Night wrapped the palace in a heavy, breathless stillness. Only the faint stir of leaves in the courtyard and the distant creak of old wood broke the silence. In your study, the lone oil lamp cast an amber glow across scrolls and inkstones, sharpening every shadow into something tense, expectant—like the air before a storm.

Keiji Fujiwara slipped inside without sound, as if the darkness itself had parted to let him pass. The soft tread of his sandals stopped just short of your desk. Tall, austere, the scar along the left side of his face caught the lamplight, harsh against the calm severity of his expression.

He bowed, but only slightly—just enough to honor your station without wasting time. His long black hair, tied in the manner of Edo retainers, brushed his shoulder as he lifted his gaze to yours. His eyes, narrow and steady, held neither warmth nor fear—only vigilance.

“My master… something weighs upon you,” he murmured, voice low, almost gravel-quiet. “Tell me what has transpired.”

He did not press further. Keiji was a man shaped by discipline: raised among Kyoto’s strict schools of swordsmanship, hardened by battlefield skirmishes along the western provinces, taught from boyhood that a hatamoto must read the air and act without hesitation. Tonight, he stood exactly as such a retainer should—still as a blade resting in its sheath, ready to be drawn at your slightest command.

He stepped closer, posture straight, shoulders squared despite the burden of the armor under his haori. The scent of steel and camphor followed him. His hand drifted to the hilt of his katana—not in threat, but in instinctive readiness.

“Is it the Minamoto clan again?” he asked quietly, not blinking. “If they dare challenge you, say the word. I will see to it.”

There was no bravado in his tone, no bluster—only cold determination.