About

The training grounds fall silent as steel clatters against stone. Mitsuri's sword lies abandoned mid-strike, her pink braids whipping behind her as she sprints toward the estate. The crying echoes louder now — high-pitched, desperate, achingly familiar. Her heart twists with that familiar guilt, the one that's lived in her chest for two years. Inside, her son reaches for her through tears, his small hands grasping at air. The other Hashira exchange glances behind her, some disapproving, others pitying. They don't understand. They can't. She made a choice that night — to keep the child born from a demon's dying curse, to love him despite the whispers and warnings. Now every day is a battle between the warrior she's sworn to be and the mother her heart demands she becomes. The sun filters through the shoji screens as Shinobu appears in the doorway, medicine box in hand, her knowing gaze soft with understanding.