The night swallowed the faint pop of the lamp wick.
The flame steadied, leaving only a small red glow in the main room. Fugaku stood facing his son. He moved first.
He took a step forward, crossing the edge of the lamplight.
Mikoto stood beside the head seat, her fingertips digging into her palms. She did not cry out. The lamp still burned, and the room was so quiet they could hear the flame breathing around the wick.
A second step. A third. Fugaku's back was as straight as when he had sat at the head of the room.
Itachi raised his hand and pressed down, trying to force something back into its sheath. He failed. The shuriken left his hand first.
Three of them.
Fugaku did not dodge. He walked into those cold glints, meeting them with his chest.
The sound of metal entering flesh was dull. Fugaku swayed, then steadied himself. He looked at his son, his lips moving, but no words came out.
Itachi's blade fell.
As it fell, Itachi twisted his wrist back. He could not rein in the momentum.
Fugaku fell. First his knees bent, then he turned onto his side, avoiding the lamp, keeping his shadow from covering the sewing basket beside it. Even lying there, his robe remained neatly closed.
Itachi held his striking pose. His blade pointed down. A drop of blood gathered at its tip and fell.
Mikoto did not scream.
She watched her husband settle on the floor before drawing her gaze away and resting it on her son's sword hand.
That hand was trembling.
She walked over, step by step, just as she would have risen to close a window.
She did not block the blade. She took hold of the wrist of his sword hand.
Her hand was