The great iron gates of the manor creaked open with a low groan, echoing into the warm summer evening. Fireflies floated lazily through the air, blinking like scattered stars that had fallen from the sky. Toki and Tora stepped through the entrance, their footsteps muffled by the thick grass beneath their feet. Lumma, the enormous bird upon which Tora had descended, rustled her feathers behind them and took flight once more, fading into the moonlight.
Utsuki stood at the top of the stone steps, her arms crossed lightly in front of her, a gentle smile gracing her lips like the soft curve of a crescent moon. Her long hair shimmered silver in the dim light, swaying with the breeze.
"Toki!" she called out, her voice bright but touched with concern. As he stepped closer into the moonlight, her smile faltered. Her eyes widened. "What happened to you?! You're hurt!"
Toki, bruised and bloodied but standing tall, gave a small chuckle. "Nothing I couldn't handle," he replied, brushing a streak of dirt from his face. "Just a few… detours. Let's say I had to wrestle a few ghosts to earn this."
He shifted the sword strapped across his back into the light. The weapon gleamed silver-blue, with etchings like butterfly wings along the fuller, the oxidized patterns dancing in the moon's pale glow. It looked like something meant for both war and royalty.
Utsuki's breath caught as she stepped forward, eyes fixed on the blade. "It's beautiful..."
"It's yours," Toki said simply. "Or rather—it's for you. To represent you, at the royal selection. I figured I couldn't show up with anything less than a weapon worthy of a queen."
Her cheeks flushed softly, and she looked away for a moment, but her voice remained composed. "You didn't have to go through so much just for that."
Toki smiled. "It wasn't just for that."
Tora, having slid down gracefully from Lumma's back, stretched out her arms and let out a tired sigh. Utsuki turned to her, worry flickering again.
"Tora, are you alright? You look like you fought a mountain."
"I am a mountain," Tora replied with a crooked grin, her voice roughened with fatigue but still laced with playful bravado. "And that idiot over there is the reckless climber who thinks he can scale anything."
Utsuki laughed, the tension slipping from her shoulders. She walked toward Tora and paused, admiring something in her hair.
"That's a beautiful butterfly clip. It suits you."
"Oh this?" Tora lifted a hand and fingered the delicate silver accessory nestled in her red hair. "Gift from a stubborn idiot who nearly sold his soul for some shiny trinkets."
Toki chuckled but said nothing. Instead, he reached into his robe with deliberate care, pulling out a small, velvet-lined box. He held it out to Utsuki with both hands.
"This one's for you."
Utsuki blinked, her hands hesitating as she looked at the box. "Toki... you didn't have to…"
"I wanted to," he interrupted gently. "Open it."
She did. Nestled inside was a delicate silver butterfly hairpin, its wings curved slightly inward, as if mid-flutter. It sparkled with a subtle opalescence under the moonlight.
Utsuki stared at it for a long moment. Her eyes shimmered.
"Will you… put it on me?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
Toki stepped close, brushing her hair gently to the side. The wind danced around them, lifting strands of silver into the air. As he fixed the clip in place, his fingers brushed against her cheek.
"How do I look?" she asked, trying to keep her tone light.
He stepped back, took her in for a moment, then said with soft certainty: "Like a true queen."
She lowered her gaze, hiding the shy smile that bloomed on her lips. "You say that so easily."
"Only because it's true."
She turned toward the manor and waved them in. "Come, both of you. Let's get you cleaned up."
But before they could step inside, a whirlwind of motion struck Toki. Three smaller bodies collided with his legs, arms, and waist.
"Haru, Natsu, Aki—" he said, staggered, as the triplets clung to him like vines.
"You're back!" cried Haru.
"Did you bring us something?" asked Natsu, eyes sparkling with anticipation.
"You promised!" chimed in Aki, trying to peek into the folds of his robe.
Toki gave a tired laugh and raised his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright. I didn't forget."
He reached into his pack and pulled out three carefully wrapped hairpins.
"For Haru—pink. For Natsu—orange. For Aki—yellow."
He handed each one their gift and knelt, affixing the clips into their hair with the precision of a jeweler and the affection of an older brother.
The girls squealed with delight and hugged him in turn.
"Thank you, thank you, thank you!"
Aki lingered, her smile faltering a little as she fingered her yellow clip.
"Can I have a silver one someday?" she asked, her voice so soft it nearly disappeared into the night.
Toki knelt to her level and cupped her face gently.
"If you and Utsuki both wear silver clips… how will I ever know which one is the real Utsuki?"
A pause. Then laughter—pure and sudden—burst out of everyone. Even Tora chuckled. Utsuki smiled warmly at the sight.
Inside the manor, leaning against the far doorway, stood Leonard. He had been watching the scene silently, arms crossed. When Toki entered, Leonard's eyes flicked to the blade on his back.
"That's new."
"Forged in blood and tested in flame," Toki said. "It wasn't easy."
Leonard nodded with a grunt of approval. "Looks worthy of the cause."
Suddenly, from the shadowed hallway, Suzume emerged with a tray of damp cloths and a frown that could slice metal.
"Toki," she said curtly, "have you looked at yourself in a mirror lately?"
"Not recently."
"You're filthy and bleeding."
"I know."
"Go wash."
"I will. But first..."
He reached into his bag one final time and produced a red butterfly clip, simple but elegant, the red deep and rich like autumn maple leaves. He walked toward her slowly, then offered it with both hands.
"For you. From a friend."
Suzume blinked, caught off-guard. Then, after a moment, she bowed slightly. "I'll accept it. Thank you."
Toki nodded. "You're welcome."
And with that, he turned and walked toward the kitchen, heart heavy with the knowledge of what awaited him there.
He had survived monsters and forged steel, but there was no armor thick enough to protect him from the coming storm that brewed in the form of a certain furious cook. Still, he smiled. This place… this family… they were worth every scar.
Toki opened the kitchen door slowly, his hand trembling as it pushed the wood inward. The hinges creaked, betraying his stealth.
Inside, the scent of garlic and simmering broth hung in the air. The clatter of a chopping knife paused.
Yuki stood in the center of the kitchen, arms crossed tightly over her chest, her left foot tapping against the tile like a metronome set to "annoyed." Her eyes locked onto him like twin daggers.
"You're late," she said flatly, but her tone cut like broken glass. "Again."
Before Toki could respond, she threw a slightly bloodstained apron at him. It hit his chest and fluttered to the ground.
"Tobi, get your act together and start peeling those vegetables. Dinner isn't going to magically cook itself."
Toki let out a breath, bent to retrieve the apron, and looped it around his waist. "I came back almost dead, and all I get is a lecture."
She pinched her nose with two fingers. "You reek of blood. And sweat. And whatever sewer you crawled through. Don't go near the food until you wash your hands. Thoroughly. With soap. Twice."
He cracked a weary smile, the kind that came from long days and longer regrets. "Still so warm and tender, Yuki. You'll never change."
Yuki didn't dignify that with a response.
Toki reached into his travel-worn cloak and withdrew a butterfly hairpin—delicate, blue, its wings etched with silver veins like fragile truths.
"Here," he said, offering it. "A peace offering. Something small to ease your wrath."
She took the clip, inspected it briefly, then placed it on a dusty shelf beside a jar of pickled plums. "You think gifts fix everything?"
"No," he replied. "But maybe they make it easier to talk."
"You're still a stranger. And trinkets don't change that."
He walked to the sink and began washing his hands, the crimson stains swirling down the drain like faded guilt. Then he moved to the counter, grabbing a knife and the first of many potatoes.
They peeled in silence for a while. The only sounds were the scrape of steel against root and the occasional hiss of a boiling pot.
"You know," Toki began, slicing off a blemish, "I appreciate that you don't trust me."
Yuki's eyebrow arched, unimpressed. "Oh? Should I feel flattered?"
"You're the youngest of Leonard's nieces, younger than Suzume, but… the most grounded. I don't know your past, and I won't pry, but it's obvious you've carried more than your share."
She continued chopping, more forcefully now.
"It means something—that you're cautious. Protective. You don't let things slide. Even when I stumble in half-dead, you don't hesitate to put me to work."
"Because someone has to," she muttered.
"Exactly. That's why I mean it when I say—I'll earn your trust. I'm not there yet. But I will be."
She looked at him, expression unreadable. "We're not alike, Toki. Stop trying to draw parallels."
She picked up a carrot and flung it at him with practiced precision.
It struck him squarely on the forehead.
He blinked. Then laughed.
"Point taken."
Her lips twitched—but didn't quite smile. Instead, she returned to her chopping block.
Time passed. The room filled with the gentle symphony of a working kitchen.
Then Yuki's voice broke the rhythm. "Why did you stay in the capital so long?"
Toki's knife slowed.
He stared at the half-peeled potato in his hand, its skin flaking like dead memories.
He thought of Kandaki. Of the child's trembling shoulders. Of Nihon—the assassin in black, her wires carving through flesh like scripture.
Utsuki's scream.
Tora's shattered body.
He remembered the pain. The helplessness. Their sacrifice. His failure.
He had stood still. Useless. A ghost in his own body.
And then—
A blade to his own throat.
Time reversing.
A second chance.
Only granted because he bore a cursed Authority.
He bit his lower lip until the skin tore.
Blood dripped onto the counter.
Onto the potato.
His grip on the knife tightened until the edge bit into his hand.
More blood.
He didn't notice.
He saw only Tora's vacant eyes.
Utsuki's fading light.
Then—
"Toki!" Yuki shouted.
He didn't react.
She moved fast, snatching the knife from his hand and tossing it aside. Her fingers wrapped around his wrist.
"You're bleeding, idiot! What are you doing?!"
Still no response.
She slapped him.
Hard.
The crack echoed off the tiled walls.
Toki blinked. The haze broke. He looked down at his hand—smeared red, trembling.
"Oh."
"Oh? That's all you have to say?! Gods, you're worse than Suzume when she tried to juggle kitchen knives."
She grabbed a towel and pressed it into his palm.
"What is wrong with you?"
He stared at her. Really looked at her. The way her brows knit together. The tightness in her jaw. The worry she tried to hide beneath irritation.
Then, in a voice stripped of armor:
"What would you do... if a mistake you made long ago began hurting everyone around you now?"
Yuki paused.
The question hung in the air like smoke.
"That's a dumb question," she said finally. "You fix it."
She walked away and returned with bandages, kneeling beside him.
"Even if fixing it means breaking yourself again?" he asked.
She wrapped his hand with sharp efficiency. "Especially then. We don't get to collapse just because it's hard. If you let the past choke you, you'll kill more than memories."
"But I'm scared," he said quietly. Of breaking again. Of remembering when no one else does."
She looked up.
"Then don't break. Or if you do, break smart."
He gave a half-laugh. "You make it sound so simple."
"It isn't. But simple isn't the same as easy. You want to live? Then live. Not like this—walking corpse, trauma sponge. You're no use to anyone if you bleed out peeling potatoes."
She tightened the final knot in the bandage and stood.
"You're immature, reckless, and melodramatic. You want to be a knight? Then face what you ran from. You're not special just because you're haunted."
She turned toward the cupboards.
Toki reached out, gently catching her wrist.
"Thank you."
She blinked.
"For what?"
"The slap. I needed it."
Yuki snatched her hand back. "Don't touch me."
Then, after a pause:
"Help me set the table. Plates aren't going to walk there themselves."
He nodded, silently picking up a stack of porcelain.
They walked out of the kitchen together.
No dramatic music.
No triumphant swell.
Just two people.
One broken.
One angry.
Both trying.
Outside, the moon rose.
Dinner took place.
Ordinary. Uneventful.
Afterward, everyone retired to their rooms, the quiet of the inn returning like the lull after a storm.
Toki did not go upstairs.
Instead, he wandered into the small library . The moonlight filtered through the high window, casting silver shapes across the floor and bookshelves. Dust hung in the air, unmoving, suspended like time itself.
He stood in the middle of the room, eyes tracing old spines, most of which bore titles he couldn't read or remember.
And then—
A voice.
"Do you want to talk to someone?"
He turned.
Utsuki stood in the doorway, hair loose around her shoulders, her presence as quiet as snowfall. Her voice hadn't startled him. It had settled into the moment like it belonged there.
She walked toward him, stopping a few feet away.