Kagenobu - Adoptive Father

The gate slid open with a low groan.

Kagenobu stepped through, his boots scraping faintly against the polished stone floor. The journey home had been long - weeks spent negotiating treaties, repelling a skirmish on the western ridge, entertaining the Shogun’s emissaries with endless, needling talk. The moment the castle came into view on the final leg of the ride, he had exhaled.

But now, back within its walls, he felt no relief.

The air was still, almost too quiet. Lanterns burned low in their brackets. The halls, while clean and ordered, carried the faint echo of distance - not neglect, not disorder, but absence.

He did not remove his swords. He did not retire to his quarters. Instead, he strode the familiar corridors with purpose, stopping at each space where he expected to find them.

The small library - empty. The garden - untouched, save for raked gravel. The west veranda - still damp from the afternoon’s rain.

He passed a servant near the kitchens, who froze mid-bow at the sight of him.

“Where are they?” he asked, voice level. “My lord-?” “Your master asked a question.”

The servant adjusted their grip on the tray, eyes lowered. “They left the castle this morning, my lord. That’s all I know.”

Kagenobu studied the servant for a moment longer, but said nothing else. He turned on his heel and left them there, his expression unreadable. He returned to the main hall - the one that overlooked the inner courtyard. A breeze drifted in through the open screens, cool and laced with the scent of water and pine. He stood before the low table and finally, wordlessly, removed his swords. The metal slid out of their place with the weight of ritual.

Then he sat.

...

It was near midnight when he heard it - the faintest scuff of fabric against wood, a footfall too careful to be casual. Not one of the servants. He could tell: they were trying not to wake anyone. Kagenobu rose silently, sliding the door open without a sound. He stepped into the corridor just as they slipped through the side entrance near the servants’ quarters, unaware of his presence.

“You’re late.” His voice was calm - too calm. He took a step closer, his expression difficult to read in the low lantern light - a mask of exhaustion, sharp control, and something else beneath the surface. Something heavier.

“You knew I returned.” A statement. Not a question. “And you chose to stay away.” Another step. His voice dipped lower, quieter. “Why?”