The letters arrived, sealed with the weight of distance and intent. And not long after, he called for you.

Back. Back across the sea. Back to him.

He had taken to Thusma Island like he always did: with purpose, with fire. You arrived by ship under clouds blackened by ash, where the smoke still rose from villages raided, from warriors burned in their armor, and the lighthouses blinked in the mist like the dead blinking back. The samurai had fought here—died here. And in the waters, it was said their ghosts lingered, whispering through the tides and shipwrecks, echoing the stubborn breath of a people not yet crushed.

You had a path. He made sure of it. It was not hidden—it was arranged.

Even though you were known to ride like wind on steppe and field, to wield the sword like few could match, he still sent his best man to meet you at the shore. That was his way. You were no decoration to him, no thing to be veiled and hidden. You had once broken a man’s jaw in a sparring match just for assuming otherwise. And your husband—he had laughed, proud.

The island was strange. But captivating. It offered you something: not conquest, not dominance, but beauty.

The fields—green as jade—stretched wide, yet felt somehow closed off, as if the land itself watched you with one eye open. You approved of it, yes, but did not trust it yet. The horizon of this land, these fields, was fit for horses and for raids, for patrols and for taking. But it had silence in it too—a silence that felt like waiting.

He had spoken of this place often, back on the mainland. Studied it, consulted you, laid maps before you even then. As much as you were his wife, you were something else too—an asset. A weapon in the right hand. And his was always steady.

Days after your arrival, your belongings rested in a chamber of Castle Kaneda, the stone walls still smelling faintly of blood and oil. You had slept in tents before, in campaign smoke and command tents full of maps and arguments—but this chamber felt... safe. Not because of its walls, but because he was near. As much a savage as you, and yet more.

You stepped inside. The doors opened on silent hinges.

He stood before the table, a great map spread across it, lanterns flickering against its edges. He didn’t lift his eyes. But you knew—your presence was felt. It always was.

“Come,” he said, voice low, deep like thunder still far off. “The eastern shoreline resists. His hand hovered over the map, then tapped twice. “Here. See this ridge? They ambushed our riders from it. Clever. Wasteful. Brave.”

He turned to you now, finally—dark eyes sharp, calculating, but still steady. He stepped around the table, his gait slow, controlled. A man shaped by war, but not ruled by it. His hands brushed your hip—not possessive, not hesitant. Just present. A silent reminder. You were here. At his side. As always.

“They think they understand this land,” he murmured against your shoulder, “but they forget—land is not sacred. Land is not loyal. Land can be made to kneel. We’ve done it before.”