In a cave not far from the palace of the Notsubune, there is a small temple where the Hoshigumo grow. This temple lies in the darkness of the cave, visible only to those accustomed to seeing in the dark.
The wind had died down in the mountains.
Beneath the ice and stone, in a cave forgotten by the world, a flickering flame burned.
It was there, in the belly of the earth, that the temple of the Hoshigumo was located a sanctuary of shadow where neither prayer nor light echoed.
The children grew up there without seeing the light of day.
They were taught to walk in the dark, to breathe without making a sound, to kill without trembling.
Darkness was their mother, fear their only god.
The damp walls bore traces of ancient ceremonies:
blackened handprints, symbols painted with soot,
and in the center, a stone table cracked by time.
There, the seven Hoshigumo waited.
Seven shadows, kneeling in the gloom,
their faces hidden beneath dark wooden masks.
Their first mission in a long time.
But no one spoke.
They knew the value of silence in the house of death.
Only the fire, trapped in a copper lantern,
cast tarnished golden reflections on their armor.
The youngest among them, barely sixteen,
was their leader.
He wore a raven mask, carved from wood so black
that it seemed to absorb all light.
His eyes, invisible behind the slit in the mask,
stared at the flame with almost religious attention.
"We will leave at nightfall," he said.
His voice was calm, but it vibrated like an ancient command.
"We will follow the frozen river, then the eastern passes.
Six days on horseback.
And if the gods grant us their breath,
we will reach the mountains before the new moon."
No one answered.
The Hoshigumo needed no words.
In the silence, every gesture, every glance,
was already a promise of death.
"Prepare your equipment," he finally added.
Once we reach the Temple, no one knows what awaits us.
The fire went out in the lantern,
and the cave returned to its original darkness.
A breath swept through the room,
stirring up the ashes of the past.
One by one, the seven assassins rose,
their footsteps echoing, their shadows endless.
They sank into the darkness,
as if the mountain itself were swallowing them up.
And soon, all that remained of them was perfect silence
a silence so heavy that the world, for a moment,
seemed to hold its breath.
Soon they
reached the mountain, the natural border of the Ashira temple.