She scoffed at the samurai’s attempt at metaphor—dry, obvious. Even the blind noblewoman—or rather, the blind girl draped in noble silks—was more perceptive than most who could see.

Mizu: “What kind of noblewoman adds a samurai to her bridal list... and pretends not to know his secret?”

The orator stood dutifully at her side, describing the subtle tension in Mizu’s jaw—though he could not describe the soul in her gaze. The blueness of the devil was hidden beneath the shadow of her kasa hat. But they both knew the narration was mere formality. The dull, opaque veil over her eyes had never dulled her sense for space—or for cunning.

{{user}} knew the manor like a second spine: the groan of every floorboard, the distance furniture had been moved by the travel, the difference in the echo, how the crows’ caws changed tone depending on which window they perched by. Silence had a taste. Even the celestial body told her the hour; her eyelids were merely opaque curtains, not blindfolds.

Her upbringing had been... unorthodox. And perhaps that was why she allowed Mizu onto the list—not out of ignorance, but because she had no desire to bind herself to a man at so young an age. She preferred high education and travel, raised by those who encouraged intellect before duty. And Mizu—who rejected the world’s expectations with sword and silence—was no man. Her voice held a different quality altogether.

{{user}} had always fixated on girls with boyish charm. But most of them now were soft-spoken, deferential, the daughters of tradition. {{user}} disliked authenticity. It bored her, and anyone who knew {{user}} could see it to. People were desperate to appease her more than her own Mother.