Shizuka’s life never felt right.

The harmony of the house, the rituals drilled into her hands and voice ... she followed them, but never believed.

Since the first lessons she stood beside Michiko.

Her sister was always flawless, always praised, the perfect child of a perfect code.

Shizuka obeyed, but she never understood.

She could feel the shadows creeping before anyone else.

Her father’s sudden rise, the rapid climb through the ranks, the new halls gleaming with borrowed grandeur ... none of it fit.

Arakane, the powerful Seiryu-lord, welcomed them into his silken halls with a smile polished thin.

They said he ruled half of the kingdom, but to young Shizuka his smile was a chilling embrace.

Captain Hotsume, once her father’s cheerful companion and superior, now bowed with the stiffness.

His eyes were stripped of the light-hearted laughter she had known.

And Gen’un, pale and unassuming, hung charms at their gates with memorized ease.

His blessings meant nothing; he was a priest of convenience, mouthing a faith his heart did not believe in.

But at the banquet it all changed.

The sacred Ritual of Masks was meant to reveal truth and prove sincerity. And that it did.

All the court stood there, masks lifted, fingers pointing at her father in solemn condemnation.

Arakane, Hotsume and Gen’un, they all stood where they belonged. Beside the scribe (insert name) as he read with a shaking voice the accusations of the court.

Shizuka's mind was shocked, but her heart already knew.

They burned it all. The house, the banners, their very life.
The Kawata colors were dragged through the streets, paraded before the fire consumed them.
The crowd roared as stones rained down. Shizuka struck back, not from rage, but from the sudden rush of a freedom she had never known… until the guards beat her into the mud.

It was the last time she would ever bow.