I always watched.
They thought I didn't understand.
That I was just a baby.
But I knew better.
Hoshino.
The name wouldn't leave me, like a stubborn thread I couldn't unravel.
I didn't know why it felt important.
But Dad's reaction told me enough.
It wasn't the first time I had seen him like that.
And something told me—
It wouldn't be the last.
Years passed.
And I learned.
To read.
To write.
To listen.
To pretend.
At five years old, I had already been shaped into who my father wanted me to be.
Literacy? I could read fluently. Writing was just as easy.
Etiquette? I knew how to sit, speak, and behave like the daughter of a noble house.
Politics? I understood how words could be both weapons and shields.
I learned early that people spoke more when they thought you weren't listening.
So I listened.
Not just to words.
But to what wasn't being said.
When the maids whispered about noble scandals—
It wasn't just idle gossip.
It was power.
Because knowing who had fallen from grace and who was rising in favor meant understanding who could be approached—and who should be avoided.
When the guards muttered about political shifts—
It wasn't just grumbling.
It was foreshadowing.
Because when a guard said "the merchant guilds are unhappy", what they meant was—
"Expect taxes to shift soon."
When they said "another patrol was sent to the border", what they meant was—
"Something is brewing beyond our lands."
They never said it outright.
But I heard it anyway.
When my tutors assumed I wasn't absorbing everything they said—
They let their guard down.
Because they thought a child wouldn't remember the moments they contradicted themselves.
That I wouldn't notice which foreign houses they refused to speak of.
That I wouldn't realize which laws favored the powerful—and which ones were designed to keep people in their place.
But I did.
I saw the gaps.
I recognized the patterns.
And I understood—
The world wasn't built on justice.
It was built on control.
Information was more than knowledge.
It was leverage.
It was power.
And I needed power to understand.
Because someday—
I would use it.
"Sit up straight."
"Lower your voice when addressing guests."
"Do not fidget—it betrays uncertainty."
These weren't just instructions.
They were laws.
Rules that had been woven into my daily life so seamlessly that I no longer questioned them.
Or, at least, I hadn't.
Other children played in courtyards.
I memorized political structures.
They chased each other with wooden swords.
I practiced calligraphy.
They were free to make mistakes.
I wasn't.
It was all so tiring.
Because I knew—
No matter how perfect I was—
I would never be enough.
Not because I lacked skill.
But because I believe I wasn't supposed to exist in the first place.
"Why does it matter if I sit straight?"
My etiquette tutor blinked.
"Because slouching presents weakness, Lady Chiori."
"But what if I don't feel weak?"
A pause.
"Perception matters more than reality."
That answer bothered me.
"Why must I lower my voice?"
"Because a lady must always maintain an air of grace."
"Then why do the men speak freely?"
A flicker of hesitation.
"Because they do not have to prove themselves in the same way."
That answer bothered me even more.
"Why do we practice etiquette and politics more than swordplay?"
"Because power is not always won through force."
"But it can be."
My combat instructor did not deny it.
But he did not confirm it, either.
"Mother, do you ever get tired?"
She paused mid-brush.
"Tired of what, little star?"
"This." I gestured. "The rules. The lessons. The expectations that don't make sense."
Her lips curled into a knowing smile.
Not one meant to dismiss me.
One that said she already knew the answer.
"Of course," she admitted softly.
"Then why do you follow them?"
"Because I must."
"But why?"
"Because survival means knowing when to fight… and when to endure."
I didn't fully understand her words at the time.
But something about them lingered.
I was expected to be a noble lady.
To be graceful but unyielding.
To be obedient but intelligent.
To be strong but quiet.
It was a contradiction.
One I wasn't sure I was willing to accept.
Because no matter how much I followed their rules—
It never seemed to be enough.
"You're small."
"That means if you can't outmatch your opponent in strength—outmaneuver them."
"Use their own momentum against them."
"Strike first if necessary—but only if necessary."
My father's words were always calculated.
There were no wasted movements in his instruction.
No unnecessary force.
No wild aggression.
Every action had one goal—
Survival.
Because he wasn't training me to win.
He was training me to endure.
"Again."
My father stood before me, watching as I pushed myself off the ground.
My arms ached.
My legs burned.
But I moved anyway.
Because if I hesitated—
I'd be on the ground again.
I launched forward, aiming low this time—faster than before.
Dad shifted—
Anticipating.
Reacting.
Too fast.
I twisted—
Pivoted—
And jumped.
The moment my feet left the ground, something twisted inside me.
Not pain. Not panic.
But a sudden, gut-wrenching sensation—like the world had tilted sideways and I was the only thing not moving with it.
My father's hand barely grazed me—
But this time—
I expected to fall.
I should have fallen.
I should have hit the ground.
But I didn't.
Something caught me.
Not my hands. Not my feet. Something else.
I felt it before I saw it—the unnatural pull, the shift in the air.
Like the weight of the world had forgotten how it was supposed to behave.
And then—my tails moved.
Not by choice.
Not by instinct.
On their own.
One lashed forward, coiling around my father's arm—not to strike, not to defend, but to anchor.
The other whipped toward his legs, its movement sharp, controlled—too controlled.
That wasn't me.
That wasn't me.
I felt my chest tighten. My breath locked in my throat.
I knew what I was doing before. Every step, every movement—that had been me.
This wasn't.
I hadn't commanded them.
I hadn't willed them to move.
They just did.
And worse—
They were doing something else.
Something I didn't understand.
The air around me felt different. The weight of my body had shifted—no, not just mine.
Dad's too.
My tail around his arm—was it pulling?
My strike toward his legs—was it slowing him?
My own body—was I lighter?
The realization slammed into me.
I wasn't just moving.
I was manipulating gravity.
I barely had time to process that thought before he moved.
Too fast.
Too precise.
And in an instant—
I was on the ground.
The impact knocked the breath from my lungs.
My vision spun. My tails flickered, unraveling, dissolving into thin air.
I felt cold.
Not from the ground.
From the way Dad was looking at me.
Not with anger.
Not with pride.
Not even with disappointment.
But with something else.
Something that made my stomach twist—
Like I had just shattered something I wasn't meant to touch.
I expected him to tell me what I did wrong.
To correct my stance.
To instruct me to try again.
But he didn't.
He just stared.
At me.
At my tails.
At the air around me—
Where the dust hadn't settled naturally.
Where the space around my movements had distorted in a way that didn't make sense.
Where the very weight of the world had bent to accommodate me.
I barely understood what had happened.
But he did.
And I knew—
His gaze flickered over me, over my tails, over the space that still felt heavier than it should have.
Then—
He spoke; his voice was sharper than I had ever heard it.
"Who taught you that?"
The words were level. Too level. Like he was holding something back.
His eyes—his eyes—were sharp. Measuring.
And for the first time, I couldn't tell what he was thinking.
I froze.
"I—I didn't—"
"Enough."
The single word cut through me.
Cold.
Final.
I had made a mistake.
A big one.
I had been so focused on moving, on dodging, on countering—
That I hadn't noticed.
I hadn't realized that my tails weren't just manifested constructs.
They had been pulling.
Anchoring.
Shifting weight.
The moment I leapt, I hadn't simply jumped higher.
I had lessened my own weight.
When my tail wrapped around my father's arm, it didn't just hold him in place.
It made him heavier.
And when my second tail struck out at his balance—
It wasn't just a hit.
It was a gravitational pull.
I hadn't been moving naturally.
I had been manipulating gravity itself.
"Go inside."
"But—"
"Go."
The training session was over.
And the way he looked at me—
Not with anger.
Not with pride.
But with something else.
Something I couldn't name.
Something that made my stomach twist.
I had done something wrong.
And for the first time—
I didn't know how to fix it.
I walked inside.
Not because I wanted to.
But because I didn't know what else to do.
My father's eyes were still in my mind—
Sharp. Unreadable. Distant.
Not angry.
Not disappointed.
Something else.
Something that made my chest feel tight.
Like a string had been pulled too hard, and I wasn't sure if it was going to snap.
I tried to think back—
To replay the moment in my head.
I had been falling—but I didn't hit the ground.
I had been moving—but not the way I should have.
And then—
My tails had moved first.
They weren't supposed to do that.
Were they?
They weren't supposed to lash out on their own.
They weren't supposed to change the way the air around me felt.
The way the weight of the world had shifted.
I had trained for years.
I had practiced every stance, every evasion, every counter.
But that—
That hadn't been something I was taught.
It had just... happened.
I swallowed hard, my hands curling into fists.
What scared me wasn't what I did.
It was the fact that I didn't know how I did it.
My father knew.
I saw it in his eyes.
He understood something that I didn't.
And that—
That terrified me more than anything else.
Because if he wasn't angry—
If he wasn't disappointed—
Then what was he?
And more importantly—
What did he see when he looked at me?
I didn't realize how tense my shoulders were—
Until my mother's hand brushed against them.
The moment she touched me, my entire body locked up.
Not from surprise.
From fear.
My breath hitched.
My heartbeat pounded in my ears—too fast, too loud.
I hadn't noticed it before.
Hadn't noticed how my muscles ached from being wound too tight.
How my hands had curled into shaking fists.
How the air around me felt wrong.
Like it was pressing down—
No.
Like it was pulling itself inward.
My tails flickered into existence—instinctive, reactive—
Their edges rippling against the air, distorting space itself.
Not with weight.
But with force.
With a pull that shouldn't have been there.
A pull that my mother noticed.
I gasped.
And in that instant—
My mother's hands moved faster than I thought possible.
One palm settled firmly on my back, between my shoulder blades.
The other cupped my cheek, guiding my gaze toward hers.
Warm.
Steady.
"Easy, little star."
Her voice was gentle. Steady.
But I couldn't breathe.
I couldn't breathe.
My vision blurred—too many thoughts, too much pressure—
My tails flickered again, struggling between existence and nothing—
She pressed her palm between my shoulders. Firm. Grounding.
"You're safe."
Her words didn't demand.
They didn't scold.
They simply were.
A grounding force—
One that cut through the fear, the confusion, the overwhelming weight of whatever I had just done.
I sucked in a sharp breath—
And exhaled. Shaky. Uncertain.
And the pull around me eased.
My tails—
Flickered. Twitched.
Then slowly dissolved into nothing.
And finally, finally, the pull in my chest let go.
I was shaking.
Not from exhaustion.
Not from pain.
But from something else.
Something I didn't have a name for.
My mother watched me.
Not with fear.
Not with judgment.
But with Understanding.
She knew.
She had known before I did.
I swallowed hard, my throat dry.
"I—" I started, but the words died in my mouth.
She shook her head gently.
"Come with me."
Not a demand.
Not an order.
An invitation.
One I wasn't strong enough to refuse.
So I nodded.
And followed her.
But my hands were still trembling.
And no matter how hard I tried—
I couldn't shake the feeling that I had just broken something I couldn't fix.