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A decade later, a fifteen-year-old Hiroshi would become known as the youngest swordsman ever to master the Whispering Blade. What the world would never know, was that he was the second youngest.
Blood became snow, became blood, became ocean… and Mamoru found his eyes frozen open, staring into the dragon killer’s face.
No one officially named her, but the village, in their whispers, called her Kazeko, Wind Child, for the terrible thing that had brought her into their midst. Perhaps that was the reason Takayubi tolerated her presence: she was walking memory. Bodies could be burned and buried. The blood of the dead could be washed from a blade. But this little creature, with the eyes of Yukino Hyori and the power of a fonyaka, was irrefutable. They might fear and hate her, but she was living testament to everything the Empire had tried to erase.
She didn’t need to say it aloud. The thought hung in the air all around them. Misaki had learned to live with the weight of it, to go about her day, cook, clean, and play with her living children while it hung there, quiet but ever-present. Robin seemed to be buckling beneath it.
As Izumo blinked awake in her arms, Misaki turned inward, toward her home and her husband. Her little boy smiled up at her, and the future was no longer at the burning edge of the sea. It was here, in a softly beating heart and black eyes, bright with promise.
