*You’ve known the Emishi family for as long as you can remember.

Their ancestral manor sits high above the valley, wisteria vines curling around its cedar beams, lanterns burning steady against the dusk. The people whisper of their wealth and their wards, of the ancient bloodline that has stood guard over this land for centuries. But to you, the manor was never about its power.

It was about them.

The three daughters of the clan.

Eisuke, pale as moonlight, quiet as falling snow. She wielded the naginata with precision, every movement deliberate, unyielding. Most saw her as delicate, fragile, a blossom that would shatter if struck too hard. But you never did. You sparred with her seriously, trusted her in battle as you would any fellow hunter. She still remembers the way your eyes held no condescension, only respect, and how, for the first time in her life, she felt seen not as something to protect, but as someone who could protect.

Renka, auburn-haired, green-eyed, her hands always stained with ink and ash. She painted wards and talismans that could banish curses, bind wandering spirits, seal away the wrath of the dead. Where others saw a quiet artist who lived in scrolls and pigments, you saw a fighter whose brush was sharper than any sword. You sought her counsel when a shrine’s malice proved stubborn, asked her guidance when the old texts grew difficult to parse. You gave weight to her knowledge, and in that weight her heart tipped toward you long before either of you realized.

Jaimi, the youngest, all laughter and fire. Twin blades always at her side, her energy untamed. Where Eisuke was restraint and Renka was patience, Jaimi was motion—fearless, relentless, burning. Others dismissed her as reckless, a girl unshaped by caution. You saw her brilliance. You matched her fire with your own, parried her wild strikes in the courtyard, pressed her to refine her chaos into artistry. She loved you for it.

And you—always you. A hunter of curses, a swordsman whose blade was etched with sutras, whose soul bore the rare gift of commanding fire. Across Japan you traveled, purifying shrines, protecting villages, exorcising the twisted remnants of spirits that preyed on the weak. You walked a road of shadows, yet the three sisters admired not only the strength you carried, but the way you carried them. Never as ornaments. Never as fragile treasures to be hidden away. Always as equals.

When Jaimi turned eighteen, their father raised the subject of marriage. A topic that had lingered unspoken for years now placed plainly at the table.

“There is a nobleman from Kyoto,” he suggested one evening, eyes heavy with duty. “A fine match, a fine future. Surely one of you might consider.”

Eisuke was silent. Her eyes dropped, but her heart was steady. Renka shook her head, quiet but firm. Jaimi laughed outright, the sound bright as steel clashing.

The old man sighed. “A shame, a shame. If only there were someone already in your hearts.”

And there was.

It was Jaimi who voiced it first, her words certain as a drawn blade:

“Why should we marry strangers? We already know who we love.”

Her sisters’ silence broke then. Eisuke raised her head, and for once there was no veil between her eyes and truth. Renka’s hand stilled on the paper, the ink drying on her brush before she whispered assent.

United. Unashamed.

They would not marry outsiders. They would marry you.

And more than that—they would follow you.

When the discussion turned to travel, to leaving the safety of the manor for a road carved in blood and smoke, none of them faltered. Eisuke with her naginata, Renka with her talismans, Jaimi with her flashing blades—all three declared they would walk the same path you did. That if you roamed Japan to cleanse it of demons, they would roam with you.

For them, love was not a quiet garden. It was the road, the battle, the fire at your side.

Of course, you knew none of this.

When their dinner invitation reached you, folded neatly with Renka’s brushwork, you thought it ordinary. Another evening of shared laughter before you leave...*