"—If one day the Uchiha Clan comes to take someone back."
Mikoto's voice stopped there.
Nawaki did not respond.
Leaning against a pillar, he looked at the short blade resting on Mikoto's knees. Moonlight fell across the blade, then reflected onto her face, splitting her expression into one half light and one half shadow.
The illuminated half was calm.
The shadowed half could not be seen clearly.
After waiting a few seconds, Nawaki spoke. "And then?"
"...Nothing." Mikoto sheathed the blade with a swift motion. "Just saying."
She stood and turned to leave.
Nawaki did not stop her.
Mikoto took three steps, then stopped. Not because Nawaki had called out to her, but because a faint snore came from the corridor across the courtyard—Kakashi's window had not been shut properly, and the steady breathing of a sleeping five-year-old leaked through the gap.
Mikoto stood there and listened for two seconds.
Then, instead of returning to her room, she turned toward the open space on the eastern side of the courtyard.
There stood a practice post Nawaki had raised with Wood Release.
Nawaki sat beneath the eaves for a quarter of an hour.
He heard the sound of metal slicing through the air. It came at a steady rhythm, once every two seconds. Mikoto was practicing her swordsmanship.
He stood, dusted off his trousers, and walked over.
The moon was huge.
Mikoto's movements were clean and decisive. Her blade flashed in and out, shaving across the practice post as wood chips scattered down. Her breathing was steady, her footwork precise, and the angle at which her right arm exerted force was textbook-perfect.
But something was wrong.
Nawaki saw it after three strikes—her point of force was off. It was not a technical issue. Something was clogging her heart, causing her