Someone whispered in the patriarch's ear,
and a new idea came to him.
Sitting cross-legged on the cold flagstones,
Patriarch Nobutsune meditated.
Around him, two men stood motionless:
the Golden General, draped in silk and polished iron,
and the Silver General, clad in pale armor,
whose reflection resembled the moon on snow.
Both were his oldest servants,
and for years they had been waiting for this moment.
War.
For a long time, it had haunted their dreams like a promise.
And now the patriarch, exalted by the voice that had visited him,
finally entrusted them with the supreme task:
to prepare the armies to march on the Temple of Asira.
The fire burned weakly in the throne room.
Scrolls were piled around them, covered with plans, seals, and names.
Every line, every sign, heralded a campaign to come.
The Golden General spoke, his voice calm but sharp:
"We have waited long enough. The southern provinces are weakened.
The river is frozen, the roads are open.
A single order, and we can advance.
The Silver General remained silent.
He watched the fire flicker, as if he could already see the flames of a world in ruins.
Then he murmured:
"The gods may sleep, but the Temple still watches.
To march on Ashira is to burn the breath itself.
Nobutsune turned a cold stare toward him.
"Then let it burn," he replied.
"Fire," said the Silver General, "also consumes those who light it."
The Patriarch did not respond.
He simply raised his hand.
And that simple gesture sealed the fate of thousands of men.
But as they were about to leave the room,
there was a knock at the door.
Three slow, spaced-out knocks, as if the wind itself were knocking.
An old man entered.
His steps were so light that the rubbing of his sandals on the stone could not be heard.
He wore a gray wool coat, covered with melted snow.
No one seemed to know him, no guard had announced him,
and yet the patriarch rose immediately.
He bowed his head, almost respectfully.
The generals, stunned, exchanged glances.
Nobutsune gestured.
"Speak, please."
The old man slowly raised his head.
His face was wrinkled like ancient parchment,
but his eyes, deep black, shone with a supernatural clarity.
When he spoke, his voice was soft, but seemed to come from another world.
"Send the children of death there.
Prepare for war in silence.
The Hoshigumo will be eternally loyal to you.
A draft swept through the room.
The flames in the brazier died down,
and for a moment, it seemed as if black silhouettes,
like crows with outstretched wings, were dancing in the smoke.
When the wind died down,
the old man had disappeared.
The patriarch remained motionless for a long time,
his gaze lost in the ashes.
Then he murmured, almost to himself:
"Call the Hoshigumo.
The time has come."
The Hoshigumo: children taken from
their families,
shaped in darkness,
so that the assassins of the North might be born.