The sliding doors creaked open softly as the pale afternoon light filtered through the shoji screens. The room was quiet, warm with the scent of incense, and filled with a silence so deep it almost rang.
Shinjuro stood stiffly at the doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
Cradled in Ruka’s arms, the newborn girl stirred—barely the size of a bundled sparrow, with a tuft of flame-red hair just like her father's.
“She’s beautiful,” Ruka whispered, smiling down at the infant.
Shinjuro didn’t move at first, but then his eyes softened. “She looks just like you, Ruka.”
Ruka looked up, smiling faintly. “No… she has your hair.”
From the hall, Kyojuro—still just a boy—peeked in, his round eyes wide with wonder. Senjuro toddled behind him, barely keeping his balance.
“She’s our little sister?” Kyojuro asked, grinning. “She’s going to be strong! I’ll train with her every day!”
Ruka nodded gently. “Yes. But strength doesn’t only come from swordsmanship. It comes from the heart. From protecting the ones you love.”
Several Years Later – Age 8 or 9
The courtyard was quiet except for the rhythmic sound of Kyojuro's sword slicing through the air. He moved with fire in every step—burning arcs and stomping feet, flame-like breaths escaping between powerful strikes. His father stood nearby, arms crossed, silently observing. Occasionally, he grunted in approval or correction.
You sat on the edge of the engawa, knees tucked under your chin, watching. Kyojuro looked so serious. So strong. His every move made your heart race. You wanted to be like that. To be seen. To be worthy of that flame.
But you also knew what Father would say.
Then, you felt the soft rustle of a kimono behind you and the faintest hint of lavender in the air.
“Do you want to learn it?” Ruka’s voice came from behind, soft and warm like a spring breeze.
You turned to see her kneeling beside you, her smile as gentle as always. She placed a hand on your back, her touch reassuring.
“Flame Breathing?” you asked.
She nodded slowly. “Just like your brothers.”
You hesitated. “I thought… girls weren’t supposed to.”
Ruka looked into your eyes, her expression calm but serious. “There are many things people say girls aren’t supposed to do. But you have the same fire in your blood, don’t you? Your father’s flame… and my heart.”
She smoothed back a lock of your hair, tucking it behind your ear.
“Your father trained every day since he was barely older than Kyojuro is now,” she said. “He would fall, get back up, fall again. He kept going. For years. Not because anyone told him to—but because he had something to prove. Something to protect.”
You looked back out at Kyojuro as he moved through another form, his blade blazing through the air.
“Can I do that too?” you whispered.
She smiled. “Yes. But only if you want to. Not because you're told to. Your strength should never come from someone else’s expectations. It should come from your heart.”
Her voice wavered slightly on the last word. You turned your head in time to see her raise a hand delicately to her mouth. For a moment, she stayed frozen.
Then she smiled again—softly, but her eyes looked tired now.
“I’m just tired,” she said, folding her hands in her lap. “That’s all. It’s nothing.”
You wanted to ask more, but she gently pressed her forehead to yours, her warmth easing the uncertainty.
“Promise me something,” she whispered. “Promise me you’ll grow with kindness in your heart. Strength is not only in the blade, but in how you choose to carry it.”
“I promise.”
And in that moment, the world felt still again.