We felt the city before we saw it.
After days of scraping along narrow ravine paths and sleeping with our backs pressed to stone, the air softened. The wind gentled, carrying steam and jasmine instead of dust. Bells chimed somewhere ahead—thin, bright notes that made something tight in my chest unclench.
The path rounded a final shoulder of red rock, and Mizuhara unfurled below us.
The city seemed woven into the canyon wall itself, terrace after terrace carved straight from the stone, each one connected by graceful bridges that arched like pale ribbons. Water threaded through everything—thin canals, quiet streams, and small waterfalls that tumbled from level to level. Mist clung to the lanterns, making their warm glow shimmer like drifting stars.
Auralia stopped beside me, breath catching. Elya pressed closer, wide-eyed and silent for the first time in days.
"It's… so clean," she whispered, as if speaking too loudly might break the dream.
Mizuhara was lived in softly. Paper screens glowed from within homes. Ribbons of painted poetry fluttered from balconies—verses about mountains, rivers, and tea written in Mizuhara's curling script. The people moved at a pace I didn't believe in anymore—slow, deliberate, unafraid.
A woman folding paper cranes tied one to each of our cloaks "for luck." A young apprentice monk swept fallen petals from a bridge and bowed when we passed. No one stared. No one questioned us. For the first time since Kithra, my hand drifted away from the hilt of my sword.
"This place feels like it breathes," Auralia murmured.
"It feels like it naps," I corrected.
She elbowed me, but gently.
When we found The Whispering Leaf, we didn't need convincing to step inside. A paper curtain painted with a single leaf swayed in the breeze. Warm steam drifted from the doorway. Laughter—not loud, but rich—floated from within.
A man emerged from behind the counter as we entered. His hair was silver and tied in a low knot, his eyes deep and amused, and his smile one that assumed your forgiveness before he'd earned it. He had the posture of a retired soldier—but the soul of a man who'd found peace and held it gently.
"Welcome," he said, voice like a warm cup in cold hands. "You look as if you've walked through storms and arguments both."
"That's… accurate," Auralia said.
"Good," he nodded. "Both make the tea taste better."
He introduced himself as Master Rin, though he added with a shrug, "Names matter less in a place meant for rest." He ushered us to a low table near a screen overlooking a trickling stream. Elya was instantly drawn to a Dragon Chess board set nearby; Rin rearranged a few pieces to make the match more interesting for her.
He brewed tea as if it were a form of meditation—no showmanship, no wasted motion. When he poured, the steam carried a scent like summer grass and quiet mornings. When I took my first sip, I felt tension leave my spine in a way I hadn't since before Kithra.
"You can stay here a night or two," Rin said. "As long as you need to remember where your feet are."
"We won't trouble you long," I said.
He laughed softly. "People never stay long. But long enough is all anyone needs."
Auralia looked lighter than I'd seen her in weeks—almost unburdened. Elya giggled as she made a reckless move on the chessboard, and Rin countered with exaggerated surprise.
For a moment, Mizuhara felt like a promise.
A rare one.
A gentle one.
A real one.
And for the first time since my rebirth, I let myself believe it could last.