Chapter Text

Act I - The Plum Tree at Dusk

 -Fang’s POV-

The evening light clung to the edges of the garden like a faint, vanishing brushstroke. Dusk in early spring carried a chill, but the plum blossoms overhead still glowed with the soft blush of day, as though storing sunlight in their petals. Fang sat beneath the largest tree, her knees drawn close, a folded sheet of rice paper balanced against them. The faintest breeze brushed through her silver hair and rattled the branches above, scattering petals that drifted around her like gentle ghosts.

She dipped the brush again, letting the ink gather along the tip. Even from where she sat, she could catch the faint scent of incense drifting from the temple courtyard beyond the estate walls. Usually it calmed her, but tonight it only muddled her thoughts. The poem wouldn’t come. Her lines felt clumsy… She stared at the same verse for half an hour, chewing the end of her brush in the unrefined fidgeting her mother always scolded her for.

She wasn't truly alone. A short distance behind her, Anon stood rigid in his habitual guard's posture.

The evening light caught his bald head, giving him a serious, almost monk-like look, despite his soldier's bearing. He watched the garden with that familiar, cautious focus: poised to intervene instantly, yet often appearing unsure if he was actually permitted to.

Fang didn’t need to turn to know exactly what expression he wore. His brow would be faintly furrowed, his lips tight, his eyes flicking between her and the path in dutiful intervals. She couldn’t help smiling to herself. He always acted like he wasn’t looking at her, as if staring directly might count as overstepping.

He was always too careful.

“You don’t have to stand like that the whole time,” she finally said, blowing lightly on the ink to dry it. “That posture must be painful.”

There was a pause. Anon didn’t step closer, but she could feel the mild startle in the air behind her, as if her voice had pierced the armor of formality he wrapped himself in.

“My lady,” he said, his voice carefully neutral, “I am on duty. It would be inappropriate for me to relax when-”

“Fang,” she interrupted, turning just enough for him to see the corner of her smile. “Use my name when we’re alone.”

The faintest tension radiated off him: an invisible stiffness that had nothing to do with posture and everything to do with habit. He hesitated, eyes lowered toward the ground in that reflexive gesture of deference.

“My lady, I… do not wish to be disrespectful.”

“It isn’t disrespect if I asked for it.” Fang turned her head back toward the plum tree, tapping the brush absentmindedly against her knee. “But if you prefer being formal, then I suppose I can’t stop you.”

It was a light, harmless, and intentionally playful tease. And, like always, it did the trick.

“…Fang.” The word came quietly, almost swallowed. “As you wish.”

She couldn't see him, but she pictured him looking like he'd just wandered somewhere he shouldn't be. Over the last few months, she'd figured out that Anon always went along with what she wanted; actually, he was pretty quick to agree, unless it went against what he felt was his duty. He acted like someone who knew the rules inside and out, but when it came to her, he wasn't all that keen on sticking to them.

She lowered the brush, letting it rest on her lap. “Better.”

“I only ceded,” he murmured, “because you insisted.”

“That’s what you always say,” Fang replied, turning her attention back to her unfinished poem, “and yet you always give in anyway.”

The air went silent. It wasn't awkward, just a quiet pause, like the gentle hum between two perfectly tuned instrument strings. Fang went back to her paper, jotted down a line, instantly hated it, and crossed it out with a quiet sigh. Plum petals floated down onto the ink, briefly sticking before sliding away.

Behind her, Anon shifted his weight, the soft scrape of sandal against stone betraying his worry.

“Is the poem troubling you?”

She blinked, mildly surprised he had spoken without prompting. He rarely asked questions unless she dragged them out of him.

“Yes,” she admitted. “I can’t make it sound the way I want. Every verse feels wrong.”

“It seemed fine to me,” he said.

“You haven't even read it.”

“You looked calm,” he explained, as if the logic were obvious. “When you’re calm, your writing is usually going well.”

“And what do I look like now?”

“…Not calm.”

She let out a little puff of air, not quite a laugh. “Sharp observation, retainer.”

He immediately tensed up, reacting to the responsibility that teasing title hinted at, like she'd just slapped him. Even though she was amused, she still shook her head.

Her smile dropped a bit as she stared at the poem. She just couldn't nail the feeling she was going for, that bittersweet sting, the ache mixed with beauty. Courtly Heian tastes demanded subtle, layered, and quiet longing, yet she felt a frustrating, inelegant clumsiness.

She felt restless.

The brush lowered, but she didn’t write.

“Anon,” she said quietly, “do you ever feel like the world is too quiet?”

Behind her, she heard the faint rustle as he shifted, caught off guard by the question. He didn’t answer right away. When he finally did, his voice was careful, as if stepping across thin ice.

“…Sometimes.”

Fang turned to face him completely, her amber eyes locking with his. He flinched slightly at her usual directness, but held her gaze.

“What makes it quiet for you?”

He swallowed. She noticed it… that little throat bob, his jaw clenching, the quick look of discomfort that felt less like fear and more like genuine honesty trying to come out.

"Duty," he finally stated, "occupies the mind completely, allowing the world to dissolve."

She studied him for a moment. His face was always composed, but she’d learned how to read the small signs, the ones no one else bothered noticing. He wasn’t guarded because he had nothing to say; he was guarded because he feared saying anything at all.

Fang lowered her gaze to the path between them, then closed her writing case.

“You’ve been assigned to me for three months,” she said. “Yet you still act like you’ll be punished for speaking too casually.”

“My upbringing encourages restraint.”

“And mine encourages formality.” She rose to her feet, brushing petals from her lap. “But I’d rather we not choke on rules every time we speak.”

He looked surprised that she just came right out and said it, not because of what she said, but how upfront she was. Fang took a step closer, cutting the formal distance, but keeping things decent.

“So,” she said softly, “if I asked you to stay here and relax for a moment, just a moment, would you?”

Anon hesitated, trying to figure out the right balance between doing what he was told and what felt wrong.

“If you order it,” he said.

“I’m not ordering.” She smiled. “I’m asking.”

He lowered his gaze again, conflicted.

“…Then I will.”

She settled back down beneath the plum tree, resting against the trunk this time. A few seconds later, she heard the quiet sound of Anon moving closer. He didn't fully sit down, but he did lean against the tree a bit away, where the shadows made the tension in his shoulders look a little less intense.

It wasn’t much… But it was a beginning.

And Fang, as the first star popped out past the branches, felt this unexpected, quiet, and genuinely good warmth cozy up in her chest.

Something she hoped wouldn’t break.

Act II - The Scroll and the Bandits

The rain showed up two days later, a light, steady drizzle that felt almost rhythmic as it brushed the rooftops of the Aaron estate. Fang woke up to the quiet tapping on her shutters and the far-off sounds of servants starting their day. Spring rain in the Heian period always brought this cleansing calm; it just sort of soaked into the halls and settled into the quiet moments.

She dressed slowly, her injured hand from practice still sore from gripping the biwa strings last night. The dull ache was familiar by now; a musician’s affliction, her uncle called it. Today, though, the pain felt sharper, as if her body sensed something looming.

Breakfast proceeded with a familiar quiet, punctuated by the low drone of conversation. As usual, Fang’s mother offered gentle attentions. Meanwhile, her father spoke with several retainers about patrol matters. The estate’s recent unease, whispers of waylaid travelers on the forest road and strangers spotted near the borders, had necessitated a more frequent rotation of the guards, though nothing substantial had yet occurred.

When Fang stepped outside after the morning meal, the mist clung to her sleeves and hair. She made her way toward the inner library, where her brother Naser was hunched over a low lacquered desk, scribbling notes onto a parchment with the intensity of someone racing time itself. He looked up briefly when she approached.

“Father wants this delivered,” he said, tapping a sealed scroll beside him. “To the White Temple. Before evening.”

Fang blinked. “Me?”

“You’re the only one available,” Naser said, shuffling through another stack. “Father is meeting the council this afternoon, Reed is on patrol at the northern gate, and I’m preparing tomorrow’s reports.”

She reached for the scroll, noticing the crimson cord… an unusual color for routine errands.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Records,” Naser said vaguely. “Mostly land surveys. The temple archives are safer than keeping them here during the reconstruction.”

Fang didn’t entirely believe him. Naser rarely lied, but he sometimes softened the truth to keep her from worrying. Still, she didn’t press. Duties like these were not uncommon, and she welcomed the excuse to breathe outside the estate walls.

“I’ll go now,” she said.

Naser opened his mouth, hesitating. “Take someone with you.”

“I don’t need an escort. I’ll just be in and out.”

“Lucy,” he said, his voice a gentle, immediate rebuke as he used her given name. “You must be accompanied by a guard, or at the very least, one of the retainers.”

“Reed, as you said, is on the north gate.” She folded the scroll into her sleeve. “And everyone else is busy. I’ll be fine.”

Naser frowned, but he resumed his writing. Fang left before he could press the issue. It wasn't defiance; she just needed room to breathe. Staying in the quiet estate any longer felt like it would suffocate her.

By the time she reached the gate, the rain had eased into a gentle mist. Her mind was preoccupied with two things: the verses she'd left unfinished beneath the plum tree, and the fleeting, almost secret moment of tenderness she had shared with Anon. She wondered what he was assigned to today. Perhaps he was checking the outer courtyards. Perhaps-

“Fang?”

She turned.

Anon, in his typical layered guard robes, stood at the entrance of the covered walkway. The fabric, dampened by the rain, was a darker shade than usual. He carried his short sword at his hip. Drops of rain gathered on the curve of his scalp, catching the subdued gray light. He began with a stiff bow, but the formality quickly faded as he recognized her; a softening of expression that was a familiar response when he saw her.

"You're leaving the estate?" he asked. His tone was polite, formal, yet lined with concern she recognized instantly.

“Yes. A delivery to the White Temple.”

“Alone?”

She lifted her head slightly. “I’ve walked the road many times.”

“The forest paths are unsettled lately.” His gaze flicked toward the misty road ahead, pupils narrowing in thought. “I was not informed of an escort assignment.”

“That’s because you weren’t assigned one.” She offered a gentle shrug. “I’m just going to the archive and back. Don’t worry.”

Anon hesitated, his mouth a thin line. It was clear he was internally debating propriety, torn between his orders and following her.

“I will accompany you,” he said at last.

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.” He bowed again, lower this time. “But I will.”

Despite the morning chill, a flush warmed Fang's face. She felt a surprising sense of ease at his presence and gave a single nod. The gate groaned open, and they stepped into the washed-gray day, following the winding path past the bamboo groves and rice paddies toward the temple.

A heavy silence settled over the forest, the quiet not restful but expectant, as if the woods themselves were listening. The rain had slowed to a fine mist, leaving moisture clinging to the bamboo leaves overhead, which occasionally released a drop to tap against their clothing. Anon walked a half-step behind her, as etiquette demanded, though she sensed the tension in his posture, the constant evaluation of their surroundings.

After a long stretch of silence, Fang spoke without turning back. “Did you volunteer? Or did my brother send you?”

Anon responded with a considered and sincere tone.“I volunteered.”

“What about your duties?”

“I shifted them forward.”

“You didn’t have to,” she said again, softer this time.

“Fang,” he murmured, lowering his voice so only she would hear it, “I prefer being near you. Even when the reasons are ordinary.”

The directness of his words caught her breath. Sincerity was a rare thing for him, not for a lack of feeling, but because it made him vulnerable. She continued walking in silence, allowing the quiet warmth of his admission to settle deep within her.

They reached the bridge crossing the narrow stream that marked the halfway point to the temple. Fang stepped forward-

but Anon froze.

She heard it too.

From the shadows of the bamboo grove to their right, not the path behind, came footsteps. They were bare, uneven, and urgent: the sound of men intent on concealment, yet lacking the necessary discipline to achieve it.

Anon’s hand moved to his sword in one swift, fluid motion.

"Fang." he warned in a hushed tone. "Get behind me."

Fang reached for her sleeve, pulling out the short ceremonial blade she kept hidden. “I can fight.”

“Fang-”

“I said,” she cut in sharply, “I can fight.”

The bandits surged.

Anon confronted the first two attackers directly, their steel weapons meeting with a sharp metallic cry. His movements, precise and controlled from years of drilled discipline rather than natural freedom, proved brutally effective. He disarmed one with a swift low strike and simultaneously disabled the other with a brutal elbow.

Another bandit lunged toward Fang.

With a swift movement, she pulled back her wings and stepped aside, simultaneously slashing across the man's forearm. The wound was superficial, but it granted her the distance she needed. Fang's combat style was surprisingly graceful: a rhythm and footwork reminiscent of a dancer or musician. She evaded another attack, seized the man's wrist, twisted it sharply, and sent him sprawling.

She was outnumbered, and they knew she possessed the scroll. Two attacked her simultaneously from opposite flanks, a calculated maneuver to overwhelm her defense.

A blade sliced through fabric and scales, scraping across her arm before she could reposition. A hot, electric shock tore through Fang, forcing a gasp as she stumbled back against the bamboo.

“Fang!”

Anon's voice was raw, cracking with panic.

A bandit seized her injured arm and violently wrenched it behind her as she struggled to push off the stalk. A blinding white pain flared behind her eyes. Her arm shook too violently for her to successfully slash upward with her blade.

Anon closed the distance instantly, his brutal downward strike cutting one man down. He only just managed to parry a returning blow before violently ripping Fang away from the bandit.

The man's blade sliced toward her flank; she managed to deflect it with her non-dominant arm, but the poor angle allowed him to knock the weapon from her grasp.

Fang cried out, not from fear, but fury at losing her footing.

Anon yanked her back by the waist, catching her just as she started to fall. Their bodies collided as he abruptly pulled her behind him, his back becoming the only barrier between her and the danger. Now, fully shielded, only his body and the sword he held protected her.

He fought like a cornered wolf.

Two more men fell. Another fled, arm hanging limp.

The leader, who had stood back from the fight, snatched the scroll that had fallen from Fang’s torn sleeve. He locked eyes with Anon, a mocking grin on his face, before disappearing into the bamboo with terrifying swiftness.

Anon made to chase, but Fang’s knees buckled.

He abandoned the pursuit and immediately caught her again. Her arm was bleeding heavily, the wound raw where fabric tore away.

“Fang- Fang, stay with me,” he whispered, voice trembling.

She forced a pained breath. “I… told you I could fight.”

“You did,” he answered tightly, pressing his hand against the wound to slow the bleeding. “You fought well.”

His voice wavered, not from exertion, but from sheer fear.

"Let's get you home," he murmured, his arms gathering her close.

Fang offered no protest. The pain was overwhelming, and Anon’s hold, though desperate, was steady.

Act III - The Weight of Failure

The rhythm of Anon’s footsteps was uneven, not from lack of strength but from the urgency tightening his entire frame. Fang could feel the tremor in his arms as he carried her, the way his breathing faltered each time she winced, the way he clutched her a little too tightly when her weight shifted. Rain-soaked bamboo leaves brushed against his shoulders as they hurried along the narrow forest path, droplets scattering across their robes.

The soft but insistent drizzle had started up once more, mirroring her shallow breathing. To steady herself, Fang gripped his shoulder with her uninjured arm. Being this close, she caught the faint, clean smell of his clothes: a mix of rice straw, metal polish, and the quiet warmth of his skin beneath the guard’s heavy, layered robes.

She swallowed. “Anon… you’re gripping too tightly.”

He loosened his hold with a jolt. “Forgive me. I-” His voice cracked again, the tension threading through each syllable. “I should have been faster. I should have anticipated the second flank. I should-”

“Stop,” Fang murmured. “You protected me.”

“I failed to retrieve the scroll.” His whisper was harsh, as if the words wounded him. “And you were injured because my guard was insufficient.”

Fang rested her forehead lightly against his shoulder. “You think too much.”

“You bleed,” he said, “because I misjudged the formation.”

The pain in her arm was too blinding for her to argue, though she wanted to tell him the men were skilled enough to deceive even experienced warriors. Conserving her strength, she offered only silence as her reply.

Anon's grasp grew steadier, his support gentler. He adjusted her weight seamlessly, without breaking stride, displaying the ease of someone who knew her intimately: her shape, her height, the precise angle needed to keep her injured arm from being jostled.

The rain thickened as the forest thinned. The gray silhouette of the Aaron estate emerged through the mist, its curved rooftops glistening under the drizzle. Servants at the outer gate gasped at the sight, scrambling to open the entrance. Shocked whispers met their arrival.

“Lady Fang- injured- who-?”

“Fetch the healer- quickly-!”

“Lord Ripley must be informed-!”

Anon did not slow until he reached the covered walkway, kneeling carefully so Fang could stand on her feet without aggravating the wound. She hissed as her arm throbbed, but he steadied her elbows instantly, lowering his head as if afraid to meet her eyes.

“I will fetch the healer,” he said, his voice stripped down to something hollow.

She reached out to touch his sleeve before he stood. “Stay. Don’t leave.”

The plea slipped out before she could stop it.

Anon froze, a fierce internal struggle: the urge to obey warring with the drive to flee his perceived failure, flickering across his face. Ultimately, he remained kneeling beside her, the rain falling silently from the covered walkway behind them.

The healer soon rushed over, and Fang was quickly ushered into the inner room. Attendants were already there, swiftly preparing cloths and salves for her wounds. While they worked, Fang occasionally saw Anon waiting just beyond the doorway, absolutely still, drenched by the rain, his silence heavy with guilt.

He simply watched, not entering the space.

Her father appeared only after her wound had been cleaned, bound, and fully stabilized.

Ripley Aaron’s powerful presence dominated the space even before he uttered a word. His gaze swept over Fang's bandaged arm, and his jaw immediately clenched, showing concern for her predicament rather than anger at her.

“You should not have gone alone,” he said, voice low. “Naser insisted I send someone to intercept you when the rain worsened. Seems it was not soon enough.”

Ripley's attention shifted past Fang, his eyes lifting to the entrance behind her, before she could utter a response.

To Anon.

The man stiffened beneath the weight of that stare.

“A report,” Ripley demanded curtly.

Anon bowed, his posture rigid. “My lord. Bandits ambushed Lady Lucy and me along the forest path. Seven in total. I engaged four, eliminated two, and repelled the others. The leader seized the scroll and escaped into the grove.”

Fang swallowed. The precision of his recounting was mechanical; too perfect. The way soldiers spoke during disciplinary hearings.

Ripley’s brow furrowed. “The scroll was compromised.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“You allowed it?”

Anon’s head lowered further, the muscles in his throat contracting.

“…Yes.”

The room was consumed by a profound silence… not the soothing stillness of rain or reflective thought, but a dense, oppressive hush.

Ripley exhaled through his nose. “You will report to the disciplinary hall at dawn for formal address.”

Fang turned sharply toward her father. “Father-!”

“Enough, Lucy.” Ripley’s tone left no room for argument. “The matter is decided.”

Anon flinched at the sound of her name. His gaze fixed intently on the floor as he drew a subtle, quiet implosion of breath.

“And leave my sight,” Ripley then added, almost as if it were an afterthought.

Anon bowed so low his forehead nearly grazed the floorboards.

“Yes, my lord.”

He began to retreat, but Fang's voice halted him instantly, like a rope suddenly thrown and catching hold.

“Anon.”

He froze mid-step.

“Look at me.”

He turned his head just enough for Fang to catch the subtle, trembling tension in his eyes. She recognized that familiar look: the one he wore when he felt unworthy of being near her.

“You protected me,” she whispered.

His jaw clenched, but he didn’t answer.

“And you saved my life.”

His shoulders stiffened.

“So don’t walk away like you didn’t.”

A fleeting, vulnerable expression crossed his face, instantly gone, an emotion he couldn't grasp or voice. It was an internal rupture, something more tender than remorse yet more piercing than panic.

Slowly, he bowed his head again, voice barely audible.

“…As you say.”

But the words didn’t reach his eyes.

He turned and left.

 -Anon’s POV-

Long before he cleared the walkway, the rain had thoroughly soaked him. It clung to his guard robes, chilling his skin, collecting on his scalp's curve, and trickling down his neck. He scarcely registered the discomfort, his thoughts consumed by the scene: the bamboo grove, the blood slicking Fang's arm, and the instant the scroll slid from her sleeve.

Every breath felt like a blade drawn too slowly, catching ribs on the way in.

Ignoring the retainers' stares, he continued toward the storage barracks. The other servants' hushed voices trailed him: darts of speculation, judgment, and assumptions aimed through the sharpened air.

“Lost the scroll-”

“Unacceptable-”

“Human retainer, what did they expect?”

Each one slid beneath his skin, lodging deep.

He entered the barracks, closed the door behind him, and let the quiet swallow him whole.

Setting his sword on the small stand next to the wall, his hands trembled. He held them still by force. He hung his outer robe on the wooden peg; rainwater tapped steadily onto the floor.

He sat, but not on the tatami mat. He settled onto his knees, tightly folded, his posture rigidly straight. It was the stance of someone expecting a reprimand, a position he had taken, regrettably, too many times before.

Fragments of his father’s lectures resurfaced, biting with their cold, unforgiving sharpness.

A samurai who fails has no worth.
A protector who allows harm is beneath honor.
Shame must be carved out, not carried.
Your mistakes stain more than your name, they stain your lord’s.

Anon pressed his palms against his thighs, nails digging through fabric.

Fang had been hurt.

Because of him.

Fang had bled.

Because of him.

Fang had looked frightened.

Because of him.

His throat tightened, breath stuttering as he forced it into rhythm.

His mind raced with self-recrimination: He should have prioritized the second attacker, offered better cover, executed a proper retreat. He should have-

A sudden, sharp gasp shattered the spiral of thought.

He realized his vision was blurring. He blinked, but his hands only trembled harder.

It wasn't the fear of punishment that caused the shaking. It was something far deeper… a feeling like an invisible, festering wound.

The iron chain around his neck was the only possession he had brought to his service. Its links were sturdy, though one was crudely broken and mended; a final, if meager, gift from his father. He lifted a hand, touching the metal.

Not a keepsake of affection.

A reminder.

You live to serve.
You die if you fail.

Anon lowered his head, a shaky exhale escaping his lips. Outside, the rain drummed a heavy rhythm on the barracks roof. He remained kneeling, silent and perfectly still, throughout the deepening night. Sleep offered no escape; he only replayed the unending image of Fang’s pain behind his eyes.

He did not know that this night, and the wound it carved inside him, would become the turning point of everything that followed.

Act IV - Fractures Beneath the Surface

 -Fang’s POV-

The night dragged on, a restless expanse. Sleep offered Fang little solace; the image of the bandit's blade remained painfully vivid, flashing just behind her eyes every time she began to drift. She felt the ghost of the sting in her arm, the sudden, hot rush of her own blood soaking her sleeve, and the sheer shock of the wound. Yet, what haunted her more was Anon's face: wide-eyed, stripped bare, registering a terror that was clearly for her, not for himself.

Ignoring the healer's strict orders to rest, Fang got up from her futon as the earliest light began to faintly illuminate the sky. A sharp, insistent, yet not debilitating, pain shot down her arm when she tentatively flexed her fingers. The limb ached with every slight motion, her bandages stiff with dried salve.

She exhaled slowly.

She needed to see Anon.

It wasn't that she doubted his attendance at the disciplinary hall; he was far too rigidly dutiful for that. Rather, she couldn't shake the heavy feeling he'd left behind. She felt compelled to tell him again that he had protected her, and that even when wounded and overwhelmed, his presence had made her feel safer than she ever had with any of the other guards.

The estate was already stirring with the early morning. Servants rushed through the corridors, lanterns still alight, their hushed whispers following them like dropped strings. Word had clearly traveled quickly… too quickly. Every look Fang intercepted was sharp with curiosity, yet softened by a strange pity, none of which lessened the intense heat she felt beneath her scales.

When she reached the garden veranda, she realized the hall was already prepared. The courtyard outside the disciplinary building had been swept, its stone pathway cleaned of last night’s rain. The white gravel on either side had been raked into immaculate, rippling circles. 

And Ripley was already there.

He stood near the entrance, his arms tucked behind his back, his posture as immovable as carved granite. His gaze flicked to Fang the instant he sensed movement.

“You should be in bed,” he said. No greeting. No acknowledgment of her resolve.

“I’m not here for myself,” she answered, stepping closer.

Ripley’s eyes narrowed. “Do not interfere in matters of discipline. The guard is accountable to the household, not to your personal sentiments.”

Her jaw tightened. “This isn’t about sentiment.”

“It always is with you,” he countered.

She inhaled sharply, biting back a retort as heavy footsteps approached from the far side of the courtyard. The retainer on duty bowed with crisp efficiency.

“Lord Ripley. The accused arrives.”

Anon stepped into view, causing Fang's breath to catch.

His uniform was fresh, dried, and unwrinkled, yet the profound darkness beneath his eyes spoke of a sleepless night. The morning dew glistened on the polished scabbard at his hip. He proceeded with precise, almost ritualistic care, each deliberate step perfectly placed. His posture was rigid, his chin tucked, projecting a bearing of absolute, controlled resolve.

Fang, however, noticed the unspoken signs: the slight tremor in his fingers, the stiffness in his shoulders, and how his eyes remained fixed solely on the path before him.

He stopped a respectful distance from Ripley, dropped to both knees, and pressed his fists to the ground.

“My lord,” he said, voice quiet but unwavering. “I await judgment.”

Ripley’s expression did not shift. “State your failure again.”

Anon bowed his head further. “During escort, I allowed an enemy to seize an item of critical importance. Lady Lucy incurred injury as a result of my miscalculation.”

Fang stepped forward. “It wasn’t his-”

Ripley raised a hand sharply, silencing her without even turning. “Lucy. Enough.”

She clenched her teeth. “You weren’t there-”

“This does not concern you.”

“The hell it doesn’t,” she snapped. “I was the one being escorted. I was the one ambushed. I was the one injured.”

“And he,” Ripley said coldly, “was the one whose sole purpose was to prevent precisely that.”

Anon’s eyes flicked up, only a centimeter, but enough for Fang to catch a fleeting flash of alarm in them. Not fear of punishment. Fear for her, fear that she was worsening her position. Fear of her standing between him and the consequences he believed he deserved.

Ripley turned to Anon. “Your failure resulted in injury to this household and loss of entrusted property. You will receive formal reprimand.”

Anon bowed lower. “I accept.”

“And,” Ripley continued, “you will be removed from Lady Lucy’s immediate detail.”

The world thudded to a stop.

“What?!” Fang’s voice cracked too loud, too sharp. “No-”

Anon’s breath stuttered, but he did not raise his head.

Ripley kept his tone even and unyielding. “You are compromised. The bond you’ve allowed to form has clouded your judgment.”

“That’s not true!” Fang snapped, stepping closer to her father. “He saved me-”

“And lost the scroll,” Ripley countered. “His duty is to the household first, and to you second. He inverted these priorities. That cannot be permitted."

A hot, dangerous wave of anger surged through Fang. “You’re punishing him for caring?”

“I am disciplining him,” Ripley said, “for failing.”

Anon finally lifted his gaze. He wasn't looking at Ripley to defend himself or challenge the accusation, but rather silently imploring Fang to stop, to cease speaking and prevent the situation from escalating. His eyes conveyed a clear plea: Allow this to happen. I will accept the consequence.

That only fueled her fury.

“This isn’t fair,” she whispered.

“Fairness,” Ripley replied, “is irrelevant to responsibility.”

He gestured toward the hall. “Anon of the Mous lineage. Step into the disciplinary chamber.”

Anon obeyed silently, rising with a smooth, yet tense, motion. As he passed, Fang's fingers instinctively reached out, brushing against his sleeve, but Anon did not pause. His expression remained unchanged; only a faint tremor in his breathing revealed the human beneath the mask.

He entered the chamber, and the sliding doors closed behind him with a soft yet devastating finality. The moment the wood clicked shut, Fang exhaled, the fight visibly draining from her limbs.

Ripley turned to her. “Your attachment to him blinds you.”

She glared back. “And your lack of attachment to anyone makes you cruel.”

His eyes narrowed. “Watch your tone.”

“Or what?” she spat. “You’ll punish me too?”

Ripley’s jaw tightened. “…Go back to your room. Rest. Heal.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“Lucy.”

She met his stare with unwavering defiance. “He’s my guard. My friend. I’m not abandoning him.”

Her father stared at her for a prolonged moment, his silent gaze communicating his clear displeasure. He finally gave up trying to persuade her and turned away, striding across the courtyard. As he did, he signaled for his attendants to follow him inside.

Fang was left alone in the garden, the sky above paling into a muted blue, the first fragile rays of dawn filtering over the estate walls.

Despite this, she felt utterly cold.

Time seemed to stop. She waited, and waited, and waited, the hours crushing her like heavy stones. Servants moved around the periphery with wary glances, but none dared to approach her. This was true whether she stood, paced, or sat huddled on the veranda steps, her legs drawn up, her gaze fixed on the sealed doors of the disciplinary hall.

Inside, low voices, controlled instructions, and the occasional shuffle of movement reached her, though never clearly enough to make out what was happening. Her injured arm was a relentless ache, yet she stood her ground. She would not leave, would not rest, and absolutely would not allow Anon to face this situation alone.

As the doors finally slid open, the sun was already high up in the sky. Ripley was the first to step out, and Fang instantly shot to her feet, holding her breath.

His expression was unreadable.

“Where is he?”

Ripley paused. “In the inner chamber.”

“What did you do to him?”

“Nothing physical,” he replied calmly. “He was made to recite his breaches, rewrite his oath of service, and accept formal demotion from your detail.”

Fang’s chest constricted. “Demotion to where?”

Ripley’s gaze sharpened. “Outer gate patrol.”

A cold, sinking dread settled in her stomach. “That’s-”

“Dangerous?” Ripley finished. “Yes. But appropriate.”

“You’re sending him away from the estate?” Fang’s voice cracked. “Father, that’s practically exile.”

“It is temporary reassignment,” her father corrected. “He needs distance from you. Perhaps then he will remember his place.”

Fang stepped toward him, fury and panic knotting at her core. “You don’t understand. You don’t know what this will do to him.”

Ripley’s eyes hardened. “He failed you, Lucy.”

“No,” she said fiercely. “He saved me.”

Ripley’s voice lowered. “Yet you stand here injured.”

Fang felt her throat tighten, words fighting to surface but failing. Ripley turned away without waiting for her response.

“Go home,” he said over his shoulder. “He’ll report to gate duty by midday.”

The courtyard was silent once more after he departed. A moment later, a soft sliding noise preceded Anon's solitary emergence from a side door.

The uniform was new: less ornate, of a lighter material, and bore the insignia of the lowest security rank. Though his posture was surprisingly rigid and disciplined, the profound emptiness in his eyes remained, an unmistakable void.

He looked carved out.

Hollowed.

He did not see her at first. He was adjusting the strap of a travel pack over his shoulder, movements mechanical. Only when he turned did his gaze lock onto hers.

He froze.

A swift, painful emotion: tightly guarded and gone in an instant, like a door slammed shut, flickered over his face.

Fang took a step toward him.

“Anon-”

Before she could reach him, he executed a bow… low, profound, and rigidly formal.

“Lady Lucy,” he said, voice stripped bare, “I request permission to take my leave.”

“Don’t.”

He remained bowed.

“Look at me.”

Slowly, he lifted his head.

His eyes were hollow, an emptiness that chilled her, but his self-control was so rigidly absolute it was terrifying.

“You’re being reassigned because of me,” she whispered.

He inhaled through his nose, steady. “I am being reassigned because I failed in my role.”

“You didn’t-”

“I did.” His voice didn’t rise, but something inside it cracked, just slightly. “I allowed harm to reach you. I allowed property to be stolen. That is truth.”

“Truth,” she said, stepping closer, “is that you protected me with everything you had.”

He glanced briefly at her bandaged arm, and a swift shadow of anguish crossed his face. It was so fleeting she would have missed it had she not been fixed on him, as if he were the only solid anchor in her crumbling world.

Anon straightened. “My reassignment stands. It is not yours to overturn.”

“You’re my guard,” she said, voice trembling. “Mine.”

“I am no longer assigned to you.”

“You’re important to me.”

Pain, longing, and conflict flickered across his eyes before his jaw tightened, the complex expression vanishing instantly.

“I cannot...”

“Yes, you can.”

“No,” he whispered. “I cannot afford to be.”

Her breath stalled.

“Because,” Anon continued, “attachment makes me careless.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is,” he said softly. “My mistake came from prioritizing you over the mission. That is not acceptable.”

“You prioritized saving my life.”

“A guard must protect without losing clarity,” he said. “I lost mine.”

She shook her head, tears pricking her eyes. “Anon- please.”

The tremor in her voice made his shoulders stiffen, yet he bowed once more.

“Forgive me,” he murmured. “I will serve you better from a distance.”

Her hands balled into fists. “You’re not protecting me. You’re running away.”

He flinched, yet remained silent. He offered no defense, no denial, no words of comfort. He simply shouldered his pack, turned, and walked toward the gate.

Fang's fingers brushed empty air as he retreated with the measured, disciplined gait of a soldier.

He didn’t look back.

Not once.

The instant he descended the veranda steps, a delicate, unspoken connection within Fang's heart stretched taut and painfully thin. It was beginning to unravel.

Act V - The Distance Between Us

Anon's departure left the courtyard with a palpable chill. It wasn't the temperature of the morning air, but the absence of something essential. Fang remained on the veranda, watching the empty space long after his figure disappeared past the outer wall. She felt a bizarre duality: weightless, as though something vital had been quietly drawn out of her, yet profoundly heavy.

A deep, uneven ache settled in her chest, unlike the sharp jab of fear the ambush had brought. It felt as though her heart was strung with cords, taut and fraying with the slightest stress.

Instinctively, she clutched her wounded arm and turned her back on the deserted gate path. The estate, usually vibrant with controlled movement, now felt unnaturally quiet. The servants who passed her quickly lowered their eyes and bowed, their excessive politeness creating a suffocating distance between them.

She made her way back toward her room, her footsteps much slower than usual. The corridors seemed longer, quieter. As she reached the inner garden, she paused under the covered walkway, staring at the koi pond below. The water was calm, nearly still, except where raindrops occasionally fell from the eaves, sending ripples in wide, gentle circles.

Anon should’ve been here.

At dawn, he could often be found sweeping the garden. She had become accustomed to his quiet labor, noticing the precision of his posture and the methodical nature of his movements. It was one of the few times she witnessed him in a state of calm, or something close to it.

Her throat tightened.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice barely carrying over the water. “I shouldn’t have let you walk away like that.”

The ripples distorted her reflection until it no longer resembled her at all.

How am I supposed to reach you now?

The sharp ache behind Fang's eyes intensified as she clenched her jaw. Turning her back on the pond, she headed for the inner residence. She had a desperate need to speak with her mother, to find someone who would truly listen and not simply dismiss her feelings as mere sentiment or weakness.

Upon reaching Samantha's quarters, Fang saw the sliding door was slightly open. From inside, she could hear low, controlled, yet tense voices: her father's and her mother's.

Fang stopped instantly. She had never heard them speak to each other in that manner before. She crept closer, careful not to bump the doorframe.

–Inside the Room–

Ripley stood by the window, his back rigid and arms crossed behind him, staring fixedly at the bamboo grove as it swayed outside the paper screen. Across the room, Samantha knelt next to the low writing desk. Her hands were folded gently in her lap, her posture relaxed, yet her eyes possessed the keen focus of a finely honed blade.

Samantha's voice was steady, impossibly so, as she stated, "You sent him to the outer gate."

Ripley didn’t turn. “It was necessary.”

“For the household,” Samantha replied, “or for your pride?”

Ripley’s shoulders tightened. “He failed in his duty.”

“He protected our daughter,” she countered. “That is his duty.”

Ripley finally turned, expression hard. “The scroll was stolen. Fang was injured. He allowed both.”

“And yet she still says he saved her life.”

“That is a feeling, not a fact.”

With controlled grace, Samantha stood up. Her voice remained steady; it was unnecessary for her to raise it.

“Ripley. Look at me.”

He hesitated, then did.

Samantha stepped closer. “You are a father before you are a lord. Or have you forgotten that?”

His jaw tightened. “I have not.”

“Then consider what your decision will do to her.”

Ripley exhaled sharply, pacing a slow line before the window. “She is too attached to him.”

“That attachment is not a flaw,” Samantha replied. “It is proof that she trusts him. That he gives her safety.”

“He gives her distraction,” Ripley countered.

Samantha shook her head with quiet disappointment. “You saw how she looked at him. How she defended him.”

“That is exactly why he must be removed,” Ripley said. “She cannot remain dependent on a single guard. It clouds her judgment.”

“And yet,” Samantha said, “it is his judgment you fear is clouded.”

Ripley ceased his pacing.

A heavy silence settled between them.

Samantha moved closer, her hand resting lightly on his arm. "Ripley, you are punishing him for caring about her, not for any failure."

A flicker of emotion crossed Ripley’s face before he continued, "His caring for her is a weakness. Vulnerability inevitably causes errors."

Samantha’s gaze softened, but her words remained firm. “And what of Lucy? What of her vulnerability? You dismiss her feelings as though they are trivial.”

“She is young.”

“She is hurting,” Samantha corrected. “And you are widening the wound.”

Ripley said nothing.

“You have always been so careful about honor, duty, responsibility,” Samantha continued, her voice quiet. “Yet, when your child stands before you in pain, asking for understanding, you turn away.”

A flicker of guilt crossed Ripley's face, though he worked to keep his expression impassive, as his breath hitched and his eyes moved away.

“You risk pushing her further from you,” Samantha murmured. “You risk losing her trust.”

Exhaling slowly, he shut his eyes. Her words pressed a heavy burden onto his shoulders.

“What would you have me do?” he asked, voice low.

Samantha stepped slightly in front of him, meeting his eyes directly. “Acknowledge that this decision was not made out of wisdom, but out of fear.”

“I do not fear-”

“Yes,” she said gently, “you do.”

Her voice held a consoling softness yet possessed a strength that could cut through.

“You fear losing her. You fear failing her. You fear letting someone else protect her better than you can.”

Ripley stared at her, unable to speak.

Samantha’s fingers brushed his sleeve in a quiet gesture of comfort. “Do not let that fear harden into cruelty. It will hurt her. And it will destroy that boy.”

A long silence followed.

Ripley’s voice emerged strained, quieter than she expected. “I cannot reverse the order. Not now. It would undermine the structure of the house.”

“I am not asking you to,” Samantha murmured. “I am asking you to see him not as a tool, but as a person. And to see how deeply his punishment affects the child we raised.”

Ripley lowered his gaze.

She rose onto her toes and kissed his cheek softly, a gesture intended not to appease him, but to offer him reassurance.

“Think of Fang,” she whispered. “Not the household.”

When she stepped back, Ripley looked like a man bearing a burden he hadn’t realized he was carrying.

---------------------------

 -Fang’s POV-

Before either of them realized she was there, Fang retreated from the door. Her heart hammered, not in fear, but because of the profound impact of her mother's quiet, powerful voice.

Moving toward the veranda, she processed the overheard conversation. Samantha's defense of Anon had been more effective than any shouting or challenge to authority Fang could have mounted. Samantha had directly appealed to Ripley's most protected vulnerability: his deep-seated sense of duty as a father.

Fang crossed her arms tightly, fingers digging into her sleeves. She wished she could storm into the barracks, tear up the reassignment documents, and demand Anon be returned to her side.

But the estate was not a place where emotions ruled decisions.

And Anon…

Anon would never defy an order. Even one that destroyed him.

She needed to see him again. Even if only from a distance.

---------------------------

 -Anon’s POV-

The estate's outer gate marked the boundary, positioned precariously between the household's security and the untamed wilderness. Consequently, this harsh and thankless posting was reserved for the lowest-ranking personnel: new recruits or those who had failed their evaluations.

Anon had been here less than an hour and already understood why Fang called it exile.

Hands clasped behind his back, he maintained an impeccable posture beneath the gatehouse's low eave. The morning breeze offered little comfort through his new, simpler uniform, a rougher garment that lacked the deep dyes and protective layers of his previous wear.

His breathing was steady, his face impassive as he scanned the tree line. Yet, beneath his calm exterior, a silent decay had begun. He was seized by a slow, chilling numbness, the sensation of an unending drop while his body remained perfectly still.

The bandit's strike, the slice across Fang's arm, was a constant replay behind his eyelids. He saw her wince, heard the swallowed gasp of pain, and felt the warm, sticky rush of her blood on his fingers as he desperately pressed the wound.

Unacceptable. The word hammered in his mind, not spoken, but a brand carved deep within him.

He had failed.

He had lost the scroll and, worse, allowed her to be harmed.

But his greatest transgression was letting himself care.

This caring birthed a recklessness that led to blindness, and that blindness, in turn, made him dangerous.

This could not, would not, happen again.

Anon's focus, now razor-sharp, snapped his eyes open. He drew a slow, controlled breath, fingers curled around the iron chain fixed at his neck: the singular, constant reminder he never took off.

The familiar weight was a grounding anchor that brought him discipline. Failure was no longer an option.

And if distance from Fang was what ensured her safety, then he would endure it. Even if it hollowed him out. Even if the pain sharpened with every passing moment.

His stillness at the gate was absolute, his gaze fixed on the path past the bamboo. He was waiting, serving, and oh so slowly unraveling, all while enduring an absence that felt like an incurable wound.

Act VI — Threads That Pull Us Back

 -Fang’s POV-

Three days felt like three winters.

The ache in Fang’s chest, buried deep beneath her breastbone, was a far more persistent wound than the injury on her arm. Though the surface of the physical injury was already knitting over, allowing the bandages to be thinned, the deeper pain hadn't lessened at all.

She woke each morning thinking of him.

She walked through the estate and found herself looking for him.

Every soft rhythm of sweeping brooms, every distant footstep in the garden, every muted voice carried down the hallway made her turn her head before she forced herself to remember:

He’s not here anymore.

Not patrolling the familiar hallways, nor standing sentry in the inner gardens. His precise, almost comforting, disciplined movements were absent from the training yard.

His absence left the estate feeling deeply wrong, like a beautiful instrument struck without its essential, anchoring note.

Fang made a genuine effort to concentrate: on her music, her studies, and the household tasks her mother gently assigned to keep her occupied. However, the instant she touched the first string of her biwa, her fingers became still.

She would practice in the courtyard at this hour. Anon, during his rounds, often passed by.

Though he was too formal, reserved, and careful to ever say he liked her music, he always lingered.

Fang, whose instincts understood silence better than words, had noticed his presence every time.

Now, there was only absence. No lingering steps. No soft clearing of a throat behind her. No presence at all.

Nothing.

By the afternoon of the third day, Fang found herself hovering at the threshold of her room, fingers tightening around the sliding door frame.

A part of her broke. The suffocation was absolute, and she couldn't stand it any longer. She had to see him; the agony of the alternative was too much to bear.

It didn't matter if he ignored her, if he offered that empty, formal bow, or if he uttered that dreaded, calm pronouncement: that distance was the only path. She simply needed to see him.

Slipping quietly into the corridor, Fang quickly donned a light outer robe, careful to keep away from the routes her father usually took. Samantha saw her leave and, instead of speaking, offered a single, soft nod. It was a silent blessing that Fang didn't quite process, but whose comfort she nonetheless felt.

Fang’s heart pounded harder with each step she took toward the estate’s edge.

Toward the outer gate.

Toward him.

---------------------------

-Anon’s POV-

Anon had not slept properly in three days.

He moved with a stoic, disciplined precision, his body executing the drilled movements of patrol flawlessly. His steps were measured, his posture immaculate, and his eyes ceaselessly scanned the perimeter.

But the hollowness behind his eyes grew deeper.

The sentinel post was a place of constant extremity, its outer gate brutally exposed to the elements. Dawn brought an intense cold, midday a searing heat, and dusk a raw, chilling wind. This wind was a relentless adversary, carrying sand and dust that permeated his uniform, chafed his skin, and settled painfully in the corners of his eyes.

Yet, these physical discomforts were nothing to him; he hardly registered them.

What truly arrested his attention was the silence: a silence not of peace, but of a profound, consuming emptiness.

At the inner estate, there had always been distant footsteps, voices, the soft sound of Fang practicing her biwa, the echo of water running in the koi pond, the rhythm of daily life.

The only sounds here were the steady rhythm of his own breathing, the low, groaning creak of the massive wooden gate, and the persistent presence of the wind.

After a long shift on the third day, the captain, a man overburdened with duties and short on patience, clapped him on the shoulder.

“You’re a quiet one,” the captain noted. “Good for this post. Less complaining.”

Anon bowed slightly. “Thank you, sir.”

“That wasn’t praise,” the captain muttered, trudging off.

Anon stood once more beneath the gatehouse roof, hands clasped behind his back. He gazed outward, his focus distant from the road before him, his mind consumed by a knot of self-reproach.

You endangered her.
You lost the scroll.
You grew careless.
You cared too much.

Lying on the thin futon for the gate guards, he stared at the ceiling in the darkness until his eyes burned. Fang's quiet, pained, pleading voice echoed in his mind.

‘You’re not protecting me. You’re running.’

The accusations cut him to the core.

Running?

He rejected the notion. This was not flight; it was discipline. He was merely doing what he was bound to do: serving, obeying, and correcting the emotional lapse he had allowed.

Yet, the memory of her pained, fractured voice echoed relentlessly.

It was irrelevant. He had chosen this distance, believing it was for her own good.

Hadn't he?

The question repeated, a desperate plea.

Anon clenched his hands behind his back, his knuckles turning white as he fought to control the rising tide of feeling. He forced a deep breath, pushing the tension down.

Serve. Endure. Atone.

It was the only life he knew.

The soft approach of footsteps behind him registered only when it was already too late.

-Fang’s POV-

A soft, almost dreamlike landscape emerged as the sun began to set, bathing the bamboo forest in a warm, amber glow.

Fang saw him before he saw her.

Her breath hitched.

Silhouetted against the fading gold of the evening sky, he stood perfectly still, his posture ramrod straight. His uniform, dusted with travel, was crisp despite the visible iron chain just above his collar. With an unreadable expression, his hands were clasped tightly behind his back.

But his eyes…

His eyes were so empty she almost stopped walking.

She stepped closer.

“Anon.”

He didn’t move.

She questioned for a horrifying moment whether he hadn't heard her or was deliberately ignoring her. Closing the distance, her sandals made a soft, whispering sound on the gravel.

“Anon,” she repeated, softer this time.

He straightened, achieving a level of rigidity that seemed impossible for someone already standing at attention. Following this, he executed a bow that was both low and strictly formal.

He spoke, his voice quiet and deliberately controlled: “Lady Lucy, you ought not to be here.”

“I needed to speak with you,” she said, her voice more fragile than she intended.

“You should not be here,” he repeated, as if reciting protocol. “This post is not suitable for someone of your standing.”

Fang swallowed. “I don’t care about suitability.”

He stiffened.

“I came,” she said, stepping directly into his line of sight, “because I didn’t recognize the man who left the estate three days ago. And I don’t recognize the one standing in front of me now.”

Anon’s jaw clenched so tightly she could see the muscle twitch.

“I am still myself,” he replied. “I am simply fulfilling my duty.”

“No,” Fang said, shaking her head. “You’re hiding behind it.”

His breath faltered.

“I’m not blind,” she continued, stepping even closer. “You’re hurting.”

“That is irrelevant.”

“It’s not irrelevant to me.”

The control he always maintained, that careful composure, faltered, just a tremor, but it was enough to make Fang's heart seize. She saw the fractures now, small but unmistakable, in the armor she thought impenetrable. When she reached for his sleeve, he recoiled sharply.

“Don’t,” he whispered.

“Why?”

“Because if you touch me now,” he said, voice cracking, “I will lose what little discipline I have left.”

Fang froze.

He hadn’t spoken with such raw emotion since the ambush.

“Anon…” she murmured.

He jerked his gaze away, staring rigidly at the ground. “My place is here. Yours is within the estate. Your presence only… disrupts the order I must maintain.”

“It disrupts you,” she corrected gently.

He flinched.

She stepped to his side, her voice soft. “What are you so afraid of?”

“Failure,” he breathed. “Failing you again.”

“You didn’t fail me.”

“I lost the scroll.”

“I am standing here. Alive,” she said, voice trembling. “Because of you.”

“That is not enough,” he replied, quieter.

“Why isn’t it?”

Pain, sharp enough to make Fang's breath catch, flickered in his eyes. He hesitated, his throat constricting with the movement.

“Because,” he whispered, “I should have prevented all harm. Protectors who allow injury-”

“Don’t you dare repeat your father’s words to me.”

Anon froze completely.

Fang moved to stand directly before him. “You are not a failure. Not to me. Never.”

He finally raised his eyes to meet hers, truly looking. The sheer grief she saw there almost broke her heart.

“Fang,” he whispered, and her name on his tongue sounded like a confession. “You cannot say such things to me.”

“Why?”

“Because I will believe you,” he said. “And if I believe you… I will want to be near you again.”

Her breath caught.

“And I cannot,” he forced out. “I cannot afford that.”

She shook her head, stepping even closer. “You don’t get to decide that for both of us.”

“Someone must,” he said. “Because if I stay close and fail again-”

“Stop,” she said sharply.

He tried to look away, but she gripped his sleeve again. This time, he didn't resist.

Moving closer, she lowered her voice to a whisper. "Anon, you're not fleeing danger. You're running away from the fact that someone finally cares about you."

He froze completely, like a struck bell.

“…That is not permitted,” he murmured.

“I don’t care.”

“That is dangerous,” he whispered, inhaling sharply.

“Then let it be.”

His mask cracked for the first time in days. His breath shook, his shoulders rising and falling unevenly.

Fang's touch, barely grazing his sleeve with her claws, grew firmer.

“Look at me,” she commanded.

He obeyed, his gaze rising slowly, painfully, as if the act caused him physical discomfort.

“You’re not alone,” she whispered.

A sound, less a breath and more than a word, escaped his parted lips.

But before he could speak-

A retainer’s voice cut through the fading light.

“Guard Mous! Report!”

Anon flinched back suddenly, as though he'd been burned. He then bowed with a speed that suggested an instinctual retreat.

“I must attend to my duties,” he said, voice reverting to cold formality. “Please return to the estate. It is unsafe after dusk.”

“Anon-”

He turned away.

He didn't want to leave, but he couldn't stay.

Each step toward the captain was rigid, forced: a frantic exercise in self-restraint.

Fang watched until his silhouette disappeared beyond the gatehouse.

The ache in her chest tightened unbearably, yet she knew with absolute clarity: He was breaking. Soon, something inside him would finally snap.

---------------------------

-Ripley’s POV-

From the upper walkway of the estate walls, Ripley watched his daughter’s figure return through the garden path.

He told himself he was inspecting the perimeter.

But when he had spotted Fang slipping toward the outer gate earlier, a knot tightened in his stomach.

Now, seeing the tension in her shoulders, the redness around her eyes, the way she held her arm as if containing something trying to spill out-

He felt something cold settle into his chest.

Samantha’s words echoed back to him.

You are hurting her.
You will destroy that boy.
You are afraid.

Gripping the parapet railing, Ripley slowly let out his breath.

Cruelty had not been his intention. He had sought to provide protection, structure, and order.

Watching Fang retreat back to the estate, alone, diminished, and visibly wounded, a terrible realization struck him: he may have made a grave mistake.

Act VII - The Gate

-Anon’s POV-

The storm's passing did little to lighten the atmosphere; the sky remained low and oppressive even after the rain ceased before dawn. A low, wispy mist enveloped the ground, swirling around the outer gate guards' boots like sluggish, pale snakes. The damp air silenced the wind, which merely caused the bamboo to swing in slow, ponderous arcs.

Anon led the patrol formation, not because of his rank, but because the captain always positioned him there. He was the one guard who was unfailingly decisive, silent in his duty, and completely reliable. Trailing behind him were the others: either new recruits assigned to the outer gate as a disciplinary measure, or those who barely met their training standards.

They were inexperienced, some barely knowing how to hold a spear with confidence. But they were all Anon had.

He kept his eyes forward, scanning every shadow, every shift in the bamboo. His breath came evenly, though dark crescents had formed beneath his eyes from lack of sleep. His hands, clasped behind his back, trembled faintly, and he forced them still.

The unrelenting strain of three days of non-stop patrol was taking its toll. Three nights without rest, each blink a fresh replay of Fang's pained expression, wore at the edges of his composure in ways he was only beginning to perceive.

Behind him, the youngest recruit whispered, “I don’t like this fog…”

“Quiet,” Anon murmured without turning. “Sound travels easily here. And fear breeds mistakes.”

The recruit swallowed audibly but fell silent.

The path bent sharply toward a forgotten shrine, a small cluster of ancient, moss-covered stones. The air grew colder, and the mist intensified. A profound silence fell: the birds ceased their calls, and the very wind seemed to halt, suspended in anticipation.

Anon halted the patrol with a raised hand. The younger recruits tensed, nervously gripping their spears and exchanging wary glances.

"What is it...?" one whispered.

Anon stood still, listening intently. For a moment, there was only silence, then the distinct, low sound: a branch snapping. It was deliberate, too precise to be a mere accident.

Anon raised his spear and moved forward. "Form up," he commanded, and the recruits quickly fell into their defensive formation.

Three figures emerged from the parting mist. Their relaxed yet assured movements; a predator's unhurried stride, revealing them as they passed through the bamboo. The glint of scarred leather armor beneath their cloaks, along with the distinct bandit markings on their sashes, simply confirmed what Anon had already surmised.

These were the very same raiders who had ambushed Fang, or at least members of the same faction.

One of them grinned. “Look at that. The little princess’ guard dog.”

Another chuckled. “Guess he doesn’t have the girl to hide behind today.”

The recruits stiffened in fear. Anon did not flinch.

“Turn back,” he said firmly. “You have crossed into forbidden territory. You will not go further.”

The bandits laughed.

“What are you going to do?” the leader mocked. “You and your half-trained children?”

Anon shifted his stance subtly, spear angled low.

“The same thing I did before,” he said. “I will stop you.”

The leader sneered and raised his hand.

Steel flashed.

Bandits rushed forward.

Unprepared for the swift attack, the recruits faltered. Anon, however, surged forward, meeting the initial enemy head-on. The clash of their blades sent sparks flying over the dewy earth, a sharp jolt running up Anon's arm. Ignoring the impact, he pressed his advantage, sweeping the bandit's legs out from beneath him.

“Stay behind me!” he ordered sharply.

Overcome by fear and neglecting caution, one of the recruits charged prematurely, his steps unsteady.

A second bandit pivoted and struck him cleanly across the ribs with the blunt end of a staff, sending him sprawling into the mud. The boy cried out, clutching his side.

Anon’s stomach clenched.

“Get back!” Anon snapped, but the boy was too dazed to move.

The second bandit stepped toward the fallen recruit, raising his blade.

Anon’s vision narrowed.

With a hiss of displaced air, he lunged, his spear darting up to intercept the attack. The metal shrieked as his weapon caught the descending blade, the impact jolting his arms. A sharp, familiar pain ignited in his shoulders; a consequence of his body's exhaustion from unhealed strain and too little sleep.

The bandit smirked. “You’re slower today, guard dog.”

Anon strained with all his might, pushing against a powerful force. Cold air whipped at him, yet sweat beaded and ran down his face.

Too slow.

Too weak.

It wasn't enough.

Spinning quickly, Anon used the haft of his spear to block the attack from the third bandit who had circled behind him. This defensive move, however, utterly depleted his remaining strength. His breathing became labored, and the edges of his vision began to blur.

His body was on the verge of collapse. For three relentless days, he had gone without sleep, proper nourishment, or the emotional stability he desperately lacked.

The leader's swing came from the left, and Anon barely managed to evade it, ducking just in time. The blade still grazed his shoulder, tearing through his clothing and drawing blood. A spreading warmth signaled the injury on his upper arm, but he couldn't afford to check the damage.

The recruit on the ground groaned weakly. Another stumbled backward from fear, tripping over a root. The patrol’s formation broke entirely.

Anon stood rigidly between the others and the approaching attackers, his spear held high despite the tremor in his hands.

Not again.

He would not allow himself to fail this time.

The bandit leader charged.

Anon's parry failed as his strength gave out. The blow forced him to one knee, the spear clattering from his numb grip. The bandit's blade hovered just above his throat, the killer savoring the prospect of a drawn-out execution.

“You’re a mess,” he taunted. “Your little lady break your spirits?”

Anon's chest heaved, his vision blurring. For the first time in years, his hands shook uncontrollably.

Failure.

Always a failure.

A whimper of terror from the recruit behind him was the final blow, breaking something inside Anon far deeper than exhaustion.

Anon forced his body to move, powered purely by instinct and desperation. He threw himself forward, knocking the bandit backward just enough to disrupt his footing. He snatched his spear from the mud, sweeping in a wide arc that forced the attackers to retreat a step.

He managed to stand, though barely. Yet, stand he did.

“You,” he rasped, “will not pass.”

Anon's legs failed him, and he stumbled, bracing himself on his spear. A warm trickle of blood ran down his arm, and a painful tremor shook his lungs as he fought to draw a breath.

The bandits watched, exchanging smug glances. Their leader let out a harsh laugh. "Oh, look at him. Too stubborn to die."

His grip slackened. His legs gave out completely. The world began to spin and dim before his eyes. He collapsed onto the ground. The final sound he registered was the desperate screams of the recruits calling his name.

---------------------------

He lay with cold mud pressing against his cheek. His breaths were sharp, uneven gasps. Voices reached him, but they sounded distant.

“Bring water- quickly!”
“He’s losing consciousness-”
“Captain! He protected us- he protected-”

The word, "Protect," brutally accused him, cutting through his hazy thoughts like a blade.

He had protected them.

The victory was meaningless; he had barely survived and was still defeated. The bandits, having succeeded in humiliating him once more, withdrew for the day, apparently satisfied. Had they pressed their attack for just one second longer, or hadn't they retreated out of arrogance, believing him neutralized, the outcome would have been different.

Those boys would be dead now.

The fault was entirely his; he should have stayed on his feet.

He was simply too weak.

The echo of his father's voice resonated in his thoughts: "A protector who falters is worthless."

A terrible, cold clarity washed over him, sharpening with the beat of blood from his wounded shoulder: This cannot continue.

The unbearable shame of failure, the memory of Fang’s tear-filled eyes, the danger he posed to those he swore to defend, the harm he inflicted through his instability, crushed him. He was worthless. Weak.

If he failed again... If he endangered Fang or other recruits...

There was only one honorable path left, one way to halt the unraveling before it caused further destruction.

He flinched as his fingers weakly closed around the iron chain at his neck. The mantra bounced in his head: You live to serve. You die if you fail.

At last, he finally understood the second half.

---------------------------

Even after the recruits carried him back to the gatehouse, the world's edges remained blurred. His thoughts, too, seemed invaded by the fog, causing his vision to flicker and leaving him feeling adrift and disconnected. The ambush had clearly shaken the new recruits, who hovered with uncertainty as the captain shouted commands and someone hurried to bring him water.

But the moment they realized he was breathing and conscious, their attention turned toward anything but his trembling.

“Should we report this to Lord Ripley?”
“Maybe he shouldn’t be on patrol-”
“He saved us… he almost-”
“Stop talking about it. Just stop.”

Anon slumped against the wall, his head bent and breath coming in shallow gasps. The younger recruits eyed him warily, seeing him as a cracked blade: still functional, perhaps, but inherently unreliable. A liability.

Doubt and fear emanated from them, and he shared their sentiment.

With every beat of his heart, a deep hollowness intensified inside him, eclipsing the throbbing pain of his shoulder wound. He clutched the iron chain around his neck repeatedly: an anchor and a constant reminder of the servitude he had been conditioned to believe in.

He felt the crushing weight of his failures. A recruit had nearly died, and Fang was wounded. He had almost failed again.

Even three days of distance hadn't been enough to steady him. His body was weak, his resolve was cracking, and his very presence now felt like a danger to those around him.

Ignoring the captain's loud protests about his condition, he stood with a mechanical bow. He then left the gatehouse in a state of deadened calm. No one pursued him, as they understood by now that Anon strictly adhered to protocol, his every action within bounds. They simply assumed he was heading off to clean up or change his uniform.

The unseen tremor in his hands and the eerie silence of his moves escaped their notice. They remained ignorant of the solemn duty his father had charged him with: the terrible action a guardian must take when his own resolve falters.

Ignoring the guard post and its superstitious patrol, he made his way to the untouched old stone shrine beyond it. The place was steeped in age: generations of neglect left the fox-shaped stone lanterns and steps covered in moss. Even during the day, the low-bowing bamboo overhead ensured the area remained in a dim, forest-green shadow.

Beneath the ancient torii gate, Anon knelt. His breath was slow, measured, and utterly calm.

With soldierly precision, he unfastened and folded his outer robe, setting it aside to prevent staining. His hands trembled despite his focused ritual. Following his father's instruction, he then removed the iron chain from his neck, carefully placing it before him… a symbol of duty returned to the world.

He took a slow, deep breath, then let it out, waiting.

His eyes fell to the floor as his palms pressed hard against his thighs. The pale mist drifted across the shrine's stone floor like a sheet of silk.

He knew exactly what was about to happen.

He felt no vivid image, only the quiet of the end—the burden released, the acceptance that his failure would cease to weigh on others.

And Fang...

She would be safer. She would, in time, forget him.

His breath shook as he offered a barely audible plea:

"Forgive me... Lady Lucy."

He reached for the tanto in his belt.

For a single, fleeting moment, his hand hesitated.

Then, a distant voice sliced through the bamboo.

“ANON!”

A violent lurch in his chest nearly made him drop the blade.

He spun around to face the sound.

Out of the mist, a frantic silhouette was running, stumbling, and nearing. It was Fang.

Her voice, raw and desperate, sounded as if she had been screaming his name for a long time before the sound finally reached him.

“ANON! STOP!”

A sudden, violent surge of emotion seized his chest, freezing him not with fear, but utter disbelief. She was not supposed to be here. She must not see this.

The blade clattered against the stone as Anon fumbled, failing to slide it back into its sheath. The sharp, metallic ring instantly drew Fang's attention.

She instantly lunged after recognizing the source of the sound.

Before Anon could even attempt to rise, she dropped to her knees, seizing both his wrists. Her claws dug slightly into his skin, ensuring her grip.

Fang's voice shattered into a ragged, furious scream. "ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?! WHAT- WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?!"

He tried to pull away, horrified at her seeing him like this. “Lady Lucy- please- step back-”

“NO!” she shouted. “NO, I WON’T! I WON’T LET YOU!”

The fury coursing through her was palpable, causing her to tremble, yet it was not fear that made her grip white-knuckle tight; it was a rage so intense it felt electric.

He bowed his head. “You should not be here…”

“You were going to kill yourself!” she screamed, the last word breaking into a sob. “You- idiot- you absolute, stubborn, self-hating BASTARD-!”

“It was necessary,” he whispered.

A mixture of pain and rage twisted Fang's expression. “NECESSARY?! How could you ever- how could you even think-”

"I have become a liability," he stated quietly. "My repeated failures have compromised the recruits and you. Removing the danger I now pose is the final duty I have left to fulfill."

Her hands flew to his shoulders, shaking him violently. “YOU THINK THAT WOULD HELP ME? YOU THINK LOSING YOU WOULD PROTECT ME?!”

He flinched.

Fang leaned closer, her voice thick with emotion and trembling so violently that it barely held together. Her breath was hot.

“You think I could survive that?” she whispered.

Anon blinked, stunned.

“You think I could live,” she said, louder now, “knowing you died like this? Alone? In the cold? With no one to stop you?”

His throat closed.

“Lady Lucy-”

“STOP CALLING ME THAT!”

He froze.

Fang’s eyes were wet, furious, shining.

"Stop holding back! Stop pushing me away! Stop treating me like I'm made of glass! I'm not fragile; I won't shatter."

Her voice echoed, amplified by the surrounding bamboo.

"But you- you were ready to abandon everything over a mistake that wasn't even yours!"

He tried to answer, but she cut him off with a raw, shaking cry:

“DO YOU EVEN UNDERSTAND WHY I CAME HERE? WHY I RAN THROUGH THE GARDENS LIKE A MANIAC, TRACKED YOU THROUGH THE MIST, AND NEARLY BROKE MY ARM AGAIN, JUST TO REACH THIS SPOT?!”

Fang was trembling violently, her claws clicking against the fabric of his sleeves.

“BECAUSE I LOVE YOU!”

She didn't plan it, couldn't stop it; the words burst from her throat in an unstoppable explosion.

Anon's body jolted, violently, as if hit, as if the fundamental structure of his world had suddenly fractured.

"Do you hear me?" she asked again, her voice softening slightly but retaining its powerful intensity. "I love you. Not for your rank, or your duty, or your skill in battle, but for you. Just you, Anon. I love you."

His breath shattered.

Fang leaned forward, pressing her forehead against his.

"You never burdened me," she whispered, her voice trembling with honesty. "That's why I fell for you. You simply cared, looking at me without fear or expectation, treating me like a person, not just a title. You even encouraged me to continue playing my biwa when I was ready to quit."

Her fingers curled into his robe.

"And if you ever- and I mean ever- try a stunt like that again! I swear, I'll personally drag your soul back from the afterlife just to give you a smack you'll feel across your next three incarnations."

A drop of her tears hit his lap.

A primal, strangled, disbelieving sound escaped Anon, neither fully a breath nor a sob.

“You can’t love me,” he whispered. “You’re not allowed to love me.”

“I don’t care.”

“You’ll be punished.”

“I don’t care.”

“I will be executed.”

“I DON’T CARE!”

The force of her final scream echoed through the clearing.

Anon’s composure shattered completely.

He doubled over, a hand pressing hard against his face as his shoulders sagged. A violent tremor ran through his hands, and his breathing caught in his throat, as if he were trying to hold back the breakdown consuming him.

He whispered her name, "Fang." It was the first time he had spoken it so openly, without reserve. "I don't deserve..."

She grabbed his shaking hand and pressed it against her own chest.

“Then live. Stay alive until you believe me.”

He stared at their joined hands.

He nodded once, a slow and agonizing movement. Fang let out a ragged sigh of relief, then pulled him into a tight embrace, holding him as close as her injured arm permitted. Anon immediately collapsed into her arms.

His arms enveloped her, starting slowly, then urgently, desperately.

And in that moment, for the first time in days, Anon's composure shattered. He began to cry.

It was not a loud or violent weeping, but a silent, shaking release of the unbearable burden he had carried in isolation for far too long.

Anon clung to her, anchoring himself to reality, and she, Fang, held him just as tightly, refusing to let him slip away again. She held him until the trembling slowly softened, though it never fully ceased. His shoulders remained rigid beneath her arms, the effort of existing in her embrace seemingly draining what little strength he had left.

When Anon finally drew a long, uneven breath against her shoulder, Fang eased her grip, just enough to see his face. His eyes were red, the lashes damp, and his expression was utterly fractured. It was a look she had never witnessed before, not when he'd been bleeding on the roadside, or shaking after tending to her own wounds, or even when he stood stiff with self-loathing after the ambush.

With her uninjured hand, she gently cupped his cheek, her claws lightly scraping his jawline. "Anon... look at me," she commanded, her voice softer yet still authoritative. He paused before raising his eyes, his head remaining slightly bowed. After a brief struggle, his gaze finally flickered up, as if meeting her eyes was a forbidden act. A faint tremble crossed his face when he fully met her stare.

“I cannot-” he began, but she placed a thumb against his lips to quiet him.

"Forget duties and punishments, and don't tell me what you think is forbidden," she urged, her voice dropping to an intimate whisper. She leaned in, the tip of her snout almost touching his nose, a closeness that made him go completely rigid. "Right now, I only care about what you feel, what you truly desire."

Anon swallowed, his eyes dropping. They landed on the tanto blade catching the weak, scattered morning light nearby. In a swift move, Fang grabbed the weapon and flung it deep into a dense bamboo thicket behind them. The metal clattered, vanishing into the deep green shadow. Anon instinctively jumped, a spike of fear, but Fang's grip remained steady.

“No more of that,” she declared with a low, resolute voice. “Not while I’m still breathing.”

His chest rose and fell with a shaky, rhythmic breath as he held her gaze. In his eyes, a new look was emerging, one stripped bare of his usual fear or deference; it was utterly unguarded.

“I… want to stay alive,” he whispered at last, as if confessing a forbidden sin. “But I don’t know how. My existence is service, a constant walk on a sword's edge. Without that strength… without my purpose…” His voice was thin and broken. “What am I then?”

Fang exhaled, her breath warm on his cheek. “Then I’ll teach you,” she murmured. “Little by little. If you don’t know who you are without duty, then stay beside me until you find out.”

His composure fractured once more; his eyes widened. A choked, soft breath escaped him, but the words that gathered on his lips failed to surface. Fang gently brushed her thumb across his cheekbone.

"You once asked me," she continued, her voice dropping with profound honesty, "why I made you call me 'Fang' when it was just the two of us... I didn't do it simply because I wanted to feel ordinary. I did it because I longed to hear what my name sounds like when you say it."

Anon was left speechless, staring at her as if the very ground beneath him had given way. Only her words kept him grounded in the sudden void. He tried to speak, but his mouth moved soundlessly for a moment before any sound came out.

He barely breathed her name: "Fang," a whisper so delicate it felt as though the syllables might break against his tongue. Yet, the sound of it, soft as it was, instantly made her shoulders tense, betraying an emotion she could not conceal.

Her breath caught as she rested her forehead against his shoulder. He paused, as if seeking silent consent to reciprocate her touch. Yet, when her hand lightly pulled at his sleeve, he yielded, leaning into her embrace and closing his eyes as she held him close once more.

Taking a few deep breaths, Fang moved just enough to look at his injury. Dark, crusted streaks of dried blood marked his shoulder, and his robe was stuck to the gash. "We must clean this," she said, her voice now steady. "If you don't, your arm will become infected."

He lowered his gaze. “I apologize. I did not intend for you to see-”

“You’re coming with me,” she cut in, her tone gentle. “No more apologies. You’re not spending another hour alone today.”

She held his wrist tightly, as if afraid he would vanish into the darkness the instant she released him. When she stood, Anon tried to follow, but a sudden wave of dizziness overcame him. Fang used her good arm to steady him, placing her hand under his to help him keep his balance.

"No sudden movements," she whispered. "You're clearly exhausted. And you," she gave the front of his robe a gentle tug, "are going to let me assist you. Do you understand?"

Though he nodded once, the tension in his frame betrayed a deep unease, even as he was clearly touched by her insistence. Fang rose, brushing the dirt from her knees, and adjusted her kimono. She then turned her full attention to him, her expression softening into a silent concern that spoke volumes.

As the mist receded, the worn stone steps that led back to the garden path were revealed. Fang secured her grip on Anon's wrist and began to lead him away from the shrine exit. He followed, silent and compliant under her touch, his steps uncertain. His eyes fixed forward, yet he occasionally glanced down at their joined hands, as if questioning whether he was in a dream or violating some sacred boundary.

“You don’t have to look so tense,” Fang said lightly as they descended the moss-covered steps. “I’m not dragging you to the magistrate’s hall. I’m taking you home to clean your wound and make sure you don’t collapse on another forest floor.”

Anon's voice was low and uncertain as he cleared his throat. "Fang... I shouldn't- it's improper for me to-"

“To what?” she asked, looking back at him with a raised brow.

He hesitated. “…enter your home.”

She blinked once, then let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “Anon, after what almost happened today, you think I’m letting you wander off on your own? Not a chance.”

The certainty in her tone made him stiffen. "It will cause rumors," he murmured. 

"Let them gossip," Fang said, facing ahead again. "Your spirit is too unsettled for me to let you walk alone. Rumors matter less than your safety."

They finished crossing the bamboo stretch in silence and stepped into the faint morning sun, which was cutting through the now-thinning fog. The air, damp and carrying the scent of distant plum blossoms and rain, met them as they walked.

As they proceeded toward her residence, Anon's nervousness was almost tangible. His shoulders were hunched, near his ears; his steps were overly measured. He seemed unsure how he, a man who had nearly ended his life, was expected to walk beside the woman who had pulled him back from the brink.

Fang eased her grip slightly, though she did not let go.

Glancing at him, her voice softened. "Anon, you can breathe now. You are safe here, with me."

His breath hitched, but with great effort, he still managed to relax his posture a fraction. Not completely, and certainly not comfortably, but just enough. Enough to follow her home and live a little longer.

They walked side-by-side through the periphery of the gardens, vanishing beneath the plum trees whose arching branches were laden with flowers. The pale petals descended like snow, lighting the path toward a future chapter neither was ready to define.

Final Act - The Blossom That Chose Its Wind

Fang entered the courtyard abruptly, pushing through the garden gate with a lack of ceremony, her kimono sleeves still damp from the morning mist. Anon followed closely, a step behind, struggling to maintain the rigid bearing of a disciplined guard despite the uncontrollable tremor in his limbs. The instant they appeared, the household attendants froze. The sound of a young maid's laundry basket hitting the ground, accompanied by her sharp gasp, echoed clearly beneath the wooden eaves.

“Lady Fang- your arm! You’re hurt! And… is that-?”

“It’s fine,” Fang said, brushing past them. “Prepare warm water and bandages. And food. A proper portion.”

Stunned, the servants exchanged glances, their surprise rooted not only in her abrupt command but also in the silent guard trailing her. Anon's stained robes showed dried blood, with a dark, soaked area at his shoulder where the raw wound was now visible beneath the torn fabric.

Before either of them reached the inner walkway, the door slid open abruptly.

Ripley appeared.

Imposing in his court robes, he filled the threshold, his expression rigidly severe. The faint morning breeze stirred the sleeves of his formal garments, making them ripple like banners moments before a battle charge. His stern gaze first dropped to Fang’s injured arm, and she caught a fleeting spark of panic, instantly suppressed beneath his commander’s iron discipline.

Then his eyes shifted to Anon.

In an instant, Anon straightened, pressing both fists at his sides in a formal bow so deep his forehead nearly brushed the wooden boards. Fang felt him tense so violently that she instinctively reached for his uninjured arm, restraining him from sinking lower.

Ripley strode forward. The household servants scattered from his path.

His voice was low and controlled, though already showing cracks as he demanded, "What happened?" The sight of blood soaking through Anon's sleeve tightened the edge in his tone.

Fang, maintaining her practiced composure, met his glare. "He was fighting bandits near the outer shrine, protecting the recruits," she explained, her jaw tightening. "He was almost killed."

Ripley’s gaze hardened further, but not in the direction Anon expected. Instead, he turned sharply toward his daughter.

“And why,” Ripley said, “did you bring him into our home?”

Anon’s head bowed even lower. Fang stepped immediately between them.

"He requires attention," she stated, "since he has not slept for days and remains unrecovered from protecting me on that occasion."

"Lady Lucy-" Anon's voice cracked with alarm as he whispered, "You must not, please-"

“Quiet,” she murmured without looking back.

Ripley folded his arms, observing the interaction. He noticed the way Fang positioned herself protectively in front of Anon, the way her claws gently pressed against his wrist as if anchoring him. His eyes narrowed.

“Anon,” Ripley said sharply. “Stand up straight.”

Anon obeyed instantly, though he swayed. Fang tightened her hold around his wrist again in case he fell.

Towering over them, Ripley took a slow, deliberate step forward. "You are clearly injured," he stated. "Why was this not reported to me or to the medical wing?"

"My lord," Anon whispered, his voice weak but unwavering, "I considered myself unworthy to appear before you in such a condition."

Fang closed her eyes briefly. He’s still doing this… even now.

Ripley's close observation tightened the lines around his brows. His attention then dropped to Anon's wrist, where the faint but familiar imprint of Fang's claws was clearly visible.

Recognition struck Ripley with the force of a blade.

“…Lucy,” he said slowly. “Release him.”

“No.”

The entire courtyard went dead silent. Even the crows in the distant cedars seemed to cease their calls.

"Lucy," Ripley warned, a hint of genuine surprise showing in the slight widening of his eyes at her defiance, "explain yourself."

Taking a steadying, deep breath, she explained, "I won't release him. He would simply collapse. Besides," she paused, letting out a slow breath, "he is with me."

“With you…” Ripley echoed, his voice dropping to a tone far more dangerous and dark. “And what, precisely, does that mean? In what capacity?”

Fang squared her shoulders. “As someone I care for.”

As if struck, Anon staggered. His eyes went wide with dread, and he instantly dropped into an even lower, more profound bow.

"My lord, forgive her," he pleaded, his voice thin with emotion. "She speaks out of confusion- I swear to you, I have never- I would never-"

Fang hissed a low, sharp noise of frustration. “Anon, stop apologizing for me.”

Ripley’s voice boomed through the courtyard, “SILENCE.”

Both froze.

Ripley's gaze shifted between the two: the guard, injured, shaking, and loyal to a suffocating extreme, and his daughter, wounded, defiant, and stubbornly refusing to yield.

The silence was long.

Ripley finally let out a breath, pressing a hand to his temple. "Lucy, inside. Now."

"No," she repeated. "Not without him."

Her second refusal struck him much harder than the first. Ripley closed his eyes. "...So it has come to this."

The servants watched from the corners of the courtyard, barely breathing.

Ripley turned to Anon. “Guard. Look at me.”

Anon raised his eyes with visible fear.

“Is what my daughter claims true? That she… cares for you?”

Anon shook his head violently. “No- my lord, I would never- I have no right to-”

“But she does,” Ripley said, voice chillingly calm. “The words came from her lips, not yours.”

Anon swallowed hard, tears pricking the edges of his eyes. “She feels compassion because I failed in my duties. Nothing more.”

Ripley leaned closer. “And do you feel anything for her?”

Anon froze, his breathing hitched. Fang could sense the tangible wave of panic radiating from him.

“My feelings,” Anon whispered, “are irrelevant.”

Ripley stared at him for a long time.

Then he turned away with the stiff posture of a man who instantly recognized a truth he wished he hadn’t. “Bring water,” he ordered the servants. “Bandages. A healer. And prepare the east wing for a temporary patient.”

Anon’s head shot up in confusion.

Ripley continued walking, voice level. “Until this matter is sorted, he will remain under this roof where I can observe him myself.”

Fang’s shoulders sagged in relief.

Anon nearly collapsed.

---------------------------

The east wing, typically reserved for high-ranking guests or wounded soldiers, remained hushed a few days later. Unaccustomed to such luxury, Anon initially attempted to sleep kneeling on the tatami mat until Fang insisted he lie down. A healer treated his injuries with hot herbal steams; Anon showed no outward reaction, yet Fang noticed the strain tightening his jaw.

Ripley visited Anon daily for inspection, not due to malice, but as a calculated measure. He systematically questioned Anon about his training, family, sense of duty, failures, and fears. Anon consistently answered with honesty, though with mounting shame as his emotional responses became more apparent.

Ripley remained mostly silent, his attention fixed on the young man and, even more intently, on Fang, who lingered near the sliding door, making a show of not listening.

Three nights into Anon’s recovery, Ripley finally spoke plainly to his daughter.

“You love him.”

The words were not a question.

Fang lowered her gaze. “Yes.”

“And he loves you.”

She hesitated. “He… hasn’t said it.”

“He doesn’t need to,” Ripley said with a humorless sound. “The boy looks at you as though you’re a shrine he’s not even worthy to gaze upon."

Fang’s face flushed.

Ripley folded his hands behind his back. “This complicates everything.”

“I know.”

“He is a guard, Lucy. A commoner. Without land, without name. A man conditioned into servitude.”

“I know.”

“And yet you still choose him.”

She lifted her snout. “Yes.”

Ripley studied her, his gaze intense. Her resolute will was familiar to him; it reminded him of his own defiant youth before the demands of court had shaped him. A slight easing softened his severe expression.

“…Then we will do this properly.”

Her breath caught. “Father?”

"I'll petition to elevate his status," he declared. "A minor rank, enough to let him court you publicly and shield him from the court's scavengers. However," his gaze sharpened, "he needs more training. He must learn not just how to guard you, but how to stand as your equal."

A soft, radiant, stunned smile spread across Fang's face.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

Ripley turned away so she would not see the faint tremor of paternal fear in the movement. “Do not thank me yet. Convincing the council will be a battle in itself.”

---------------------------

On the fifth morning of his recovery, Ripley paid a visit to Anon's chamber. Fang was already there, adjusting Anon's fresh bandages. When Ripley came in, Anon tried to sit up quickly but Fang gently but firmly pushed him back down.

Ripley spoke without preamble. “Anon, you will be granted provisional rank within the court guard, pending council approval.”

Anon stared, confusion clouding his face. "I... I don't understand," he whispered after a series of repeated blinks.

Ripley stepped forward. “If the council accepts my petition, you will no longer be a servant by birth, but a retainer by rank. You will be allowed a private residence, a stipend, and the right to receive formal education as a noble guard.”

Anon’s hands trembled. “My lord… someone like me- this is-”

"This is necessary," Ripley cut in. "My daughter has chosen you, and you almost died protecting her and the boys under your command. I may have been too harsh with your initial punishment, but you have earned this consideration, whether you realize it or not."

Anon was overcome, covering his face with one hand. He bowed, nearly folding in half where he sat, his breath catching. "My lord- I- I am not worthy-"

Ripley sighed. “Then become worthy. That is what a man does.”

Fang smiled behind her sleeve.

Anon tried again to bow, but Fang grabbed his hairless head and forced it upright with both hands. “Stop that,” she muttered. “You’ll reopen your stitches.”

Ripley almost smiled. Just almost.

---------------------------

Fang sat in the private garden of her family's residence, waiting. The quiet evening was bathed in silvery moonlight, and she was positioned beneath the familiar plum tree where she once played her biwa in solitude. Each gentle breeze brought a shower of petals onto her lap.

Moving with quiet grace, Anon advanced along the stone path. His pale, modestly embroidered robe was clean, suitable for his new role. He stopped a respectful distance away, offering a bow that possessed the careful elegance now expected of him.

“Fang.” The name was a gentle sound, spoken without the usual formality he used.

She looked up, smiling faintly. “Sit with me.”

He hesitated only briefly before settling beside her, close enough that their sleeves brushed. The moonlight caught the curve of his cheek, the faint shadow of healed scars along his shoulder, the warmth in his expression when he finally relaxed at her side.

“You look better,” she murmured, leaning back against the tree trunk.

“I owe that entirely to you.”

"Not entirely," she countered. "While you made the choice to live, my contribution was merely shouting at you until the memory of how to do it returned."

Anon let out a quiet, breathy laugh: a sound she had come to cherish. The silence that settled over them was soft, broken only by the gentle flutter of plum petals drifting down. As Anon moved slightly, Fang turned to face him.

He met her gaze with a courage that would have terrified him months before. “Fang… may I say something improper?”

She tilted her head. “Go ahead.”

He exhaled slowly, the moment clearly frightening and precious all at once. “I am… grateful that you found me that morning. And I…” His voice softened to a near-whisper. “I love you.”

Her heart swelled, and she didn't wait for permission this time. She reached up and cradled his cheek.

His breathing halted; he froze.

“You were supposed to say that sooner,” she whispered, smiling gently.

Then she closed the distance.

Their kiss was not urgent, but a soft, slow deepening born of the quiet certainty of two people who had fought through despair to find one another. Anon's hand rose with hesitant reverence, resting uncertainly against her waist. Tilting her head, Fang drew him closer, her second kiss firmer, as if sealing a promise.

When they parted, their foreheads leaned together, eyes half-closed, breaths mingling in the cool night air.

Anon whispered, “If this is a dream… please do not wake me.”

Fang smiled and brushed her thumb along his jaw. “It isn’t. This time, you get to live it.”

Under the bright moon, plum blossoms drifted in slow spirals around their entwined figures. It was as if the world offered a silent blessing to the future they were beginning.

A future they would cherish gratefully.

Epilogue - Turning Seasons

The years unfolded gradually, mirroring the smooth, inevitable rotation of the seasons: the slow unfurling of petals, the steady drift of falling leaves. The plum blossoms yielded to the chorus of summer cicadas, which in turn faded into the red glow of autumn maple, finally giving way to the silver-rimed frost of winter eaves. Through all these cyclical changes, one truth endured: Fang and Anon were rarely seen far from each other’s side.

The shift wasn't immediate; Heian society was slow to accept, and slower to pardon, what it saw as a violation of social standing. Nevertheless, Ripley's meticulous strategy, which involved careful petitioning, shrewd negotiation, and the masterful use of his influence, meant their partnership slowly evolved from a mere curiosity into a quiet, yet respected, exception.

Anon embraced his new position at court with disciplined humility, quickly dedicating himself to mastering the complexities of noble life. He immersed himself in the intricacies of etiquette, the subtleties of music and poetry, and the refined posture expected of a noble retainer.

Though often a target of Fang's teasing, especially when a waka recitation caused him embarrassment, making him stiffen and resort to excessively military phrasing, Anon persisted. His profound dedication was not merely a matter of duty; the world Fang inhabited had simply grown deeply important to him.

Marked improvements in Anon’s physical and mental steadiness began to show. The constant tremor in his hands lessened significantly, enough that he no longer felt compelled to hide them, though the tremor never vanished entirely.

Seeking guidance from senior guards and scholars, he learned effective patrol leadership, shedding the self-imposed burden of viewing every small mistake as a personal failing. His posture grew straighter, and he dropped the habit of excessively deep bows.

While he maintained the public formality of addressing her as "my lady," in private, he settled on the intimate use of "Fang." He claimed the right to this closeness, repeating her name like a private, solemn vow.

Ultimately, Anon transformed into a man defined not by the restrictions of his difficult past, but by the deliberate, chosen path of loyalty to the woman he loved.

Fang simultaneously began a deep refinement of her own formidable nature. She learned to moderate her inherent fiery passion, focusing on environments that demanded finesse and subtlety over direct confrontation. While the sharpness that defined her would always remain, she chose to employ it with deliberate, strategic intent instead of raw impulse.

Her maturity transformed her into a figure of unexpected grace. She mastered the complex skills of negotiation, diplomacy, and courtly arts; disciplines her younger self would have scoffed at. She embraced this aristocratic world, not for its own merits, but because every new proficiency brought her closer to her ultimate purpose: to create a life where Anon could stand alongside her, utterly secure and beyond challenge.

Having previously overcome bandits, rescued her guard from destruction, and actively defied the rigid expectations of her social standing, Fang was anything but naive. Her numerous struggles and hard-won triumphs had earned her the undisputed right to define love on her own terms.

With all their contrasting backgrounds, they became an inseparable couple, celebrated in tea houses and immortalized in watercolors by intrigued artists: the noble house's fierce daughter and the humble guard who won her heart with loyalty that no hardship could diminish.

---------------------------

Years had passed since the night Fang saved him. Now, on a late spring evening, Anon sat beneath the old plum tree, which had grown taller and more sprawling. Its blossoms glowed in the golden light of dusk. He was practicing a waka poem, writing, of all things, just as Fang had once urged him to do.

The poem, while simple, held deep intent in every line:

A storm may shatter the bough,
and winter drain all hue,
yet love's roots sink ever deeper.
Spring's return is never solitary,
for she reached me even in the gloom.

Fang approached silently, her steps light on the tatami stones.

“You’re improving,” she said, leaning over his shoulder to read. “Your lines actually flow now.”

He flushed, setting the brush aside. “Only because you insisted I learn.”

“Only because I knew you’d write something beautiful someday.”

Anon truly saw her then. She had matured into a confident, powerful woman, her former rebellious spark now refined into a quiet calmness. Yet, her eyes still contained the same fierce fire he remembered from the day she saved his life.

A gentle breeze swept through the courtyard. Blossoms drifted down, landing softly in Fang’s hair and on Anon’s sleeves. She brushed one from his shoulder, then let her hand linger.

“Come sit,” she said, easing herself down beside him. “We haven’t watched the sunset together in a while.”

He hesitated. “Are you permitted to take leisure now? I thought you had court duties.”

“Father can wait,” she replied, leaning into him. “The sun won’t.”

He slowly and steadily allowed himself to relax, a new sensation for a man learning he no longer needed to apologize for his existence. His fingers found hers, a light brush before their hands settled together. Fang offered a single, firm, and reassuring squeeze.

They sat together in serene silence as daylight faded and the last of the plum blossoms fluttered like pale lanterns across the garden.

Bound by fear and duty no more, two souls were now united by choice. Their bond was forged through love and a future they had built together with genuine dedication.

As the first evening star rose above the roofline, Anon turned, his voice gentle yet firm. "Thank you for coming to find me that day."

Fang's eyes softened with warmth as she smiled. "I always will. Don’t you forget it."

Chapter Text

Alt Act VII - A Breath Too Late

The pale mist, clinging low across the mossy stones, guided Fang down the narrow footpath. It curled between the bamboo roots like restless spirits, pushing her forward. The forest was unnaturally still; even the relentless late-afternoon chorus of the cicadas had fallen into an uncanny hush.

She was running.

Fang snapped the moment the young recruit stumbled into the estate. The recruit, pale and shaking, could only stammer that “Mous had collapsed” and "refused to speak." Without waiting for permission, attendants, or guards, Fang bolted past everyone. She disregarded the sharp pain in her barely-healed arm and ignored the frantic, alarmed shouts echoing behind her.

She ran desperately for the ancient shrine, her breath a harsh, tearing sound in her throat. Her sandals lost purchase on the slick ground, and low-hanging fronds whipped and tore at her robe as she shoved through the undergrowth with frantic, careless strength.

Her heart pounded in a fast, frantic, almost animalistic rhythm she didn’t recognize.

"Please, please, please,"

The desperate plea only registered when her voice cracked.

When the ancient torii gate finally came into view, Fang's steps faltered. For a single, agonizing heartbeat, she saw nothing.

Then the mist shifted, and she saw him.

Anon, pale and almost translucent in the cold light filtering through the bamboo, knelt on the moss-covered stone platform. Despite the faint tremor in his shoulders, his back was perfectly straight. His outer robe lay neatly folded beside him, and before him, the iron chain was coiled in a perfect circle. He kept his hands resting on his thighs, palms down.

And below his abdomen…

A deep, dark stain of blood pooled slowly on the cold stone beneath him. Thick lines of the fresh warmth trailed downward along his thighs, the heat steaming faintly into the air.

Fang stopped breathing.

“Anon…?”

She took a single step, her voice a near whisper. He responded with a barely noticeable movement, turning his head a fraction toward the sound, as if the effort exhausted the last of his strength.

A trembling breath escaped his lips with a single, uttered: "Miss... Lucy..."

Fang ran.

She reached him in seconds, dropping forcefully to her knees as the stone scraped through her robe. Her claws dug slightly into the fabric of his under-robe as she gripped his shoulders, a visceral need to verify his reality grounding her in the moment.

His body sagged into her touch.

She stared at him, horror blooming in her chest.

“Anon… what have you done? What did you-?” Her voice broke, the question dissolving into a ragged whisper.

He struggled to meet her eyes, his gaze loose and flickering like a flame threatened by the wind. His breathing was shallow, each uneven intake of air coming as a strained, fragile effort.

"It... is better... this way..." he murmured, his voice a near-reverent apology, drawn from the depths of his being.

Fang’s eyes snapped to the tanto lying just beyond his knee. Fresh blood still coated the blade, dripping slowly from its edge. A thin trail marked where his hand had dropped it after the cut.

Her vision blurred.

Her eyes returned to him, drawn to the red band across his lower abdomen. He still clutched instinctively at the blood-soaked fabric, as if trying to keep himself from coming apart, obscuring the wound beneath.

Her hands trembled as she cupped his face, his skin disturbingly cold. "Anon- Anon, look at me," she pleaded. "You're going to be fine. I'm going to fix this, I'm going to bring help- just stay awake, please."

He shook his head weakly.

“Fang… there is… no time.”

A raw, ragged scream tore from her. "Don't say that! Don't- don't you dare!"

His hand rose slowly, trembling slightly, until his fingertips made contact with her cheek. It was a barely perceptible touch, as delicate as one of her feathers.

“You… came,” he whispered.

“Of course I came!” she cried, clutching his wrist. “I’ll always come. I’ll never let you- never lose you- Anon, please-”

She tried to pull him closer, to brace him upright. His body leaned willingly into her, his forehead brushing her collarbone. His breath shuddered.

“I- thought… I could protect you… better… this way…”

“NO,” she choked. “No, no, no- you’re wrong- you’ve always been wrong.”

He blinked slowly, his lashes dampening. His breaths grew shallower.

“I failed you… so many times…”

"Not once did you fail me," she whispered, her voice trembling. "You saved my life, you saved the recruits. Anon, you saved me in more ways than you know."

A sharp inhale of pain escaped him, a sound that was half a sob. His blood-slicked hands weakly clutched at her sleeve, smearing the pale fabric.

“Do not… cry…” he murmured, voice thin as paper.

“You don’t get to tell me that,” Fang said fiercely, tears spilling over despite her attempt to hold them back. “You don’t- Anon, stay with me- please- please stay-”

His forehead rested against her chest now, his body going slack. Fang tightened her grip around his shoulders, pulling him fully into her embrace, refusing to let him slump forward.

He exhaled a trembling breath, eyes fluttering half-shut.

"Fang..." He murmured her name, a sound as soft as a prayer, utterly devoid of any title, formality, or hesitation.

She held him closer.

“I’m here,” she breathed into his scalp. “I’m right here. I’m with you.”

A shiver ran through his entire body. His voice, a mere rasp, broke as he confessed, "I... wanted... to stay... with you..."

“Then why didn’t you?”

He let out a fragile, sorrowful sound, a breathy start to a reply he couldn't complete.

"I... was afraid," he confessed with a rattling exhale, "of failing you again."

Fang pressed her forehead to the top of his head, her tears falling into the crook of his neck.

“You could never fail me,” she whispered fiercely. “Don’t you understand? Don’t you see…? I love you.”

His breath caught.

For a single, fleeting heartbeat, he clung to her; fingers weakly tightening, his body leaning into hers. It was a faint, desperate attempt to hold on.

“I… wished…” he mumbled, voice fading, “…to hear… those words… even once…”

"You can hear them as often as you like," she wept, her voice breaking. "Please- just stay- Anon, stay with me- stay!"

A soft exhale escaped him. A small, almost peaceful smile touched his lips.

“You… came…” he uttered one last time, the simple statement seemingly conveying everything.

His body went utterly still, collapsing into her arms.

Fang froze.

"Anon...?"

Her voice, trembling, pleaded, "Anon- please- hey- look at me- look at me-"

No reply came.

The only sounds were the rustle of the bamboo and the quiet drip of blood onto the ancient stone. Mist curled around them, pale arms gently closing the world away.

A raw, helpless keening, entirely unbefitting a noblewoman or a well-trained daughter of a great house, tore from Fang. It was the sound of pure grief, shredding the last fragments of her composure.

She collapsed over him, holding his head close to her chest. She began to rock him, a desperate, maternal movement, as if the simple motion could somehow coax life back into his still lungs.

She stayed that way long after the mist grew colder, long after the sky dimmed, long after the shrine stones swallowed the last warmth from his body.

As the sun set, she leaned her head back and let out a low, shaking, and heartbreaking sound.

A whispered promise: "I won't forgive this world," she murmured, her voice barely audible, "Not for taking you from me."

She leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips, a final peck she hadn't been able to give him while he lived.

"And I'll never forget you."

Her lips still felt the heavy, lingering trace of the kiss as she remained bowed over him. Her wings, half-flared, instinctively formed a protective cocoon, shutting out the world… a primal, desperate shield of a creature guarding its fallen mate, an instinct older than her very bloodline.

The stone platform was barely illuminated by the pale lavender light clinging to the horizon. His blood had soaked into her robe: warm at her waist, but cold and drying in dark patterns across her sleeves. The thick scent of iron had sunk deep into her scales.

She waited, unmoving, for a long time.

Even as the chill seeped into her legs, the mist grew thicker, and the night insects cautiously returned to their chorus, she remained still.

She waited as if enough time could reverse the world, as if her stillness could in some way, return what was lost so suddenly.

She looked down at the boy she held. His face was tranquil, his lashes a soft shadow on his cheek, the slight smile remaining on his lips from when he had breathed his last words.

Something inside her cracked.

A fragile, nearly inaudible sound escaped her. It wasn't a word, nor was it a sob; it was something quieter, more breathless.

Her voice was a raw, thin whisper. "Why…?" she asked. "Why did I listen? Why didn't I stay with you longer? Why didn't I push harder?"

Her grip tightened around him, as if she could anchor herself to this body that was already beginning to cool.

“If I had ignored Father that night- if I’d gone to you- if I hadn’t let him punish you in my place-if I-”

The brutal truth shattered her… she had been too slow.

The realization struck her with a gut-wrenching jolt. She had been too slow to find him, too slow to comprehend the depth of his suffering, and most fatally, too slow to understand his profound conviction that he had completely failed her.

Her foolish obedience had caused this failure; it was entirely her fault. She had played the dutiful daughter and allowed her father to banish him after the scroll incident. Instead of simply letting him be sent away, she should have fought, demanded, screamed, clawed, done anything to stop it.

Her face was a mask of self-inflicted rage, teeth clenched.

"He was hurt saving me," she whispered, her voice breaking. "And you punished him."

She didn't hear the bamboo tremble in the wind, lost in the black void of her guilt.

“He thought he wasn't worthy,” she continued, gently brushing her hand against his cheek. "And I didn't tell him otherwise soon enough."

Her tears wouldn't fall. Agony and heartbreak had passed, replaced by a cold, heavy numbness that dragged her down.

Fang choked back a sob. "You're coming home," she muttered. "I don't care what anyone says."

She slid her hands under his shoulders and knees, rising with a shuddering effort. Her muscles screamed in protest. Her half-healed arm, trembling violently under his dead weight, was pierced by a hot spike of pain. Yet, she didn’t waver.

Clutching him tight, her voice dropped to a dangerously steady murmur, his head pressed against her shoulder. "Let them try to stop me," she declared. "I'll tear down the estate with my bare hands if I have to."

Stepping off the shrine platform, her sandals found no purchase on the slick moss. She nearly fell, but a quick lean against a nearby bamboo stalk allowed her to regain her balance.

By the time she reached the footpath, Fang's expression was unnervingly empty. Grief had not vanished; instead, it had hollowed her. The frantic desperation of her sprint was replaced by a quiet, numbing cold that spread through her chest with each breath, becoming something colder, harder, and quieter.

She walked, the bamboo yielding to her passage, Anon's body clasped tight to her chest, his head tucked beneath her chin as if in slumber.

When she reached the estate gates, the guards immediately froze.

Not a single guard moved to obstruct her.

Samantha, her mother, reached her first. Upon seeing the boy’s limp body in Fang's embrace, the color immediately drained from Samantha's face. She rushed forward, but Fang instinctively took a small step back, tightening her hold.

“Lucy- Lucy, dear gods- what-”

“He’s gone.” Fang spoke the words flatly, with a brittle, contained tone.

In response, a guard looked solemnly up at the sky, while a servant covered her mouth with a gasp.

Then, Ripley arrived.

The sight of the blood-soaked robes stopped the head of the household dead. His stern composure fractured; shock, horror, and disbelief briefly crossed his face. Stepping forward, he struggled for control, his voice nonetheless breaking.

“Lucy… what happened?”

Fang didn’t look at him. Her gaze stayed straight ahead, distant and cold.

“You sent him away,” she said quietly. “To punish him.”

Ripley stiffened.

“I sent him to reflect,” he protested, though even he sounded uncertain. “To atone properly for-”

"He tried," she declared, her voice cutting cleanly through his words, instantly silencing everyone.

Fang adjusted her grip on Anon's body, slightly lowering him but never fully loosening her hold. Though her breath trembled, her hands remained steady.

“You wanted him humbled,” she said. “You wanted him reminded of his place.”

Ripley flinched.

“And he believed you,” Fang continued, numbness threading through every word. “So deeply that he chose to die rather than risk failing me again.”

He inhaled sharply, the breath stuttering.

Samantha pressed her hand to her mouth, her eyes welling with tears.

Fang's eyes dropped to Anon's unmoving face.

"He thought it would protect me," she stated.

Her mother moved toward her, reaching for her shoulder, but Fang subtly shifted away again.

“Lucy,” Samantha trembled. “Please- let me help you-”

“You can help me by letting me take him inside.”

Ripley swallowed, jaw clenched, voice low.

“We… we will honor him. He died… in our service. I swear to you-”

“It’s too late for vows.”

The quietness of the words made them land with greater impact.

Ripley wore a chastened expression Fang had never witnessed.

Fang walked past him, past all of them, carrying the man who had loved her so quietly and fiercely that he'd rather die than be a burden.

Samantha followed a few paces behind, but Ripley moved more slowly and warily, approaching like someone near a wounded animal.

Fang did not look back.

Not once.

---------------------------

Custom dictated that servants should wash bodies.

Fang, however, refused.

She carried Anon to her private, small inner bath. Without requesting permission, she slid the doors shut behind her, barring entry. Samantha's protest was soft and desperate, but Fang shut her out with a calm that unnerved even her mother.

Inside, she washed the blood from his skin.

Fang's touch was tentative, betraying a fear that he might shatter, or a silent hope that life still lingered within him. With slow, reverent movements, she dipped a cloth into the warm water and began to wipe the dried blood from his skin.

She paused only once.

The cold metal of the collar, a stark symbol of servitude, met her hands. This was the weight Anon had carried daily since he came to work under her father.

With shaking hands, Fang unscrewed the locking rivet. The collar gave a soft metallic click as it opened, and Anon's head slumped slightly. Fang steadied him gently, then lifted the collar into her palms.

She stared at it for a long moment before she circled it around her own neck.

She did not fasten it, but let its cold weight rest there, pressing into the hollow of her throat.

“You deserved better,” she whispered.

She did not change the bathwater until the red tinge faded, leaving Anon's skin free of any visible sign of his pain.

Her final act was washing his hands. She lifted each one with care, her thumb tracing his fingers as if committing their shape to memory.

She then helped him into a fresh robe. Instinctively, she chose one of her own: a soft green, embroidered with silver cranes. This felt right, as green, she recalled, was his favorite color.

She gently laid him on her futon.

Sitting beside him, she held her back straight, hands resting in her lap.

She waited for her breathing to even out before finally speaking the words aloud. They were for him, for herself, and for the room that already felt emptier.

“I will never forgive you for leaving me,” her voice remained level. “And I will never forgive myself for letting you believe you had to.”

Her claws curled slowly into her robe.

“I will never forgive my father,” she murmured, “for dismissing you. For treating you as if you were disposable and claiming he understood honor.”

She gazed down at Anon's face. It was peaceful, still, and utterly beyond her reach. The cold resolve within her hardened.

"You were worth more than this world ever gave you," she mumbled.

Leaning in, she pressed her forehead to his. Her voice was heartbreakingly gentle.

“But I promise you,” she said, forcing a weak smile as her vision blurred. She quickly wiped away the fresh tears. “The world will see your efforts were not in vain. You lovable fool...”

Her hands steadied, and her spine straightened as she quickly brushed away the new tears welling up. She had cried enough, she suspected, perhaps for a lifetime. A profound new stillness descended upon her, a quietude that wasn't the calm after a storm, but the deep, unnatural silence of one completely frozen over.

Hours later, she finally emerged, with the sky already painted a pale rose by the dawn. Servants reacted with gasps, some bowing low, others murmuring quiet prayers. Her mother covered her mouth with trembling hands, her weeping intensifying. Ripley, his face rigid with shock, started forward toward his daughter. He stopped short, however, upon noticing the object she wore around her neck.

Ripley's apology or attempt to object died in his throat. Fang's eyes held a frigid, steel-like resolve that froze Ripley mid-breath.

Without a word, she walked past him and headed toward the courtyard where preparations for Anon’s cremation were already underway. Ripley did not attempt to stop her.

Fang did not avert her gaze as the pyre was lit. She watched the flames consume the boy she loved, her expression perfectly calm and unreadable, even as the heat licked at her feathers and the air grew heavy with the thick scent of burning robes and incense. Beside her, Ripley grew pale. His daughter, usually so expressive and volatile, now stood unnervingly still as the fire climbed higher and higher.

He reached for her shoulder, intending to guide her away, but Samantha stopped him, catching his wrist. She shook her head, a clear instruction. Let her be. She has earned this grief.

Fang waited until the fire had dwindled to mere embers and the final wisp of smoke had vanished into the gray sky before departing. She knelt only after the ashes had completely cooled, sifting through them with slow, reverent care to retrieve the few remaining fragments. These she placed inside a lacquered urn she had personally selected, a plain, unadorned, dignified vessel of simple jade-green, a color she knew he would have appreciated.

Instead of succumbing to the despair her parents anticipated, Fang channeled her energy into a relentless and intense study regime. This cold, sharp focus honed her into a formidable intellect. She worked ceaselessly, often studying until the candles were spent, collapsing asleep over her scrolls rather than retiring to her own bed.

The change in her was startling and obsessive: Fang's previous resistance disappeared, replaced by an unnerving, total absorption of every lesson. This profound, sudden discipline deeply unsettled her tutors. She offered no questions, no rebuttals, and not a single flicker of emotion. Fang simply worked, arriving in the study hall before the lamps were fully lit each dawn and remaining every night until the corridors were completely silent.

The spirited, unpredictable young noblewoman was gone, replaced by a perfectly controlled force driven by an implacable determination.

Ripley observed the change with a silent, profound dread… He knew this shift wasn't the product of mature development; it was sorrow honed into a tool she could wield.

Final Act - Will of Iron

Fang devoured knowledge as the seasons turned, mastering a vast array of subjects: administration, economics, clan genealogy, agricultural planning, taxation balance, military oversight, and civil dispute resolution. She absorbed these fields with a cold, fierce hunger, driven by an urgent need for purpose above all else.

No one had ever seen her focus like this.

Fang's exceptional competence emerged, perhaps fueled by the emptiness she felt. By age twenty, her understanding of the province surpassed that of most middle ministers serving her father. She recognized the interconnectedness of its problems: how northern wheat shortages led to banditry on southern caravans; how harsh fines forced young men into military service; and how taxes overwhelmingly funded noble celebrations instead of soldier pensions.

Whenever she read about laborers, servants, or low-status guards, sections that particularly resonated with her, Anon's face would inevitably surface in her mind. That could’ve been him… The thought gnawed at her with every instance. In those moments, her breath would catch, stopping for a silent half-heartbeat before she plunged back into the text with renewed, desperate intensity.

Ripley, her father, observed this change with a complicated mix of pride and fear. He could see her immense talent, but he also recognized the heavy toll it was taking on her. He knew the stoic exterior she had adopted: a mask agonizingly familiar, one he had worn years ago after his own sibling was lost to a pointless war. He had hardened to endure, and now he watched that same emotional frost set in on his daughter. He understood exactly what it signified.

He often saw her alone in the courtyard as twilight fell, watching the smoke drift from her lit incense. He yearned to speak, to offer a true apology, even to kneel and plead for her forgiveness. Yet, every word remained locked within him.

Fang's interactions with him were rare, brief, and marked by a distant respect. She wasn't cruel, but she remained entirely unreachable.

And Ripley, though ashamed, understood that this distance was entirely his fault.

Fang's presence in the court became a silent, yet powerful, force over the years. Initially, she simply accompanied her father to the provincial capital, remaining a quiet figure behind him, speaking only when asked for her assessment. Ministers twice her age were frequently corrected, and often humbled, by the young woman whose sharp eyes and iron chain necklace belied a formidable intellect.

Initially, older officials dismissed her proposals as "theoretical idealism," yet Fang’s recommendations proved to be remarkably effective. She managed to stabilize food distributions, cut theft rates, and curb corruption. Furthermore, she instituted an unprecedented formal review process for the mistreatment of guards and laborers, a measure that was supported by its positive outcomes.

At the age of twenty-four, she achieved a significant position: Junior Councilor of Civil Affairs. This was one of the highest posts available for someone of her standing and age, placing her directly at the nexus of provincial governance, law, and public welfare. Crucially, this appointment positioned her to fundamentally change everything.

Fang implemented her reforms with speed and decisiveness. She championed new labor protections, pushed for standardized inter-clan wages, prohibited severe corporal punishment for low-ranked servants, and instituted the first formal code of honorable conduct governing masters' treatment of their retainers.

While critics dismissed her "idealistic empathy for the lower orders," she responded to them only with a sharp, cold retort: "What is honorable if not the protection of those beneath us?"  The memory of Anon grounding her each time she uttered the phrase,

Her father, aging and increasingly aware of the legacy he would leave behind, began to cede many responsibilities to his daughter. This was not a duty he felt compelled to perform, but an acknowledgement of her superiority; she had eclipsed him. While deep pride resonated within him, it was inextricably linked to the sting of knowing that grief had been the very chisel that carved her into the leader she had become.

Fang's ascent in rank elevated her entire family's standing. Her younger brother, Naser, especially thrived under the stability her reforms provided. Unlike Fang, Naser retained his cheerful, reckless nature well into adulthood. His marriage to Naomi Moretti, the daughter of a respected neighboring lord, was a strategic move that solidified political alliances, but it also happily brought genuine joy back to the household.

Naomi quietly adored Fang, admiring the steel beneath her composed exterior, and often sought her counsel. Fang, though her smiles were fleeting, reciprocated with gentle respect.

The first child of Naser and Naomi, a vibrant little girl who possessed her mother's keen intelligence and her father's endless drive, often wrapped her arms around Fang's leg during visits. Once, when the child hugged her waist spontaneously, Fang became utterly still. A complex mix of warmth and sharp pain seized her; a sensation that made her feel as though something deep within her had splintered. Tentatively, she rested her hand on the girl's head, uncertain of how to respond.

It was Samantha who later whispered, “She loves you, Lucy. Truly.”

Fang nodded silently but said nothing.

At age thirty-one, her position grew significantly. To Ripley's surprise, she was appointed Chief Advisor to the Provincial Council; a role secured with the backing of several powerful clans. This was the highest post a noblewoman of her background could achieve without marrying into the royal family.

Her influence became absolute in matters of law and civil oversight.

The changes implemented during her time in power were significant. Servant literacy programs were established, supply chains were meticulously regulated to avert famine, and the guard corps adopted standardized training, moving away from reliance solely on discipline and intimidation.

A palpable cultural shift had begun quietly, almost unnoticed. Now, no one could recall the last time a young guard succumbed to exhaustion, or when a servant was last punished for failing a task they lacked training for. The era when the lower classes were dismissed as mere shadows seemed long past.

Fang could sense the impact of her work as she toured the villages, even if few spoke her name aloud in thanks. The villagers showed her respect, not fear, bowing as she passed. Some offered flowers, while others simply gave her a slight, grateful smile, a kindness she never quite managed to fully mirror in return.

Anon's memory was a constant presence in her life… sometimes a source of pain, other times warmth, but always near.

The worn collar remained, even as her attire changed from the simple silks of youth to the layered, elegant robes of high office. Attendants were permitted to polish it, but Fang herself preferred its darkened, well-used appearance.

Only a single time, during a council session, did someone find the courage to inquire why she continued to wear it.

Her response was quiet, unwavering, and conclusive: "It belonged to someone the world underestimated. I do not intend to allow that mistake to be forgotten."

A profound silence settled over the chamber. The question was never raised again.

As she entered her forties, the subtle marks of age began to appear on Fang. The chill of morning brought a stiffness to her wing joints, her gait became more deliberate, and the white streak in her bangs intensified. Though her once-piercing gaze softened slightly, this change was noticeable only to those in her closest circle.

She never stopped visiting the shrine over the years. Her trips varied in frequency: sometimes yearly, sometimes only when the wind, on a cloudy day, seemed to carry a familiar sound. Though each visit remained bittersweet, the pain gradually lessened. She would speak to him quietly and reverently, providing updates on her life: her career, the world, and her family. She shared news of Naser's success, the close connection she now had with Naomi, and how much the children had grown.

Sometimes, when she sat in the deep silence, she was certain she felt his presence listening: a gentle warmth placed on her back, a soft caress of wind that felt more than just weather, a faint pressure against her cheek.

The lingering ache to hear his voice compelled Fang to return to the familiar bamboo path late one autumn afternoon. The forest was hushed, immersed in the distinct golden stillness that precedes a seasonal shift.

Hands deep in the layered sleeves of her robes, she walked with a slow, composed dignity, the hem brushing softly against the leaf-strewn ground. Years of practiced reserve held her bearing steady, yet a profound weight seemed to anchor each step, as if every footfall brought her closer to memories she consciously avoided.

The path felt different now. The bamboo, once intimidating in its youth, had thickened further, its towering shadows weaving a dense canopy overhead. Muted green light filtered through the leaves in scattered golden ribbons, illuminating her way. She proceeded with quiet, steady steps, her formal robes swaying gently with her measured breathing. Though most of her hair was bound, the loose strands around her face stirred with the breeze, revealing the increasing white that had gathered over time.

The grove's small, ancient, and resolutely unchanged shrine stood at the center of the clearing. Fang arrived just as the light of the setting sun began to settle deep into the moss. Time had left faint scars on the stone platform. Though Fang had once entertained the idea of restoration, she ultimately chose not to. She believed some things were meant to endure as they were, unpolished and unrenewed, serving as a steadfast remembrance.

She approached slowly, exhaling as she knelt before the weathered stones. Her joints protested, producing a soft, nearly inaudible crack that made her smile faintly.

“I’m getting old,” she murmured to the still air, adjusting her sleeves carefully. “You would’ve teased me about it. Said something overly formal to hide your concern.”

Fang placed her hand against the moss-covered stone, letting her fingers rest in the same place they always had. The surface was cool, slightly damp, and as unchanging as memory. She let her eyes close briefly, recalling his warmth, the weight of his head resting on her when he was alive, the faint scent of cedar and ink that always clung to him. Even now, she could summon it without effort.

“I brought incense,” she continued quietly. “The good kind. The kind Mother insists I save for ceremonies, so of course I brought it here instead.”

Retrieving the small lacquered box from her satchel, she lit the incense stick. She then planted it near the stone's base, watching the smoke ascend in thin, twisting, pale ribbons, and for a long moment, simply inhaled the fragrance.

"I saw Naser’s children yesterday,” she said after a pause. “They’re growing too fast. His youngest nearly knocked me off my feet when she ran into me… she reminds me so much of him at that age. Reckless, bright-eyed, loud. She’s been begging him for a practice bow. Naomi thinks she’s too young, but Naser’s secretly carving one anyway.”

A surprisingly warm, soft laugh escaped her, only to quickly fade as she continued.

“Naomi has truly flourished as a wife and mother. I believe you would have been fond of her. She is kind, and she is a better listener than a talker. Even now, though she no longer requires it, she still seeks my advice.”

The incense crackled faintly. Fang reached up, brushing a loose lock of hair back before letting her hand fall again.

“They’re happy. Truly.”

The statement was met with a silence so profound and absolute, it seemed to be a silent acknowledgment from the deep, enveloping forest itself. Fang reacted only with a soft swallow.

“I’m glad for them,” she muttered. “I really am.”

The faint tremor in her voice was the only thing that gave away the truth she was trying to hide.

She let her fingers curl lightly into the cool, damp moss. The physical contact was a necessary anchor, but it did little to ease the tightening ache in her chest. As always, she met the pain with an almost ritualistic, unhurried steadiness, drawing in a slow breath before pressing forward.

“There was a moment,” she admitted softly, “watching them laugh in the courtyard… when I realized I was proud of him. My foolish little brother. He finally grew into the person I always hoped he’d become.”

Her eyes rose, fixing on the motionless space before her.

“And there was another moment when I realized something else: I envy him.”

The almost imperceptible fracture in her voice was the first time it had cracked in decades.

“He got everything he wanted. A family. Children. Peace.”

For thirty years, she had maintained a perfect mask, but now its edges quivered. Fang drew a sharp breath that instantly wavered.

"We would have been married ages ago," she breathed, the words almost lost, "if you hadn't died."

Her throat tightened.

"I would have relentlessly pursued it, ignoring the court and my father, until they ultimately gave in."

Her hand slipped from the stone and rested against her lap, trembling slightly.

"We could have had our own home," she went on, her voice trembling as if shedding dried petals. "A small, quiet place. Perhaps with a garden, and maybe a little stream flowing nearby. You always loved the sound of water."

Her jaw clenched, but the dam she had built so carefully over the decades was no longer holding.

"We would have had flaplings," she whispered, her voice catching. "Bright, loud ones. They would have tugged at your sleeves, just like Naser's children do to him, and begged you to read them poetry until you drifted off mid-verse."

Fang brought a hand to her face, covering her mouth as her eyes burned.

“You would’ve been such a good father,” she choked. “Better than mine. Kinder. So much kinder.”

She clenched her robe, knuckles turning pale beneath her scales.

“And I would have loved you,” she continued, her voice trembling. “Every day. Every morning. Every night.”

The tear finally escaped, trailing a wet path down her cheek, but she made no move to wipe it away.

“We could’ve grown old together.” Another tear followed. “We could’ve… we could’ve had a life.”

A small, restrained tremor ran through her shoulders.

"Even now, after all this time," she breathed, her voice a fragile whisper, "I miss you so much it still hurts."

Her composure completely fractured for a moment. She leaned her forehead against the cold stone, breathing raggedly as the decades-old pain felt acutely fresh.

Grasping the moss tightly, as if it were her only tether, she uttered, "I've done it all. The laws are changed. The very people you stood with are now protected. I've ensured that no one like you will ever be forgotten or cast aside again."

Her voice wavered again.

"I wonder sometimes, though, if any of it truly matters. If it made a real difference. If you can see it. If you even know."

She closed her eyes tightly.

"Please," she whispered, her voice barely a breath. "I just need proof. A sign to show me that holding onto this memory wasn't a mistake, that you haven't truly left, and that I wasn't foolish to have loved you all this time."

A stirring breeze promptly broke the deep and profound silence that followed.

A gentle, silk-warm current slipped through the bamboo, swirling around her. Delicate as fingertips, it curled through her hair and brushed her cheek. The breeze was warm enough to melt the lingering tear, tracing the line of her jaw with a familiar, tender glide. She knew this motion; it was the same one she had felt only once before: the night he had soothed her biwa-fueled frustration, smoothing her hair with a trembling hand.

She froze, eyes wide, a silent gasp escaping her parted lips. A sudden warmth intensified, brief as a hand cradling her cheek, then slowly receded with the quiet deference of a deep bow.

Tears freely streamed down Fang’s face, blurring her sight. Her hand instinctively went to her chest, where the old iron collar lay hidden beneath her robes. Her heart hammered against it, a frantic, almost shattering beat.

"Anon... thank you," she managed, her voice a fragile whisper. "Thank you."

She stayed kneeling, tears silently soaking the moss, as the final warmth gave way to the deepening twilight. The wind settled back into its familiar rhythm, and silence returned to the grove, yet she no longer felt solitude.

Not here, and not ever again.

---------------------------

The evening air cooled the path as Fang walked slowly back from the shrine, the earlier warm breeze now gone. Sunlight, fading to a muted amber, briefly illuminated the path before the bamboo canopy closed around it. Though her tears were dry by the time she left the grove, a rare tenderness softened her expression, leaving her quiet and vulnerable. It was as if the sensation of that touch still lingered on her cheek. She pressed one sleeve against her chest, not to steady her shaking hands, but to hold onto that feeling for just a little longer.

As Fang emerged onto the main road, the estate lanterns were being lit. Servants bowed and passing monks offered respectful greetings, to which she responded with a nod, her thoughts still preoccupied with the grove. The evening meal tasted subtly of smoke and cloves, her mother's preferred spices, and Fang realized she was eating mechanically, barely registering the food. Her father gently remarked on her silence, and she managed a practiced, small smile that was enough to avoid suspicion but too tired to fully hide her inner burden. She noticed both parents appeared older, more fragile than they used to, yet they seemed content. Excusing herself early, she offered a slight bow before retiring for the night.

Setting the lacquered incense box on her writing table, she smoothed her hand over its surface, the slight tremor in her fingers persisting. She considered speaking to her parents the next morning about the unexpected warmth she felt, yet she knew she wouldn't. Such moments were too fragile, too sacred to risk being marred by disbelief or polite misunderstanding. She lay awake for a considerable time, her gaze fixed on the ceiling beams, listening to the soft creak of the house deepening into the night. Eventually, she drifted to sleep, her hand settled protectively over the concealed iron collar beneath her robes.

In the ensuing years, the slow rotation of the seasons subtly etched new marks onto Fang's life. The once stern and unwavering presence of her father began to fray; he frequently lost minor possessions: his writing brush, ceremonial pins, or letters he intended to dispose of. Though he dismissed these instances with a laugh, Fang recognized the quiet decline. 

Similarly, her mother's graceful stride became less pronounced, her steps shortening as she increasingly relied on Fang's arm for support during their nightly garden walks. Despite these alterations, both parents remained figures of gentle dignity, no longer daunting presences, but two cherished, aging pillars in Fang’s world.

The quickening of her father's decline began when he collapsed one early spring morning. He was attempting to tend his bonsai, and the tiny shears slipped from his grasp as he fell. Fang, reacting before the servants, carried him inside, startled by the unexpected lightness of his body. He felt diminished in her arms.

He lingered for several weeks, his consciousness flickering. In his rare, lucid moments, he offered an apology. Not for any failure, but for the relentless pressure of her youth, for demanding strength when she had desperately needed space to break. She gave him a soft forgiveness, a gesture that both of them silently acknowledged she had extended long before he ever asked.

His passing occurred just before the summer solstice, his hand resting gently in hers. Fang experienced a profound, pervasive sadness, but no bitterness. The night following his funeral, she performed the ritual he had taught her, lighting incense before the garden shrine. As the smoke coiled around her wrists and ascended, she bowed and offered thanks for all of it. This included the painful memories, a clarity that had eluded her in younger days.

Without her husband's steadying presence, her mother softened further, living a little longer. The house grew quieter, narrower, almost echoing with the change. Naser's frequent visits with his children were a welcome interruption, filling the estate with laughter. His youngest, a girl, would race along the corridors with a bow, her shrill voice bouncing off the walls as she pretended to be a great warrior. Fang treasured these moments, even though they brought a painful reminder of the life she was denied. Yet, she embraced the ache, finding in it not the sting of loss, but a reminder of warmth.

The death of her mother arrived in the still quiet of late winter. For hours after her passing, Fang remained by the bedside, her thumb gently stroking the lines of her mother’s aging hand. Though a deep hollowness settled behind her ribs when she finally stood, it was accompanied by a quiet acceptance. She conducted the burial of both her parents in the family mausoleum, executing every traditional rite with the same meticulous attention she brought to all her duties.

Years stretched onward, carrying her gently toward old age. The world around her shifted steadily: the protections she fought for expanded, new councils were formed, and the rigid old hierarchies slowly eroded. Fang became a figure of respect, though she wielded neither like a weapon. She withdrew, little by little, from court duties as younger leaders rose. She found herself spending more time in the estate gardens, reading by lamplight, or accompanying Naser’s grandchildren on small adventures through the forest trails. They adored her. She loved them as though they were her own.

The iron collar was a permanent fixture beneath her clothing, its original sharpness mellowed by time, yet it was never taken off. With the years, its weight grew lighter for her. This was not a change in the metal itself, but a transformation of the memory it held, which moved from being a source of pain to a constant presence. Her dreams were sometimes filled with a clear image of Anon; at other times, he was merely a warm sensation, a figure just beyond the reach of her sight.

With the passage of time, Fang's pace began to slacken. Her wings grew stiff and sore in the cold, and long walks now required frequent pauses, where she would rest under the canopy of trees far less ancient than herself. Despite this, she continued her seasonal visits to the bamboo grove. Even as her joints protested, she would kneel before the shrine, offering incense and murmuring into the quiet. She no longer sought omens or guidance. She had no need; the slightest whisper of the bamboo and the caress of the warm breeze on her scales were sign enough.

With time, her face grew softer, and white replaced the silver of her hair. Her hands became more delicate, her scales thinner. Still, her steady eyes held the lifelong balance of grief and love she had nurtured.

Her last winter came without fanfare. It wasn't marked by sickness or a sudden, sharp decline, but rather a slow, deepening exhaustion, much like an old candle quietly accepting the end of its burn. Naser was a frequent visitor. Naomi brought her comforting, warm rice porridge, spiced with ginger. The grandchildren, now young adults, gathered around her bed, listening to the familiar stories of her past, some strictly factual; others gently embroidered with the half-truths that age allows.

One night, after they left, she ran her fingers once more over the iron collar resting beneath her night robes. The room was lit only by a single candle, its flame steady despite the draft. The season's first snow had commenced, drifting down outside in a slow, hushed manner.

Fang settled onto her futon, pulling the blankets up over her shoulders with serene, practiced gestures. She let out a soft exhale as her eyes closed. A gentle warmth touched her cheek; so slight she initially dismissed it as a lingering feeling. Yet, it persisted, slowly blossoming, surrounding her like a patient embrace, waiting for her final thought to conclude. Her muscles relaxed, and her breathing steadied.

She sank into sleep as gently as a leaf falling onto fresh snow.

She did not wake again.

Fang's passing was painless, a soft dimming, a final exhale, and a gentle dissolution of awareness, much like the slow retreat of a tide. Yet, from that profound stillness, a subtle warmth began to draw her back. It enveloped her, gently coaxing her out of sleep's remnants. Her previously weightless, unanchored thoughts slowly reformed, settling like dust onto a familiar plane of existence.

She opened her eyes and found herself on a path of smooth, pale stones. She was not lying down, but simply standing, her feet bare on the cool surface. The air was mild, neither cold nor warm, carrying the faint, gentle scent of bamboo leaves and faraway incense. Above, the sky was a muted gold-gray, devoid of the sun or moon, and the familiar, quiet, rhythmic whisper of a nearby grove drifted on the breeze.

Dazed, Fang slowly opened her eyes. A jolt of surprise ran through her as she looked down. She wasn't wearing the robes she'd slept in, but the dark, elegant ones of her youth, fitted to her figure with a forgotten ease. Her hair, long and heavy, cascaded down her back; not the thin, pale strands she'd grown used to. Raising a hand, she touched her cheek, expecting the papery feel of age, but finding the smooth firmness of a woman decades younger.

She reached instinctively for the familiar weight at her collar, but her fingers met nothing. The movement froze mid-air. The iron collar, a constant against her skin for more than fifty years, was gone. There was no cool metal, no outline, no weight beneath her robes. A sharp, immediate panic tightened her throat, cutting off her breath before she could rationalize. Frantically, she explored her neck, her collarbone, her chest, searching again and again. The absence was absolute, like a part of her had been violently removed, leaving a void filled only with air and mounting dread.

“No- no, no, no-” Her voice cracked on the third denial. “Where-?”

Her eyes wide and frantic, she spun, her breath catching. The world around her swam, its light threatening to overwhelm her senses. She cried out his name, her voice stripped of the courtly composure and later-life dignity, instead carrying the raw, fearful tremble of the girl who had once wept for a dying boy in the heart of a bamboo grove.

“Anon!”

Her cry hung in the air for a heartbeat, its sharp edge softening as the space around her seemed to absorb and listen.

Then, an unmistakably alive warmth brushed her cheek: a stirring, not of the mortal world's faint breeze or a touch of memory, but something familiar.

Her breath hitched.

A soft footstep sounded behind her, and Fang spun around.

He was only a few steps away, bathed in the soft, drifting light. It was the same young man she had lost at the shrine decades ago. His bald head was bowed, a subtle gesture as if he feared startling her, and his posture was taut with a hesitant hope. He was no longer clad in armor or ragged robes, but simple, soft clothing suited for life, not battle. Finally, his eyes, so gentle, so achingly familiar, lifted to meet hers.

“Lucy,” he whispered.

She reacted instantly, her mind slow to register the word, her body already moving.

Launching herself at him, the impact unbalanced him completely. He let out a surprised yelp, an actual yelp, before they tumbled backward onto the glowing moss. They rolled briefly until her arms locked around him in a desperate, tight embrace that drew a startled grunt from him. She held on, unable to release him, burying her face against his chest. She sobbed with a raw violence and desperation she had never allowed herself in her life.

Her raw emotion was evident in her broken bursts of sound, which were less like words and more like desperate, half-formed cries.

“Y-you- I thought- you were- I- gods- Anon- Anon-!”

His arms were tight around her, shaking as his hands gripped her back, as if terrified she might vanish. "I'm here," he breathed, his voice a ragged whisper. "Fang, I'm right here. I never- I didn't leave you. I'm here now."

Clinging tightly, she buried her forehead against his shoulder. "I lost it- the collar! I woke up and it was gone, and I thought- I truly thought-!"

He breathed, steadying her gently by cupping the back of her head. "You didn’t lose anything. You’re free of it now," he murmured. "You're not bound anymore. You're here with me."

“But I wanted-” Her voice broke again. “I still wanted to keep it- it was all I had left- it was you-”

“That was only metal,” he murmured, tightening his embrace. “The part of me you kept- I swear- it never left you. Not once.”

He held her tight, his chest absorbing the low, aching sound of her deepening sobs. Her tears soaked into his clothes, and she clung to him until her arms were numb. His own breathing mirrored hers, uneven, as if he, too, were on the verge of weeping.

Finally, though her grip remained firm, Fang lifted her head to meet his eyes. Her face was streaked with tears, her features exposed and raw with feeling, her ragged breath ghosting against his skin. She stared at him with a look of desperate fear, as if he might dissolve at any moment.

He wiped her tears away with a trembling thumb.

"Are you real?" she uttered.

His answering smile was soft, small, and devastating.

"I've been waiting for you to wake up," he murmured.

A fresh sob tore from her throat, yet she didn't collapse. Instead, she surged forward, claiming his lips with the unrestrained force of a lifetime of love finally unleashed. He gasped in surprise, then completely surrendered, his arms wrapping tightly around her as the glowing bamboo offered a silent, gentle blessing.

They had endless time now. Time for words, for peace, for walking the quiet paths of this gentle place side by side.

But for this moment, tangled together on the soft moss, crying, laughing, shaking, and utterly refusing to break apart, they simply held each other.

Alive together at last.