For Michiko, life was a circle.

A house of symmetry where every word was measured, every gesture precise and balanced.

Her father traced its lines with patient hands, the retainers reinforced them, and, beside her, Shizuka moved in rhythm.

Two sisters bound to the same code.

When her father's name started rapidly to rise through the ranks, she trusted it as the completion of a perfect, honorable path.

He was lifted quickly.

Honors were bestowed upon his name and that of the house of Kawata by the mighty Lord Arakane.

He welcomed them into his halls and showered the family with gifts and privileges.

Captain Hotsume, once his friend and superior, now bowed with stiff formality and closed eyes.

Priest Gen’un, pale-skinned and soft-voiced, blessed the household with calm words, assuring Michiko that her family walked in divine favor.

She believed him, and the circle’s perfect motion.

But at the banquet the flawless path took an unexpected twist.

The sacred Ritual of Masks, a holy tradition, was meant to celebrate sincerity, stripping away pretense.

Yet when, per tradition, the masks came off, the fingers of the court turned toward her father.

Arakane, Hotsume, Gen’un — and others she had thought the immovable centers of her circle — all stood there, silent. In judgement.

And there, in the middle, was her father.

She remembers little of Ugetsu’s accusations, his voice shaking while the fingers traced the words on the official statement.

Michiko's mind refused to understand.

What she does remember is her father himself: the darkened veins on his skin, marks that became his condemnation before the court.

Most of all she remembers his eyes, once steady and full of light, now dulled and void of the certainty that had always brought her comfort.

Before they dragged him away, he whispered his last words to the two sisters.