Night in the Swordsmith Village was never truly quiet.
Even when the forges dimmed and the hammering ceased, the air still vibrated with residual heat and latent purpose. Metal cooled slowly here, releasing soft creaks and whispers as it settled, like a living thing reluctantly surrendering its warmth. Smoke lingered low, blending with mountain mist, carrying the scent of iron deep into the lungs.
Karina lay awake.
She had slept through worse environments—trenches soaked in blood, monasteries haunted by screams, frozen ruins where breath itself became an enemy. This place was safe by comparison. Guarded. Isolated.
And yet her body refused rest.
She lay on her back, arms folded loosely over her abdomen, breathing slow and measured. Arcane Breathing obeyed, but without its usual precision. The rhythm was present, yet blurred at the edges, as if another cadence interfered.
She knew the source.
Beyond the thin wooden partition, Mitsuri shifted in her sleep.
The sound was faint—fabric brushing skin, a quiet exhale—but Karina registered it instantly. Her senses had always been sharp. Tonight, they were uncomfortably so.
She closed her eyes.
Control. Focus. Discipline.
Attachment compromises judgment.
The phrase echoed again, relentless.
Karina exhaled and rolled onto her side, facing the partition. The room was dim, lit only by moonlight filtering through the paper screens. Shadows stretched and contracted as clouds passed overhead.
Her mind drifted despite herself.
She saw Mitsuri as she had earlier that evening—kneeling on the tatami, braid loosened, hair spilling freely down her back as she leaned forward to examine Karina's shoulder. The contact had been clinical in intent, yet the warmth of Mitsuri's hand had lingered far longer than necessary.
"You tense up when you anticipate pain," Mitsuri had said softly.
Karina had answered without thinking. "Pain is irrelevant."
Mitsuri had smiled then—not amused, not dismissive. Understanding.
"It's not," she had replied. "But you're very good at pretending it is."
Karina's jaw tightened at the memory.
She opened her eyes again.
The partition slid open quietly.
Karina was upright in an instant, hand moving toward where her blade should have been—only to stop herself just as quickly.
Mitsuri stood there, barefoot, wrapped loosely in her night robe. Moonlight traced the curve of her shoulders, the line of her throat, the softness of her expression.
"I didn't mean to startle you," Mitsuri whispered.
"You didn't," Karina replied. It was true. She had sensed her approach.
Mitsuri hesitated, fingers resting lightly against the frame. "You're still awake."
"So are you."
Mitsuri smiled faintly. "I couldn't sleep."
Karina studied her in silence. There was no immediate threat. No tactical necessity. And yet her pulse quickened, subtle but undeniable.
"Is something wrong?" Karina asked.
Mitsuri shook her head. "No. I just… felt restless."
She took a step inside, then stopped, as if suddenly aware of the intimacy of the act.
"May I?" she asked.
Karina nodded once.
Mitsuri entered fully, sliding the partition shut behind her. The space felt smaller instantly. Warmer. Charged.
They sat facing each other on the tatami, a careful distance between them. Mitsuri folded her legs beneath her, posture relaxed but attentive. Karina mirrored her unconsciously.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
"You're different tonight," Mitsuri said eventually.
Karina's brow furrowed. "Define different."
Mitsuri tilted her head. "Quieter. But not calmer."
Karina considered deflecting. She didn't.
"This place," she said instead, "forces stillness."
"And you don't like that?"
"I don't trust it."
Mitsuri's gaze softened. "Because when things are quiet, there's room to feel?"
Karina said nothing.
Mitsuri leaned forward slightly, resting her hands on her knees. "You don't have to answer."
Karina's fingers flexed once against the mat. "You ask questions that don't have clean answers."
"I like complicated things," Mitsuri replied gently.
Karina met her gaze then, fully.
"You shouldn't," she said. "They hurt."
Mitsuri's lips curved into a sad smile. "So do simple ones."
The silence that followed was heavier than before, but not uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that invited confession—or retreat.
Karina remained still.
Mitsuri shifted closer.
The movement was deliberate, unhurried. The distance between them narrowed until their knees nearly touched. Mitsuri stopped there, giving Karina space to pull away.
She didn't.
Mitsuri's voice dropped, barely above a whisper. "You carry a lot alone."
Karina's response was immediate, automatic. "I manage."
"I know," Mitsuri said. "But you shouldn't have to."
The words struck with unexpected force.
Karina inhaled sharply, then steadied herself. "Dependence creates vulnerability."
"Yes," Mitsuri agreed. "But isolation creates fractures."
Karina flinched—just slightly.
Mitsuri noticed.
She reached out, stopping just short of contact, hand hovering near Karina's wrist. "May I?"
Karina hesitated.
Every instinct screamed caution. Every lesson reinforced distance.
But this was not a battlefield. And Mitsuri was not an enemy.
Karina nodded.
Mitsuri's fingers closed gently around her wrist, warm and sure. She didn't restrain—only held. The contact was grounding, intimate in its simplicity.
"Your pulse," Mitsuri murmured. "It's fast."
Karina looked away. "Residual effects."
Mitsuri smiled softly. "If you say so."
She released her wrist, but her hand lingered briefly against Karina's sleeve before withdrawing.
They sat like that for a while longer, bodies close, breaths occasionally synchronizing without conscious effort.
Outside, the village remained oblivious.
Inside, something fragile was unfolding.
Eventually, Mitsuri spoke again. "When this mission is over… what will you do?"
Karina frowned. "Continue."
"With what?"
"The objective."
"And after Muzan?" Mitsuri pressed.
Karina stilled. The question had never been framed that way.
"There is no after," she said finally.
Mitsuri's eyes searched her face. "Everyone needs something to move toward. Not just away from."
Karina's voice was quiet. "I was trained to remove threats. Not imagine futures."
Mitsuri absorbed that without comment. Then she reached out again—this time brushing her fingers lightly against the scars visible along Karina's forearm.
Karina tensed, but did not pull away.
"These tell a story," Mitsuri said. "Not just of survival. Of endurance."
"They're reminders of failure," Karina replied.
"Or proof that you lived."
Karina's breath caught.
She turned her arm slightly, studying the pale lines she had long ceased to acknowledge. Mitsuri's fingers traced none of them, but the awareness of her attention was enough to set Karina's skin alight.
"You see things too generously," Karina said.
Mitsuri shook her head. "I see what's there."
Their faces were close now. Close enough that Karina could feel the warmth of Mitsuri's breath, could see the subtle shift in her pupils.
For a moment, the world narrowed to this space. This proximity. This choice.
Karina's thoughts scattered.
She had faced demons who warped reality itself without faltering. She had cut through illusions, poison, despair.
This was different.
This required vulnerability.
Mitsuri leaned in just slightly more—enough to test, not enough to force.
Karina did not move.
But she did not retreat either.
The tension between them became almost tangible, like a held breath that refused release.
Then, distantly, an alarm bell rang.
Both women froze.
Karina was on her feet instantly, posture snapping into readiness. Mitsuri followed, expression shifting seamlessly into focused resolve.
"Perimeter," Mitsuri said. "East side."
Karina nodded. "I'll move ahead."
They exited into the night together, the moment suspended—not broken, merely postponed.
As they ran across rooftops and stone paths, Karina's mind remained split between threat and memory. Between the precision of movement and the softness she had almost allowed herself to feel.
At the edge of the village, shadows writhed unnaturally against the cliff face.
Something had crossed the boundary.
Karina's senses flared, Arcane Breathing surging as she assessed distortions in space, subtle but unmistakable.
"This isn't a full incursion," she said. "It's reconnaissance."
Mitsuri's jaw tightened. "Then it's watching."
High above them, hidden among porcelain vessels embedded in rock, Gyokko observed in silence. His many eyes gleamed with interest.
"Closer than I expected," he murmured. "How delightful."
His gaze lingered not on Karina alone—but on the way Mitsuri positioned herself instinctively at Karina's side.
Protective.
Intimate.
"Ah," he hissed softly. "There it is."
Below, Karina felt it—a chill not born of night air.
She glanced at Mitsuri, who met her eyes without question.
Whatever was coming, they would face it together.
And that, Karina realized with a quiet sense of unease, might change everything.