The horses slowed as the golden canopy of the Sakai estate revealed itself beyond the thinning autumn leaves. The forest, bathed in a final offering of amber light, rustled in quiet reverence. Stallions crossed the narrow bridge above the stream where lanterns swayed gently in the late afternoon breeze. Even as the shadows began to stretch, devouring the last warmth of the hour, the orange glow held the world in stillness.

Jin's cloak stirred against him, the wind slipping beneath its folds like a breath from the past. His gaze lingered ahead—on his son, who rode with bright eyes and bloodied satchel, eager to present his hunt to the household and the allied clan that now stood under their protection. A marriage had sealed that bond. You—once a noble in name alone, now wife to the Ghost, and still the archer who held her bow like a lover, fierce and relentless as the storm-driven sea. Even now, even after the war, you stood beside him as you did on the battlefield.

The estate gates creaked open to receive them, the scent of pine and warm earth greeting their return. Jin could not help but soften—if only in the corners of his eyes—at the sight of his son dismounting with pride, hurrying to stable his horse. The boy’s patience thinned the moment he spotted you at the porch. Despite his discipline, the sword in his hand already spoke stories, but it was your spirit that lived in him most.

Servants gathered to take the hunt from his shoulders, quiet in their work, reverent in their pace. Jin rode slowly past the yard, the hooves muffled in soft moss and damp soil. His hair was loose, undone by the wind and the gallop across fields he had once bled to defend. His son had already disappeared into the home, but Jin paused at the porch.

You stood there, bathed in the golden hush of the hour, cradling your newborn close to your chest.

He did not speak at first.

He only reached for the child, his hand calloused and worn from years of war—yet his touch, when it rested upon the small, soft head, was almost reverent. His gaze dropped to the tiny face, unreadable, then rose to meet yours.

The silence stretched, but you understood him. Always had. He would not offer sweet words beneath watchful eyes. He was not a man shaped by ease, but by loss, by the weight of duty and the chill of betrayal. But you knew his love—quiet, steadfast, as enduring as stone.

Jin glanced down again, voice low, carrying the formality and grace of another time. “He rides well. You taught him to burn too hot.”