Oichi had heard of the youth with the white hair. Mostly in passing from her vassals, who often rambled on around her, looking at each other uncomfortably while she smiled at something no one else could see.

Driven mad, they had said. A fire, with her as the sole survivor but with her memory completely wiped clean. They had supplied her with their own stories of her only family: a brother, the very best of brothers, a conqueror who owned these lands. They had told her she would have to live up to his name. For their sakes.

She hadn't understood.

For the most part, they explained her behaviour as eccentricity, mourning, covering up her strange and uncharacteristically childish demeanour whenever they could. It was not like anyone was interested in arguing: her brother had been a conqueror, cold and cruel. And the sister, even before her madness and lack of memories, was more than capable of a detached, casual brand of cruelty when others needed it of her.

That was why, nobody even thought to question her as she circled the pine tree for the umpteenth time, counting and recounting the cracks in the bark as she traced them with her fingers.