Shigen noticed the loneliness the same way he noticed weaknesses in a formation.
Not all at once.
Not dramatically.
But once seen, impossible to unsee.
Aoi spent her days surrounded by people, yet never with them. She healed, advised, moved where she was needed—but when the work ended, she always drifted back to the edges. To doorways. To ridgelines. To places where staying or leaving required the same effort.
She did not ask for company.
Which meant she had learned not to expect it.
Shigen thought about that longer than he should have.
One morning, while his strength was still returning, he made a choice—not a grand one, not spoken aloud. Just a quiet adjustment in how he moved.
He began to sit where she could see him.
Not in her way.
Not demanding attention.
Just present.
When she brought him tea made too strong for anyone but herself, he drank it without complaint and commented on the bitterness like it was a feature, not a flaw. When she corrected his breathing during recovery exercises, he exaggerated the mistake the second time—just enough to earn the faintest pause from her.
Once, maybe, a flicker of amusement.
It wasn't much.
But it was something.
He told her stories—not of war or strategy, but of trivial things. Of shogi pieces that always went missing in the Nara compound. Of deer that refused to obey even the most carefully laid plans. Of afternoons wasted because no one felt like moving.
At first, she listened politely.
Then, one evening, she interrupted him.
"That one," she said. "About the deer. You told it wrong."
Shigen blinked. "I did?"
She nodded. "They didn't run because they were startled. They ran because they were bored."
He stared at her.
Then laughed—quietly, genuinely.
She didn't smile.
But she didn't look away either.
That was when he understood.
Aoi didn't need someone to pull her forward. She needed someone willing to stay lit beside her, without asking her to step out of the cold all at once.
He began to bring warmth in small, deliberate ways.
He waited for her after council briefings—not to question, just to walk back together. He learned when to speak and when silence was the better offering. When she grew distant, he didn't chase. When she lingered, he didn't retreat.
He did not try to fix her loneliness.
He simply refused to let it be absolute.
One night, as they stood watching the snowfall beyond the compound walls, Aoi spoke without looking at him.
"You don't have to do this."
Shigen tilted his head. "Do what?"
"Stay," she said. "Make things lighter."
He considered the board in his mind—the risks, the outcomes, the future he couldn't calculate.
Then he answered honestly.
"I know," he said. "I want to."
She was quiet for a long time.
"I don't promise anything," she said finally. "I don't stay places. I don't—"
"I'm not asking for promises," Shigen replied gently. "I'm not the moon. I don't need you to revolve around me."
That made her look at him.
"I can just be the sun," he continued. "There when you need warmth. Still there when you don't."
The words surprised him as much as her.
Aoi searched his face—not for intent, but for expectation.
She found none.
The cold didn't recede.
The danger didn't vanish.
But for the first time in a long while, Aoi did not feel alone standing in it.
And Shigen, who had always believed himself a creature of shadow and calculation, discovered that sometimes the most strategic move was simply to shine—quietly, patiently—until someone else remembered what warmth felt like.