  Shinobu guided Tsukiko back to her room, sat her down, cleaned her feet, wrapped them carefully. The work was gentle and automatic—Shinobu’s hands had done this for hundreds of injured slayers.

  But tonight, her hands shook.

  Not because Tsukiko was hurt.

  Because Tsukiko was here.

  “You’ll stay in this room tonight,” Shinobu said, tying the bandage. “No wandering.”

  Tsukiko stared at the wall. “I won’t sleep.”

  “Then don’t,” Shinobu replied. “But you’ll breathe.”

  Tsukiko’s jaw tightened.

  Shinobu lifted her eyes. “We are going to see the Master.”

  Tsukiko blinked. “Kagaya Ubuyashiki?”

  Shinobu nodded. “He needs to know you exist. And if you want revenge… you need permission. Strategy. Information.”

  Tsukiko’s voice sharpened. “I don’t need permission to kill a demon.”

  Shinobu’s gaze turned icy.

  “Yes,” she said calmly, “you do.”

  Tsukiko stared.

  Shinobu leaned closer, voice low and dangerous.

  “This isn’t about your pride,” she said. “This is about war.”

  She straightened, inhaled slowly, and softened again.

  “And,” she added, “the Master will answer the questions you’ve been carrying since you returned.”

  Tsukiko’s throat tightened. “You mean… about Kanae?”

  Shinobu hesitated.

  Then nodded.

  Tsukiko’s breath trembled.

  Shinobu reached out and brushed Tsukiko’s hair back gently, like Kanae might have done.

  “You’re not alone anymore,” Shinobu whispered. “Even if it hurts.”

  Tsukiko’s eyes filled again, but she didn’t let the tears fall this time.

  “If I had come back sooner,” she whispered, “she would be alive.”

  Shinobu’s heart twisted.

  She wanted to say no.

  But she couldn’t.

  Because maybe—maybe Tsukiko was right.

  And that guilt was a poison of its own.

  So Shinobu did the only thing she could do.

  She put her hand over Tsukiko’s and held it there.

  “Then we won’t waste another second,” Shinobu said quietly. “But we will not be reckless.”

  Tsukiko looked at her.

  Something fierce flickered behind her eyes.

  “Promise me,” Tsukiko said, voice shaking, “that you won’t let them stop me.”

  Shinobu’s smile returned—not sweet, not warm.

  A Hashira’s smile.

  “I promise you,” Shinobu said, “that no one will touch you while I’m standing.”

  Tsukiko’s breath shuddered.

  And for the first time since learning the truth, her shoulders lowered by a fraction—as if her body finally accepted that a wall existed between her and the abyss.

  Shinobu rose to leave.

  At the door, she paused.

  “Tsukiko,” she said softly.

  Tsukiko looked up.

  Shinobu’s voice trembled again, just barely.

  “…Welcome home.”

  Tsukiko’s lips parted.

  The words caught in her throat.

  Then she nodded once—small, broken, real.

  Shinobu closed the door gently.

  Outside, she leaned against the wall, hand covering her mouth as she tried to breathe without shaking apart.

  Because tomorrow, she would have to take Tsukiko to the Master.

  Tomorrow, the Corps would learn the youngest Kocho had returned.

  And tomorrow, Shinobu would have to do something she had never done before—

  Protect a sister from the sister’s own heart.