“I’m fine.” But his gaze lingered on the chair a beat too long before he sank into it with an exhale. His fists clenched around his knees, knuckles white.
Aimee watched as he eventually reached for the mortar, movements stiff, knowing his mood would sour if she asked him if he was ok, again.
“It’s actually…” She touched the braid again, lighter this time. “It’s good. Where’d you learn how to…?” She faltered, mouth pulling sideways. “Plait?”
He didn’t look up.
“A girl in my group home.” He reached for a pinch of dried thorny leaves and let them fall into the mortar. “She kept getting reprimanded for leaving it loose. They said it was a risk—easy to grab during combat.”
The pestle ground into the stone.
“She was hopeless,” he said flatly. “Couldn’t even complete basic shinobi forms without stumbling.” His lips thinned, and the grinding stopped. “It wasn’t much, but I fixed her hair for her every morning during Tanshi training.”
Group home.He was an orphan.
“That actually sounds…” Aimee hugged herself. “Nice of you.”
He dropped the pestle into the bowl with a dull thud.
“It was expedient.” His hand flexed again. “She kept slowing us down.”
“Of course.” She didn’t believe him.
Kazuma reached for the pouch without meeting her eyes, the scent of crushed thorns rising as he funneled the powder inside.
“What happened to her?” Aimee’s voice barely carried.
He didn’t answer at first. Just stilled, hand hovering above the drawstring.
“What happens to all hopeless shinobi,” he said eventually. “She didn’t make it through her first mission.” His eyes closed, and a moment passed. “We were twelve.”
Then he began tying the pouch shut.
“Luckily, we were assigned someone competent after that.” His mouth slanted into something that wanted to be a smile but twisted instead. “Thatbitch is probably wondering where I am by now.”
“Kaz…” She stepped forward, unsure of what she meant to say.
“Don’t you have some pedestrian task to perform?” A muscle ticked along his cheek. “Elsewhere.”
Aimee drew the bowstring back, her stance solid, feet shoulder-width apart, knees flexible. The string stretched further as her fingers grazed her cheekbone as she exhaled through her nose. Steady. Clean form.
It had been three days since he’d effectively dismissed her. Three days since he’d said a word or even looked at her.
And, surprisingly, it fucking grated.
Her spine locked, tension surging down her arm, and the string snapped free.
The recoil caught her before she registered the failure, a whipcrack sting across her cheek. Metal clanged as the arrowhead skittered across the rock, the bow landing beside it with a dead thud.
“Shit!” Her hand flew to her face.
“Aimee-Sensei!” Shinka’s voice broke from the cluster of younglings behind her.
She turned away, clutching her face, blood hot and slick between her fingers. “I’m fine,” she called out.
Footsteps scuffed behind her.
“No—stay back!” She spun, fast. One arm out to hold the kid off. “Just a scratch.” She yanked her shirt over her head and pressed the fabric hard against the wound.
