The capital rose like a fortress born from the bones of the mountain. Towers of dark stone and steel gleamed under the pale spring sun, their banners fluttering like blades poised in silence. As the gates of the Iron Capital parted, Hinata felt the shift—not in temperature, but in weight. The eyes. The expectation.
She stepped forward beside Takama, the click of their sandals muffled by polished stone. Her winter kimono shimmered silver in the morning light. At her side, Kuro walked in silent tandem, posture noble, one eye gleaming with quiet vigilance while the other, sealed by a jagged scar, bore silent testimony to battles past. To the world, the large black hound was her guide. To Hinata, Kuro was her shadow and her shield.
Whispers greeted them from balconies and walkways above:
"Is that Lord Takama's adopted girl?"
"The blind one?"
"They say that the dog guiding her is a trained ninja hound that Lord Takama bought to protect her after the adoption."
"Others whisper she's actually Takama's illegitimate child, and he brought her in after his heir died. Some say she lost her eyes in an accident."
"I heard a maid claim the girl's eyes are white as snow, without pupils—born like that."
"A courier once said the girl was a disaster when it came to etiquette, completely unsuited for our court. But looking at her now… that must have been nonsense."
The Iron Palace awaited them.
<<<< o >>>>
Before they even crossed the palace threshold, Hinata felt the weight of the court's eyes. Their group paused in the outer court—an open-air terrace of polished stone where high-ranking retainers stood flanking the entrance. Some bowed. Others whispered. A few simply stared.
Takama's expression remained unreadable. Kuro tensed beside Hinata, tail low, one ear flicking with agitation.
"This place has many blades," she whispered.
Takama gave a subtle nod. "Most are not made of steel."
The Iron Palace stood halfway up the mountain's inner slope..., carved directly into the stone like a sanctum of steel and stillness. Layers of corridor and hall extended inward, lit by narrow shafts of daylight and lines of paper lanterns. The architecture felt ancient, fortified—not built for beauty, but for permanence and command.
They were led by silent guards to a chamber warmed by a sunken brazier. The air smelled of pine ash and crushed herbs. Seated behind a lacquered desk, wrapped in blue-gray robes, was Akihiko Gin, Daimyō of the Land of Iron. At his side stood a younger man with hair like ink and posture carved from years of formal training—Lord Renga Gin, his son and heir.
Akihiko looked older than Takama remembered. Paler. As if the mountain itself had begun reclaiming him.
Takama bowed low. "Cousin."
The Daimyō offered a slow, graceful nod. "Rise. Let me see her."
Hinata stepped forward and bowed. "My lord."
Akihiko's gaze settled on her gently. "You walk with grace, child."
"She has been trained well," Takama said.
"Blindness has not diminished her spirit."
"It has sharpened it."
Renga observed her in silence. His face betrayed nothing—neither disdain nor admiration—only the practiced neutrality of one raised among swords and judgment. But Hinata caught a glimmer of uncertainty beneath his stillness.
A pause. The fire cracked. Then Akihiko nodded.
"You may walk the court grounds freely. Your presence here is a new wind. I hope it carries strength."
Hinata bowed again, thanking him, her voice steady. But her thoughts… her thoughts swirled.
She could see it. Not with her eyes—but with her soul.
Over the Daimyō's chest floated a fragile veil, pale as smoke but threaded with black—a web of inevitable death. It pulsed like a heartbeat. And next to him, the air bent faintly… a weaker thread curling toward his son's seat. Still forming. Still avoidable.
She said nothing.
As the formal meeting drew to a close, Renga approached her with a measured stride. Courtiers whispered as he halted a few steps from her, his hands folded respectfully.
"Lady Hinata," he said, his voice low but clear, "I must confess your presence surprised me. My father does not open our halls lightly."
Hinata turned toward him slightly, her voice soft. "I am here by my father's will... and perhaps a little by fate."
Renga tilted his head. "Fate, then, favors the bold."
A silence passed between them—not uncomfortable, but sharp with unsaid things. Renga studied her carefully, as if trying to pierce through what others only guessed.
"You carry yourself like someone raised in the north... and speak like someone trained in court. Yet you are blind. And young. And still—those who serve us look at you as if you were a beacon."
Hinata nodded, gently. "I do not seek to be seen. Only to serve what I believe is right."
He inclined his head, just slightly. "Then perhaps you and I will speak again."
She bowed faintly. "I would welcome it."
<<<< o >>>>
Later, in a private room, Takama sat across from her, the evening tea between them untouched.
"You saw something," he said softly.
Hinata nodded.
"He is dying."
Takama inhaled through his nose, quiet but firm. "I feared as much."
"There's something more." She looked down, fingers around the porcelain cup. "His son… the thread touches him too. Not fully. Not yet. But it's there. Curved. Pulled. By something."
Takama closed his eyes.
"Sabotage," he muttered. "Or worse. Poison, perhaps. Influence."
Hinata didn't speak. She knew better than to suggest accusations without proof.
"I'll handle it," Takama said. "You did well to tell me. But do not carry this weight alone."
Hinata looked at him, solemn. "We are already sharing it.
Takama's gaze lingered on her a moment longer, then softened. "You've changed, Hinata. When I look at you, I no longer see the quiet girl I brought from the snow—I'm proud of what I see."
Their time at Silver World has made their relationship much longer and more meaningful, than that of two people who have known each other for a few months.
She smiled faintly. "I still feel small. But now I understand... even small things can move mountains if placed with care."
<<<< o >>>>
The next morning, as final arrangements for the festival consumed the palace staff, Takama called Hinata aside to speak in the corridor near their guest quarters. His expression was weary, sharpened by the weight of duty.
"While we are here," he said, "I'll be pulled into many meetings and responsibilities. I won't always be nearby."
Hinata inclined her head. "I understand."
Takama gestured, and a tall, composed young man stepped forward. He wore the crest of Mifune's household and carried himself with restrained confidence.
"This is Kaito," Takama said. "Son of Master Mifune. A talented swordsman and someone the Daimyō recommended personally. He'll serve as your protector during our stay."
Kaito bowed deeply. "Lady Hinata, I am honored."
Hinata studied his intent—sincere, unburdened by ambition. She nodded. "Thank you. I'll do my best not to trouble you."
Kaito smiled faintly. "Protecting someone doesn't mean they cause trouble."
<<<< o >>>>
Far below the courtyards of the palace, in the shadow of the mountain's merchant quarter, Kaede—an older man with bandaged arms and a vacant yet piercing gaze—knelt in the quiet of a rented room, surrounded by scrolls and fragments of intercepted correspondence. His fingers moved over maps and inked names like a spider spinning a web.
"The court is distracted. The heir is weak. The Daimyō fading," he whispered.
His eyes shifted toward a sealed letter prepared for Lord Tenshō.
"We will create the fracture. One accusation. One scandal. That's all it takes."
From the corner, a figure cloaked in gray nodded silently.
The pieces were moving. Soon, they would reach the board's center.
<<<< o >>>>
That evening, Hinata walked the upper balconies of the palace gardens. Kuro at her side, they moved like shadow and snow.
Cherry blossoms were beginning to open—tentative, pale. The mountain winds had softened.
Beneath the petals, warriors trained with wooden blades. Servants hung lanterns for the festival. Courtiers watched from balconies, the tension of old rivalries resting behind practiced smiles.
From her silent vantage, Hinata took it all in.
Not just with her ears.
With her breath.
With the spirit Michel had helped her nurture.
The palace lived and breathed like a being.
And something dark—quiet and slow—was coiling within it.
Something that knew the old Daimyō's breath was fading.
Something that waited.
Above the courtyard, as she stood still among the petals, Hinata exhaled slowly. In her inner vision, thin strands of silver intent shimmered faintly across the people below—samurai, courtiers, servants. Many were frayed. Some were dark. A few pulsed softly in tune with her own breath.
She closed her unseen eyes.
"If the Silver World is to be more than a dream," she whispered to herself, "then it must be ready for the waking world."
To do so, she first had to draw the white threads of the Natural World into her being. Only then could her soul reach the Silver Soul Stage, the threshold where soul and body align in radiant clarity. It was from that sacred place that she could forge the silver threads, the delicate links that connected souls across realms and dreams.
And so, in the stillness, she sent out threads—subtle, gentle, unbinding. No invitations, not yet.
But soon.