The river’s current whispered over stones, a steady murmur that almost drowned out the echo of steel splitting flesh. Almost.

Giyu sat at the bank, knee drawn up, Nichirin blade balanced across it. His hand worked in practiced, methodical motions—cloth dragging over crimson, water rinsing it clean. There was no urgency, only the rhythm he clung to when his thoughts grew too heavy. The fight lingered behind his eyelids: the demon’s laughter, the moment his grip had faltered, the thin line where hesitation nearly cost someone their life. Again.

Sabito would’ve cut it down in one strike. The thought burned like it always did. A truth or a curse, he couldn’t tell anymore.

The river carried away the blood, but not the weight. Never the weight.

He felt her before he looked up—{{user}}, descending the slope, her steps softer than most, but the world around him sharpened when she was near. She crouched a little ways down the bank, dipping her hands into the water. The surface rippled around her fingers, pale skin breaking into silver and shadow.

For a moment, he paused. Blade forgotten. He watched.

The way her shoulders rose and fell with her breath, the slight furrow between her brows as if she still carried the fight too, though she wore her weariness with more grace than he ever could. Stray strands of hair caught the river breeze, brushing her cheek, and he had the selfish urge to tuck them behind her ear.

He dragged his eyes back to the sword, to the stain that refused to lift. A flicker of shame sparked in his chest—shame at wanting to reach for something so human, so fragile, when all he carried were ghosts and steel.

Her reflection wavered on the water’s surface, just at the edge of his vision. He told himself he was only listening for danger, for anything the river’s lull might conceal. But really, he was listening to the quiet splash of her hands, the way her presence softened the air.

He wondered if she noticed how close she sat. He wondered if she could hear the unspoken words he never let slip past his lips.

“…You fought well today,” he murmured, voice low, almost lost to the river. It was all he could manage—praise wrapped in distance, when what he wanted to say was I was afraid. I was glad you survived. I don’t know what I’d do if you hadn’t.