I cannot wait for tomorrow night to come. I cannot stop myself from waiting. I realized this last night. In my room, lit by the amber glow of the andon lamp, I remained alone for a long time, tracing the contours of that sensation. The cold moss of the Oborotei still seemed to linger at my fingertips. The moment I poured my spiritual power "like threading silk," just as Gingetsu advised, the paper bird grasped the air in the room with clarity and took flight—that sensation remained with me too. And—the memory of cold fingers touching my forehead. Akina covered her forehead with her palm while sitting on the futon. I could no longer distinguish which heat lingered there. The chill of the night, or something else entirely. I could not sleep. Or perhaps it is more accurate to say I did not try to sleep. And so the Seimeido the next morning was shrouded in mist from the very beginning. ＊ The moment I raised the spiritual talisman inscribed with Sanskrit characters, the scent of ink pierced the back of my nose. The Seimeido—a training hall built on the north side of the Aindou estate, its floor of roughly forty tatami mats laid with rosewood to stabilize spiritual power, its walls carved with Sanskrit characters of the five great elements—its morning air should always have cleared my thoughts. Yet today, my consciousness slid across the surface. The paper bird soared into the air. But today, for the first time, it did not dissipate in three seconds. Five seconds, seven seconds—the sensation from last night's Oborotei lived on in the depths of my fingertips. A thread-thin, yet certain flow of spiritual power. The sleepless night, strangely, had not diminished the precision of my technique. "—Next." 's voice fell quietly into the Seimeido. The middle-aged instructor, a pragmatic onmyoji with sensitivity level "four," had watched the Aindou family's training for many years. That taciturn, austere man paused for just a moment to look at my hands before offering the next talisman. He said nothing. He simply looked. I understood the weight of that gaze. He knew my attention was scattered. But at the same time, he likely sensed that the quality of my technique differed from three days ago. The air of the Seimeido is sensitive to spiritual power. Both the disorder of my concentration and the deepening of my skill seeped into the rosewood floor. It was after I had consumed three talismans that Yoshikawa Tatsu appeared at the entrance of the Seimeido. "Young Mistress Akina." , the head servant in her fifties—a veteran who had served the Aindou household for thirty years, known for her strict adherence to family law—spoke in her usual calm voice. "Your cousin, Aindou Kagamiya, has arrived from the main house." My fingertips stopped. The spiritual power I had poured into the talisman wavered for just an instant. The paper bird began to arc, then lost momentum mid-flight. It fell—like a kite with its string cut—onto the wooden floor. (I had no time even to think "ah.") The tremor of the spirit connects directly to the technique. I had never expected to demonstrate this most basic principle of onmyoji arts in such a manner. As I picked up the fallen paper bird, I was acutely aware of Itsumi's gaze. He said nothing. He simply set aside one white talisman, in silence. ＊ When I stood on the stepping stone at the entrance, I realized I was still wearing my training clothes. There had been no time to change—or rather, my mind had not had the capacity to think of changing. A young man with dark navy hair swept to the left stood outside the entrance. Aindou Kagamiya—my cousin, sent from the main house as a monitor and overseer. Twenty-three years old. Seven years my senior, he regarded me in my training clothes with cold silver eyes. The small silver bead piercing in his left ear reflected the autumn morning light dully. His expression seemed blank, but his gaze was sharp—the face I had not seen in years was more refined than in my memory, yet infinitely distant. "It has been a while, Akina." 's voice was hard. More a confirmation than a greeting. Yet in the moment he looked at me, something—for just an instant—moved in the depths of his eyes. A flicker, as if the traces of years of time had shown their true face for a single breath. By the next breath, it was gone. He had returned to the composed, expressionless face of a monitor. "As your overseer, I shall be staying for a while." With only that, he turned on his heel. Tatsu led him deeper into the house. I watched his retreating back for some time. (I felt like a scolded dog, and then immediately found it absurd.) I had not been scolded. I had not been blamed. My cousin had simply arrived. That was all. Yet something in my chest remained unsettled. Was it the tension of being watched, or—I shook my head slightly and stopped thinking further. ＊ The afternoon training began in an atmosphere more taut than usual. Because Kagamiya stood at the side of the Seimeido entrance, holding a leather-bound record book. I deliberately avoided looking toward Kagamiya as I raised the spiritual talisman. I concentrated my awareness on my fingertips. I traced the sensation from last night—threading silk. Thin, careful. In the chill of the Oborotei's night, I replayed in the depths of my ears Gingetsu's voice saying, "Yes, let it flow just like that." The paper bird soared into the air. One second, five seconds, ten seconds—still it did not dissipate. It began to circle the room. Twenty seconds, thirty seconds—the paper bird continued to trace a quiet arc near the ceiling of the Seimeido. Then, slowly, it descended and returned to my palm. The Seimeido fell silent for a moment. "...Good." spoke in a restrained voice. That was all. A brief word of evaluation, but in three years of training, I had learned the weight of this taciturn instructor uttering that single word. Kagamiya had been about to write something in his record book—or so it should have been. In reality, his pen tip was suspended in air. He had been following the paper bird's trajectory with his eyes. His silver gaze had unconsciously traced the arc as it circled the room, and before he realized it, the pen in his hand was writing nothing. Completely unaware, he kept the record book open, simply following the paper bird's path with his eyes. Instructor Itsumi glanced at this from the corner of his eye. He said nothing. His expression did not change. He simply turned his gaze forward again, as if in quiet understanding. That small observation reached me only halfway—reached me, and my lips nearly moved, and I hastily pressed them still. (Now is not the time to smile.) Yet something light was being born in my chest. ＊ At dusk, there was a figure gazing toward the rear grounds from the veranda of the corridor. It was Kagamiya. I saw his back from around the corner and stopped. His dark navy hair swayed faintly in the evening breeze. He was not holding the record book. He was simply gazing quietly toward the rear grounds—toward the direction of the sealed torii gate. (What is he looking at?) I thought this from the shadow of the corner. And then I realized I was hiding, and felt oddly again. Soon I saw Kagamiya's back as he returned to his room. I walked down the corridor without sound. As I passed his room, light was on inside the shoji, and I heard the sound of a brush moving. He was likely writing a report. I quickened my pace. The moment I considered the possibility that what he was writing might concern me, something in my chest turned cold. ＊ In the deep night, when the mansion had fallen silent, I made my way to the rear grounds. The scent of decaying leaves dissolved into the night air. The leaves of the trees filtered the hazy moonlight, casting dappled shadows on the ground. Tonight a thin veil of cloud hung overhead, but the moon's outline was visible. With each step, the temperature of the air dropped—a cold distinct from autumn's chill crept up from the sleeves of my kimono. When the Oborotei came into view—the crumbling pavilion about fifty paces east of the sealed torii gate, covered in ivy and moss—my pace quickened of its own accord. Gingetsu was there. Standing close to the roots of an old tree in the pavilion, gazing upward at the sky. His silver-white long hair swayed quietly in the night air, his skin pale and translucent—the kind of presence that did not dissolve even in a moonless night—existed there. His deep crimson eyes turned toward me before I had even moved. The weight of the fact that he had been waiting settled slowly in my chest. Something in my chest beat violently. My heartbeat jumped. I felt the heat gathering in my face, and I deliberately exposed my cheeks to the night's chill. "You came." stated it as fact. There was no surprise in his voice, no welcome. Only the weight of having counted the moments. "I came." I answered. The words were the same as always, yet today they carried a different weight. It was the moment I was about to begin the spirit familiar training, the moment I drew out a talisman. "Wait." 's voice carried an unusual gravity. His deep crimson eyes looked at me more sharply than usual. "Since this morning, an unfamiliar outline has been added to the spiritual map of the mansion's aura." His voice was quiet, yet absolute. "It is a spiritual aura of high sensitivity, restrained with ascetic discipline. It must be someone from your household—but the owner of that aura has feelings for you." "...That is—" "To a yokai, human emotion is transparent." The voice, layered with three hundred years of time, stated it with quiet certainty. "That man's spiritual aura trembles minutely each time it traces your presence. Whether he is aware of it or not, I do not know." "Are you speaking of Kagamiya?" I said it immediately. The words of denial rose to my throat, but did not emerge. Instead, the words "He is only here as an overseer" floated onto my tongue, but they too did not come out. Gingetsu did not argue. He simply gazed at me with his deep crimson eyes. The weight of that silence—the weight of his not denying it—settled quietly in my chest. "If," Gingetsu continued, "the owner of that aura were to learn of your nighttime activities—" The temperature of his voice shifted slightly. It was phrased as a question, but it was not a question. It was a warning. Quiet and sharp. My pulse jumped for a different reason. My chest tightened. I heard something like jealousy in Gingetsu's words—or rather, I wanted to hear it, and my face grew hot. Clearly hot in the autumn night air. Trying to hide my agitation, I repositioned the talisman. "...!" It was reversed. The Sanskrit characters faced away from me. The most basic principle of spirit familiar arts—if the talisman's orientation is wrong, the spiritual power does not flow correctly. This was the first time since beginning my training that I had made such an elementary mistake. Gingetsu silently indicated my talisman with a fingertip. There was no word of correction. Only a glance—that quiet, almost satisfied deep crimson gaze—affected me more than any words could have. "...Please do not look." I said it while repositioning the talisman. My voice came out more pathetic than I intended. "I am not looking." "You are looking." "...Well, I am looking." That was all. But in that single admission—mixed with an honesty that could not quite deny—I felt the heat in my face linger as I held the talisman. For a while, training continued quietly. Through a gap in the Oborotei's roof, the hazy moon was visible. Soft light fell on the moss. The paper bird flew, and returned to my hand. In the repetition of this, I thought of Kagamiya, turned over Gingetsu's words in my mind, and quietly confirmed the complex topography of my own heart. "Kagamiya is not my enemy," I said at last. As I spoke, I considered why I