After speaking with Heiwa, Miss Lakshmi granted me leave to follow Miss Halle for instruction in the handling of firearms.
I left Heiwa to her writing—whatever burden she was trying to cage on paper—and retrieved the revolver from its allotted case.
"I'll see you by luncheon," I said softly as I stepped out.
She did not look up.
For a moment, I lingered.
Then I left.
Miss Halle and I passed through Miss Lakshmi's rooms briefly, leaving her alone with her book, before making our way to a quieter wing of the inn.
The practice hall stood apart from the main building—an intentional distance, I supposed. The windows admitted a pale, filtered sunlight, and dust motes drifted lazily through its beams like idle thoughts. The air was still. Winter-cool.
Peaceful in a way that felt borrowed.
Miss Halle led the way without speaking. The silence was… kind.
Or maybe it was simply the absence of pressure.
"May I see your weapon?" she asked at last, once she had set a few things in order.
"Oh—yes." I handed it over.
"Webley," she murmured, inspecting it with practiced ease. She checked the chamber, the cylinder, the mechanism—then raised it and fired a single shot at the old archery target across the hall.
The report cracked through the quiet.
I flinched.
Just a little.
"You know nothing of this weapon," she said calmly. "So we begin properly."
I hid a smile. Knives had always been honest things—simple, intimate—but guns possessed a certain authority.
A finality that I wasn't entirely comfortable admiring.
The scent of gunpowder mingled with winter air as it settled.
"Eleven-millimetre calibre," she continued, the revolver already back in her hands.
"Six-round capacity. Single-action. Fifteen-centimetre barrel."
She sighed lightly.
"You won't learn by watching alone."
I was at her side instantly.
That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth.
"Feet shoulder-width apart. Dominant foot forward," she instructed, adjusting my stance from behind. "And remember—always treat the gun as if it is loaded."
Etiquette, discipline, restraint.
Then—permission.
The first shots were awful.
The recoil startled me.
My aim wandered.
The targets survived my efforts with embarrassing ease.
I didn't like that.
But slowly—slowly—the weapon stopped feeling like an enemy.
Not a friend, either.
Just something I could understand.
By the time we paused, my arms ached and my ears rang faintly.
I was beginning to suspect firearms demanded a great deal more patience than their reputation suggested.
We sat together as Miss Halle prepared tea.
The hall felt quieter after the gunfire.
Not peaceful.
Just emptied.
"May I ask you something?" I said, once the calm had settled.
"Of course."
"Why does the capital seem so indifferent to the war?"
She poured the tea with steady hands.
"Because they do not believe it concerns them."
Something about that answer irritated me immediately.
Maybe because it sounded too simple.
She handed me a cup.
"Have you heard of the Celestial Race that determined the order of the cycle?"
I nodded, recalling fragments of myth.
"What does that have to do with this?"
She took a sip.
"The story became a model."
I frowned.
"But the Rat Clan won that race. Shouldn't they rule?"
"Yes. Instead, they were granted rights—to mine rare minerals, to accumulate wealth. Power without visibility."
Understanding crept in like frost.
Slow.
Unwelcome.
"And the Fox and Cat clans never participated."
"No."
"They were never meant to," I breathed.
The thought settled heavily.
Too heavily for a children's story.
The winter light softened, but the air still whispered.
"They don't see them as part of the whole," I said, anger slipping through my composure.
The more I thought about it, the worse it sounded.
"How can they?"
Miss Halle took another sip, unhurried.
"Observe difference," she said quietly.
"Assign meaning.
Build hierarchy.
Justify the meaning.
Institute it.
Normalise it.
Adapt."
"…Adapt?" I echoed.
The word felt wrong.
"They'll adjust—but never change."
She inclined her head.
No argument.
No reassurance.
For some reason, that bothered me more.
"Thank you," I said at last.
I left her then, heart heavier than when I'd arrived.
The revolver hung at my side.
It felt heavier too.
Maybe that was my imagination.
When I reached our room, my hand lifted to knock—
—and froze.
A sob.
My stomach tightened instantly.
"I can't even ask for help right now," Heiwa said, her voice torn raw. "I can't get them what they need. People are dying, and I—"
The words broke apart.
I stepped back.
Instinctively.
Something about listening felt wrong.
Something about leaving felt worse.
There was nothing I could say that wouldn't cheapen the moment. Nothing I could do that wouldn't intrude.
At least, I think so.
So I stood there, silent.
The corridor suddenly felt too narrow.
Too still.
Like the winter sun—
present,
pale,
and painfully insufficient.