The sea breathed softly at dawn.
Not calm—never truly calm—but restrained, like a beast that had curled back into itself after a long night. Pale light spilled across the deck of the ship, gliding over polished wood, coiled ropes, and banners that stirred lazily in the wind.
Raizen stood at the bow.
He had been awake since before sunrise, hands resting on the rail, eyes following the endless stretch of water ahead. His hair moved gently with the breeze, long strands lifting and settling like ash drifting through air. The ache in his head was faint, manageable—but it wasn't what held his attention.
Behind him, the ship groaned as it adjusted to the tide.
A few retainers were already awake—or attempting to be.
One knelt by the railing, regretting every decision he had made the night before. Another lay sprawled on the deck, mumbling apologies in a dialect no one recognized. Somewhere near the mast, someone was loudly insisting that the stars had been "too close last night."
Raizen allowed himself a small smile.
Footsteps approached.
Careful. Controlled.
He didn't turn.
Aoi stopped a few paces away.
She looked different in the morning light. Her hair was loosely tied, strands falling freely around her face, and her movements—usually sharp and exact—were slower, measured. The faint scar on her face caught the dawn glow, standing out more clearly than it had under lantern light.
She held herself rigid.
Like someone afraid of what they might remember.
Raizen felt it immediately.
He turned slowly.
"Good morning," he said, his voice gentle.
Aoi blinked, clearly surprised by the softness in his tone. "…Morning."
A quiet settled between them. Not awkward. Fragile.
Raizen studied her face for a moment, then spoke again.
"You didn't drink enough water," he said. "Your breathing's shallow."
She frowned. "You're analyzing me already?"
"I was worried."
That stopped her.
Her eyes shifted away, a faint warmth creeping up her ears. "I'm fine."
"I know," he replied calmly. "Still."
He extended a cup toward her—fresh water, untouched.
She hesitated, then accepted it.
"…Thanks."
She drank slowly, as if grounding herself.
Raizen leaned against the railing beside her, careful to leave space. He didn't mention the night. Didn't tease. Didn't press.
He remembered everything.
The retainers collapsing one by one. Senji laughing too loudly. The smell of alcohol thick in the air. Aoi sitting too still, gripping her cup like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
And her voice—unsteady, determined.
"I have to tell him today. I must."
He hadn't reacted then. Hadn't looked at her.
Not because he didn't care.
But because some moments deserved clarity.
Raizen glanced at her again.
She stared at the sea, jaw set, eyes unfocused.
"You don't remember much, do you?" he asked quietly.
Her shoulders tensed. "…Some. Not clearly."
"That's alright," he said. "You don't need to."
She turned toward him, searching his face. "I didn't say anything strange… did I?"
Raizen met her gaze.
His expression was calm. Kind.
"No," he said. "You were honest."
Her breath caught.
He looked away first.
Behind them, Senji dragged himself upright from a bench, hair wild, coat half-buttoned. Tools and half-assembled devices littered the area around him.
"…Never," he muttered, rubbing his temples, "drinking alcohol poured by someone who laughs while doing it."
He picked up a small brass device, squinted at it, then frowned.
"Why is my tracking lens fused to a signal flare?"
No one answered.
The morning passed slowly.
The crew moved with quiet efficiency, restoring order to the ship. Retainers recovered one by one, some embarrassed, others laughing it off. Raizen oversaw everything without command—his presence alone enough to steady them.
Aoi remained close, silent but attentive.
By midday, Senji had recovered enough to resume work. He leaned against the railing near Raizen, adjusting a small mechanical insect no larger than his palm.
"Good news," Senji said. "Nothing exploded."
Raizen raised an eyebrow. "That implies bad news."
Senji smirked. "We're being watched."
Aoi's eyes sharpened instantly. "Since when?"
"Last night," Senji replied. "Distance maintained. No hostile movement."
Raizen closed his eyes briefly, feeling the rhythm of the ship, the subtle shift of air. "Tsuchigumo?"
"Possibly," Senji said. "Or someone curious enough to stay hidden."
"We don't react," Raizen said calmly. "Not yet."
Aoi studied him.
There was no tension in his voice. No edge. Just certainty.
Training resumed in the afternoon—but lightly.
Raizen practiced movement along the deck, adjusting his steps to the sway of the ship, predicting each shift before it came. Aoi trained nearby, her technique sharp but restrained. Senji tested surveillance tools from above, releasing small devices into the sky.
At one point, Aoi faltered.
Her blade dipped.
Raizen noticed instantly.
He approached her—not correcting, not criticizing.
"You're distracted," he said gently.
She exhaled. "…I know."
"You don't need to push today."
She looked at him. "If I stop, I'll think."
"And if you think?" he asked.
"…I'll lose control."
Raizen shook his head. "No. You'll understand."
She searched his face for judgment.
There was none.
He placed his hand lightly over hers on the hilt of her blade. Steady. Warm.
"Whatever you were going to say," he added softly, "you don't owe it to anyone until you're ready."
Her eyes widened.
"…You remember."
"Yes."
"Everything?"
"Yes."
Her heart raced.
"And you're still—"
"I'm still here," he said quietly.
That was enough.
Night fell.
Lanterns lit the deck, their reflections dancing across the sea. Raizen stood at the rail again, watching the moonlight ripple across the water.
Aoi joined him.
She didn't speak.
Neither did he.
The silence wasn't heavy anymore. It was full.
Somewhere behind them, Senji laughed quietly to himself as he adjusted a new device.
The ship sailed on.
And far beneath the surface, something followed.
Waiting.