Aoi knew before anyone said it.
Her body told her first.
Movement slowed—not from weakness, but from weight. Her chakra no longer flowed outward instinctively; it curled inward, protective, precise. The cold answered her more gently now, like it understood there were limits it was not allowed to cross.
The due date was near.
Shigen felt it in other ways.
Paths that had gone unused were disturbed too often. Birds lifted a fraction too early. Fog thinned where it should have lingered. Once, he found a footprint near a stream that tried very hard to look like an animal's.
It failed.
"They're circling closer," he said one evening, returning from a long perimeter walk.
Aoi didn't look up from where she sat, hands resting over her abdomen. "I know."
The settlement felt it too.
Scouts—Mist scouts, though none wore the village's colors—passed nearby more frequently now. Not close enough to provoke. Not far enough to ignore. They never stayed. Never pushed. Just watched.
The elders noticed the change in rhythm.
"They're measuring," one said quietly. "Waiting for something."
Shigen nodded. "They've learned patience."
Aoi exhaled slowly. "They smell vulnerability."
That night, the council met—not to debate, but to prepare.
Routes were reviewed again. Decoys adjusted. Children quietly reassigned to deeper paths, further from open water. No panic. No urgency that could be sensed from a distance.
Only tightening.
Shigen took on more without being asked.
He walked for longer hours. Slept less. Spoke softly to everyone he passed—not reassurance, just presence. When elders worried aloud about what would happen after, he didn't answer directly.
He simply said, "We'll be ready."
Later, he sat beside Aoi beneath the trees where buds had become leaves.
"You shouldn't be worrying about this," he said gently.
Aoi smiled faintly. "I can't help it."
"This is different."
"Yes," she agreed. "This time I have something to lose."
He took her hand, feeling the faint chill that always lingered at her skin—and the warmth beneath it.
"We'll move if we have to," he said. "Even now."
She shook her head slowly. "Not unless we must. Running during birth would be more dangerous than staying."
Shigen didn't argue.
Instead, he adjusted everything around her.
Extra watchers—not close, not obvious. Medical supplies repositioned. Ice seals tuned for stabilization, not defense. The settlement subtly bent its shape inward, protective without looking like it.
Mist scouts passed again two days later.
This time, one lingered longer than the others.
Shigen felt it like a misplayed piece on a board—slightly off, but intentional.
"They're waiting for a moment," he said to the elders that night.
"What moment?" someone asked.
Shigen looked toward Aoi's shelter, light glowing softly within.
"A birth," he said.
Silence followed.
Not fear.
Resolve.
Aoi stood later that night, watching frost briefly touch the grass before fading with the rising air.
"They think this will make me weak," she said.
Shigen stood beside her. "They don't understand what you've become."
Her hand tightened in his.
Neither spoke the truth aloud—that if the Mist moved now, the consequences would echo far beyond this valley.
Somewhere in the dark, unseen eyes watched.
And somewhere closer, a new heartbeat counted down the days.
The world was leaning in.
And this time, the Yuki Clan was not going to disappear quietly.