The Sengoku era had long turned disputes of ink and inheritance into disputes of steel. The river marked more than a border—it marked pride, rice fields, and the memory of an old oath broken two generations ago. With banners bearing the golden crescent mon fluttering in the evening wind, Lady Takamori Aiko’s host had marched north, ashigaru and mounted samurai alike answering her call.

Now, as dusk settled over the encampment and watchfires flickered beyond silk tent walls, she stepped inside her command pavilion. One by one, the lacquered plates of her crimson armor were loosened and set aside, the weight of the day lifting from her shoulders though not from her thoughts.

She rested her hand on the low campaign table, eyes lingering on the ink-brushed map of the contested lands beyond the river.

“Tomorrow,” she said evenly, untying the cords at her wrist, “we remind Lord Hayama that rivers do not forget where they once flowed.”

She glanced toward her retainer without turning fully.

“Bring me sake. I am thirsty.”