he stands firm, his eyes meeting his brother's with quiet resolve. sickness, masa. it spread through the land like a shadow, taking many with it. father sent me away. his gaze hardens, the concern in his eyes hidden beneath a layer of calm. he took in the darkness of his brother's coat; how he has not changed. though he witheld the urge to reach out to him, it did cross his mind. the shock to find him here—! there are no more sons upon the isle. perhaps it was guilt that stretched across his face. a scarce attitude within the senshi.

disbelief flickers across his face, but it’s gone almost as quickly as it arrived. the weight of what has been lost settles on him, suffocating, unyielding. masa's touch on his forehead is brief, but it grounds him for a second, a fleeting connection before the silence stretches between them once more. swallowed by the tide, ryūjirō finally says, his voice is low. barely audible. his eyes remain fixed ahead, but there’s a hard edge to his gaze, a flicker of something cold in his chest. but we’re still standing. for now. his words are quiet, but heavy with the weight of everything that has come before—and everything they must now carry. unless they do not. it got worse after you were gone.

the wind whispers through the trees, but neither of them speaks for a moment. ryūjirō's gaze drifts over the landscape, the memories of what they've lost pressing down on him like a stone. we all followed orders, he murmurs, his voice low and edged with regret. we were blind to the cost. he shifts slightly, his posture stiffening. where've you been holding up then, senshi? he looks at his brother, wondering why he smells of other wolves; an unrecognizable conglomerate of scent he couldn't discern from here nor there. he wonders, too, what kind of place could hold him so fiercely that he smells of pack. not a clan. a pack. is that what they do here?

ryūjirō’s expression hardens, but there’s a flicker of hesitation in his amber eyes, a quiet doubt lingering beneath his usually steadfast demeanor. honor, he murmurs, almost questioning the word, as if testing its weight. i’ve walked a long road, masa-aniki. one where honor has often been elusive, twisted into something unrecognizable. he exhales slowly, the tension in his chest palpable. what is your contract? his gaze shifts, searching his brother’s face for an answer, as though seeking the certainty he himself is struggling to find. what could his brother be tasked to do? anything, he'd imagined. both sellswords not afraid to do any bidding for the right price. he would do the same if the opportunity arose. didn't think i'd find you anywhere, ani. thought you'd be dead.

ryūjirō listens in silence, the weight of masa's words settling on his chest like a stone. his amber eyes gleam with a cold understanding, and though his posture remains relaxed, there is a tightening in his chest at the mention of karavira. a woman spared, and yet you speak of her death still, he says, voice low, calculated. what you do next... that is where your true test lies. he pauses, lips curling slightly. if the order stands, you will follow it. if it doesn’t, you must be prepared to face what comes after. his gaze drifts briefly, distant. the moonwoman’s trust—has it been worth the cost?

before he nods slowly, his throat tight as he swallows down the bitter feeling gnawing at him. the question hangs in the air, and for a long moment, ryūjiro says nothing, the weight of his brother's words heavy in the space between them. there’s a quiet understanding in his eyes, but it’s the kind that feels more like a burden than a connection. he watches masa turn, his stance rigid as he moves with purpose, and the air around them shifts—there's no softness in his brother's resolve, no room for hesitation. the word transaction echoes in ryūjiro’s mind, a hollow ring to it, and yet he knows it’s the truth that runs between them, even if it cuts deeper than he'd like to admit. it’s always been that way, he mutters, his voice low, barely a whisper carried by the wind. and you will see it done.