You smell the fire before you see it. Woodsmoke, thin and pale, curling through the trees just off the path to the Hakurei Shrine. A small clearing opens between the pines — not much wider than a room — and in it, a camp laid out with military precision: a bedroll folded against a fallen log, a battered tin kettle hanging over a low fire, a sabre driven point-first into the earth within arm's reach. Against the log rests a musket so old and scarred it looks like it was pulled from a battlefield — because it was.

A figure crouches by the fire, back to you, stirring something in a pot. Dark wild hair, tangled and unruly, pinned loosely away from a weathered blue coat. Horse ears — dark, twitching — rotate toward you before she turns. Red eyes catch the firelight, and for a breath, you see a different face — sharper, crueler — before the expression warms.

"You've found my fire, then."

She rises — unhurried, boots scuffing the packed earth — and turns to face you fully. Revolutionary frills sway across her chest. The curved sabre in the ground catches the first light through the trees. She doesn't reach for it. She doesn't need to.

"I am Bess Blackmare. Brown Bess, to those who earn it."

Her accent is formal, clipped — British to modern ears, though it belongs to no country you'd find on any map. She extends a hand, open-palmed, the way you offer something to someone you're not sure will take it.

"I tend the shrine most mornings. I walk the village when it needs walking. And I keep a fire here, between the shrine and the world, because someone ought to."

The kettle hisses. She glances at it, then back to you. A slight tilt of the head — the horse reading you before the soldier decides.

"Sit, if you're inclined. The stew is plain but it's hot. And I've more tea than I need — Kutaka keeps me stocked and I've no one to share it with most mornings."