The morning was not peaceful at the Hirata Estate.
The sun rose, casting mournful rays across the cremation grounds. The air was thick with collective grief; every member of the Hirata Clan stood in silent unison.
In the center of Ryujin's body lay a white shroud, wrapped in a white shroud, upon a bed of sandalwood. Usama stood at the head of the pyre, his eyes hollow.
A familiar hand squeezed his shoulder. He did not turn, "You're late, Silversmith."
Yamato's voice was low, trembling. "And you... have you no sorrow left to show?"
Usama closed his eyes for a moment before turning. "I am the first to mourn him. My tears are spent. Where are the others?"
Yamato glanced towards the arriving procession, "They are here."
A man with wild, sun-yellow hair strode forward, his golden, cloud-patterned robes glimmering in the soft sunlight.
Hayate Ashina.
Head of the Ashina Clan
He took a place at Usama's left and leaned close, his voice a wise, low murmur.
"Grief does not weaken a man, Usama. Lingering in it does. Ryujin knew the risks of the path he walked—and still he chose it. Now his burden has passed to the living. Your family needs you. Your clan needs you. Do not let his death become a second loss."
When all had gathered, Usama extended a hand. A small, perfect flame of golden Arcane energy kindled at his fingertip. He touched it to the pyre.
The flames roared to life, consuming the sandalwood and the white-shrouded form within.
Usama's gaze found Miraya standing at a respectful distance, Ronin held tightly against her chest. He remembered his vow.
As he bid his final goodbye to his father, Usama silently swore to become a father that Ronin could be proud of.
***
Usama and Miraya raised Ronin with all their affection.
Miraya told him stories of his grandfather — how a single stare from Ryujin could make his enemies flee. Usama, strangled by clan affairs, still carved out time to play with his son, to teach him the first principles of sorcery, and, of course, to spar playfully with Miraya.
What was Ronin's first word? Mama or Dada?
At the age of one, he learned to babble letters. Miraya patiently coaxed, "Ma-ma." Ronin could only manage a soft "Mmm." Miraya could chuckleand hug him against her chest.
At the age of two, he took his first wobbly, blundering steps — directly into Usama's waiting arms. Miraya's eyes teared as she whispered, "Our little explorer just took his very first brave steps into the world today."
At age four, the long war concluded. Ronin, clutching Miraya's skirt, looked up and said, "Ma..ma." Usama muttered under his breath, "Traitor." But his feigned anger melted like soft ice when Ronin immediately turned and babbled, "Da... da." Usama lifted him in his arms and nuzzled his soft little cheek.
And as time bled onward, they didn't even notice how these five years had passed.
***
Present.
Ronin kicked a bright red ball and giggled as he chased after it. He was a lovable, charming five-year-old with wide, innocent eyes like Miraya's and the handsome features of Usama.
Chasing his ball, arrived at the estate's park. Other children laughed and played under the warm, soft sunlight. The atmosphere was one of simple joy.
A small girl, about his age, picked up his rolling ball and curiously examined with her bright sunny eyes, "Wow... It's a beautiful ball."
Ronin walked up to her, his lips curling into a small, hopeful smile. "It's my ball. Do you want to play?"
The girl stared at his genuine, then she nodded, "Yes. I want to play with you."
A woman — the girl's mother — swooped in. She grabbed her daughter's armand yanked her away. "Sofie! What I tell you? Don't play with strangers!"
The girl tried to reason her, "But, Mama, he's —"
"No." The mother didn't listen, hurrying the girl away.
Ronin stood alone, holding his ball. He turned another group of children. "Do you want to play with me?"
The children hesitated. They stared at him—too long. One of them took a step back. Another whispered something Ronin couldn't hear.
The children froze. Then panic flashed across their faces. They scrambled back, screaming.
"It's the Hirata boy!"
"Mom said run from the monster!"
"Run! Quick!"
In seconds, the park was empty.
Ronin remained alone, clutching his ball. A small sniff escaped him. Then another. His small shoulders began to shake with silent sobs. He threw his favorite ball aside and ran, his tears trailing dark spots on the dry soil.
He burst through the estate's kitchen doors, where the mouth-watering aroma of Miraya's cooking filled the very air around them.
He rushed to her, wrapping his arms tightly around her legs from behind crying in ragged hiccups.
"Mama... Mama..."
Miraya's eyes widened in maternal fear. She knelt, wiped his tears with her thumbs, then she scooped him into her arms, gently rocking him. "My little star, what happened? Why are you crying?"
Ronin's face was buried in her shoulder, his tears soaking her apron. "Everyone is scared of me... no one wants to play... Am I... am I that bad?"
Miraya kissed his forehead and clutched him against her chest tightly. "No, my baby. No. You're not bad. That's not true. You're good. You're kind. And anyone who runs away… they're the ones missing out. Do you hear me?"
Ronin looked up, his sobs coming in hiccups. "R‐really?"
Miraya lowered him on floor, tapped his shoulders confidently, and looked him straight in his eye. "Yes. Absolutely. You're great, Ronin Hirata. Right?"
Ronin wiped his tears off his fists, then gave Miraya a warm, desperate hug. "Mama... I love you."
Miraya embraced him back, her heart breaking. She could not deny the truth. The people weren't scared because he was a Hirata.
They were scared of what he was — a truth that was far too heavy a burden for a little boy who only knew the safety of his mother's arms.