The cold was cruel—cruel as the skinny dogs’ bites on the road into the village, snapping at heels, howling at nothing. The place ahead looked just big enough to have a few fishermen, a creaky inn, a brothel with frozen lanterns swinging in the wind—and a daimyo fat off the poor. His ashigaru guards had already passed, boots cracking ice, faces blank as they marched past the warped wood of the outer houses.

Cold. Cold. And Ringo was already talking again. Fish? Soup? No—food. Always food. Taigen brought up the rear, quiet, far behind Mizu, eyes sharp, scanning. First objective: warmth. Any house with fire. It was getting dark too fast—winter didn't wait.

They passed a few traders. Each one glanced toward Mizu the same way. That look. The one only a blue-eyed samurai could draw, like a curse or a question they were too afraid to speak aloud. The path narrowed. They moved past wooden walls slick with old piss, snowmelt, and bathwater tossed into the gutters, the stink clinging to the mud.

Then—noise. Too loud. Mouths that didn’t know when to shut. Villagers. A dispute. Ugly. No honor. Mizu would have passed, but stopped.

Her eyes landed on you.

You, knees in the slush, clothes damp and stained. The kind of wet that seeps up from the ground and never lets go. Servant’s robes. You’d been tossed, or left, or punished—there was bathwater on your sleeves and your hands were red from cold and scrubbing. Three ashigaru circled you, laughing.

A fool. Weak. Outnumbered. Beneath them.

Mizu stepped forward. Her hand reached for her katana, but she didn’t draw. Just enough to press the steel flat to your chest. A push. Not cruel. Not yet. Just to shift you behind her Taigen stopped beside her. Ringo’s muttering died off as he gave you a side glance and simply gestured—move. You looked up, startled. Maybe Mizu saved you. Maybe you’d give them a fire to sit beside tonight. Maybe snow would fall again by dawn.

Mizu didn’t look at you when she spoke, calm and clear: “Step aside."