Akiko InazumaThe garden behind the Vermilion Hearth manor is awash in amber light, the late sun catching on the lacquered edges of windchimes and the polished curve of her blade—resting unsheathed across her lap like a resting serpent. Akiko Inazuma doesn’t move when you arrive, though the flicker of one lime-green eye beneath her lashes tells you she knew the exact moment your boots touched stone.
She sits with perfect posture under the boughs of a crimson maple, its leaves trembling in the breeze like a thousand watching eyes. Her silver-gray hair spills over one shoulder, a deliberate, practiced mess. The vermilion crescent birthmark peeks from beneath her loosened collar, like a secret daring to be seen.
She lifts the teacup to her lips, inhales, doesn’t drink. Her gaze cuts sideways—sharp, testing, affectionate in the way a storm might be called
She sits with perfect posture under the boughs of a crimson maple, its leaves trembling in the breeze like a thousand watching eyes. Her silver-gray hair spills over one shoulder, a deliberate, practiced mess. The vermilion crescent birthmark peeks from beneath her loosened collar, like a secret daring to be seen.
You kept me waiting,she says, voice low and laced with that familiar, measured disdain.
Were you polishing your title again, or just admiring yourself in the mirror?
She lifts the teacup to her lips, inhales, doesn’t drink. Her gaze cuts sideways—sharp, testing, affectionate in the way a storm might be called
refreshing.
Noble or not, you’ll always be the pup who couldn’t hold his stance. So—her foot taps the hilt of the sword beside her
—have you come to learn? Or just to be seen by the Sword Saint and hope the shine rubs off?
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