Miyu’s always been able to see it.

  The shifting of pieces, moves, countermoves. The board, a microcosm of the complex world they live in.

  The men she faces are usually traditional. Some are aggressive, some not so much. All defensive if they get an inkling that she might attack.

  She reads the board, her opponent’s faces, the time ticking away as they make their moves.

  Miyu is fifteen when she plays against the best shogi player in the elemental nations for the first time.

  She suffers a loss against him, and it’s not surprising, truly. Makishima Toru, thirty-eight, has played shogi since he was four, and has faced many aspiring champions without faltering.

  She cries her heart out in the carriage home because it felt like she validated the swarms of people calling her a fluke, a mistake, worthless.

  She’s nineteen when she faces him again.

  Nineteen when she becomes the best player in the elemental nations.

  Nineteen, thinking she’s ready to hold that mantle upon her shoulders. And she does, for a time.

  But Miyu had been so blissfully unaware that it was just the beginning of an entirely different game.

  .

  The ninja are from Konoha.

  Miyu reads it in the engraved insignia they each hold close to their person. Hears it in their friendly, professional tone. Catches wafts of it on the faint traces of greenery scented like Hashirama leaves that drifts to her from their clothes.

  Most of all, she observes it in the four ninja’s movement as one unit.

  Teamwork.

  Konoha is famous for the bonds they share with their own. Other villages try to mock them for it, for being the soft ones, but Miyu thinks it makes them anything but.

  Her most effective plays revolve around using her pieces together to corner opponents, or wrestle her way out of a seemingly inescapable pin.

  That - and Miyu thinks that there is nothing quite so persevering as the need to protect those you love. She’s seen it in the mothers who lift collapsed beams off their children. In fathers who bloody their fists against their daughter’s attackers.

  Friends, who push each other out of harms way, or carry someone sick to the hospital, or – or –

  Or stand, giving you their backs as they stop those who would hurt you with their own body.

  “Sugawara-san,” one of them has stepped forward, his long straight hair pulled into a low ponytail. “I will be leading the team as we escort you to the tournament in Hidden Waterfall.”

  Her gaze flits over his fine features, the straight line of his shoulders, the effortless poise with which he bows politely. Clan born, then.

  “My name is Uchiha Itachi, and these are my teammates, Nara Shikamaru, Uchiha Shisui, and Aburame Shino.”

  Miyu offers a polite smile and bows to him deeply, taking a brief moment to check that her kimono is in place perfectly.

  “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Uchiha-sama,” she says softly as she rises. His dark eyes flicker over her face and she knows she’s surprised him despite his perfect lack of outward emotion.

  “Please,” he says, the same polite tone to his voice as her, “there is no need for such formalities, Sugawara-san. I am here as a ninja of Konoha and nothing more.”

  Ah, she thinks. Clan heir or close to it, then. Miyu appreciates his attempts at brushing the address off, but as she lets her gaze fall across the rest of the team she realises they have sent more men of great importance.

  “Nara-sama,” she murmurs as she bows low once again, “Aburame-sama.”

  They each bow in turn, less deeply than she had, of course. Her eyes land on the last member of their group. He’s grinning, body language relaxed and informal.

  “Uchiha-san,” she greets, bowing just a fraction less deeply than she had for the heirs.

  “Aw, pretty miss, you wound me!” He steps forward, extending a hand to shake. “Nothing for me?”

  Miyu reaches out carefully, noting the callouses on his scarred hands and showing none of her amusement on her face.

  “Forgive me if I am wrong,” she offers a small placating smile here, “but you are not a clan heir, Uchiha-san.”

  His grin widens and he holds her hand in place for a moment.

  “How could you tell?”

  There’s another question lurking beneath the surface, laced gently with a threat.

  She presses her lips together for a moment, just enough to let him know she understands what he’s really insinuating. He has the grace to let his smile turn mildly apologetic.

  “Uchiha-sama is too well spoken to be anything but,” she says after a pause, “Nara-sama and Aburame-sama resemble their fathers greatly.”

  At this the Nara’s mouth quirks down into an unhappy line. The Aburame doesn’t shift to show any emotion.

  “My father complained for a week that a fourteen year old girl with no formal training bested him.”

  That prompts a laugh from her and Miyu withdraws her hand to cover her mouth.

  “Yes,” she nods, “extend my apologies to him again, will you?”

  The team captain is looking at her, blank faced. The other Uchiha is grinning again as he casts a furtive glance to his fellow clansman. The Aburame is frustratingly difficult to read behind his high collar and sunglasses.

  And the Nara – the Nara steps forward, and bows again.

  “It is an honour to meet you, Sugawara-san.”

  Miyu has learnt not to be taken aback by these kinds of displays, even though they make her uncomfortable. A marvel, most would say, because she’s a young woman world dominated by men.

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  “The sentiment is returned, Nara-sama.”

  She meets the Uchiha heir’s eyes, appreciatively noting the long lashes that frame them, and lets the carefully polite posturing ebb from her face and shoulders.

  When she speaks there’s warmth to her tone.

  “Shall we?”

  .

  The Uchiha heir is intriguing. He lacks arrogance and the high-bred bias that so often poisons many of her interactions with others. He’s professional, exceptionally quick witted, respectful, and most of all – kind.

  It catches her off guard, to be truthful.

  Her dinner, already warmed between his palms with a beautiful display of fire techniques by the time she steps out of the carriage.

  The clearings he chooses for the night, without much dirt and with grass just short enough to keep her hem from getting stained.

  A fire built to smoke as little as possible, blazing with gentle heat that doesn’t stifle her in her many layers.

  And when she retires to bed, a tent made up to be warm in the evening, layers of blankets on the ground to soften her resting place.

  The bottle of water, small bag of fruit, and her bag of toiletries already within.

  These little things charm her more than sweet words or a handsome face ever could.

  Not that he isn’t. Handsome, of course.

  “Thank you,” she says to him as he helps her into the carriage after their second night camping out.

  He tilts his head to the side, and she admires the neat lines of his face as the morning sun filters onto them through the canopy.

  “You have been kind to me,” she smiles, and it’s perhaps the first genuine one she’s given any of them along their journey. “So thank you, Uchiha-sama.”

  “Itachi,” he says suddenly, voice just a little too loud. “Please,” he drops the volume, seemingly embarrassed, “call me Itachi. Uchiha-sama is my father.”

  She laughs and gives his hand the slightest of squeezes before she steps up into the carriage.

  “As you wish, Itachi-sama.”

  She hears the other Uchiha cackle loudly from the front of the wagon, and bemoans the moment it takes to turn and sit. She had wanted to watch the slight array of emotions that she knows would have glinted through Itachi’s eyes.

  “Then,” he says after she’s settled, “may I call you Miyu-san?”

  His gaze meets hers and she lets her guard drop for just a moment as she appreciates how handsome he is.

  “Certainly.”

  He gives her a small, pleased smile, and closes the door to the carriage.

  Outside she can hear the other Uchiha laughing again, accompanied by a low grumble from the Nara.

  That evening the Nara approaches her.

  He’s not displaying much of anything on his face, but the slight twitch of his shoulders lets her know he’s most definitely nervous.

  “Sugawara-san,” he begins, fingers twiddling with a scroll at his belt. “I was thinking – well I was hoping, rather, that you might – that we might-”

  “Nara-sama,” Miyu says from where she’s seated on a log, basking in the late afternoon sunlight. “Would you like to play a game of shogi?”

  In an instant there’s a small pop and a puff of smoke, and a shogi set is in the ninja’s hands. Miyu startles - it’s enough to almost send her toppling from her seat, but a warm, steady hand lands between her shoulder blades to stop her.

  “A sealing scroll,” Itachi’s voice comes from behind her. “He carries that board with him everywhere he goes.”

  Miyu looks up at Itachi, smiling, “Perhaps you’ll honour me with a game after Nara-sama?”

  Itachi’s hand lingers on her back, feather light.

  “I would like that very much,” he murmurs, and then leaves to do whatever ninja business he has to do.

  Another puff of smoke – it doesn’t startle Miyu this time – and she smothers a laugh because the Nara has packed a blanket, pillows, and a table.

  He sets them up quickly, with precise movements that speak of practice. And then he stands and waits for her.

  She approaches the blanket. Bows to him shortly, and takes her seat. He sits opposite her, looking stiff and uncomfortable in seiza.

  Carefully, she unpacks the board and the pieces, and they begin.

  .

  When Itachi returns just under an hour later, it’s to Shikamaru slumped on a blanket beside a set shogi table, and Miyu-san sipping inconspicuously at a steaming cup of tea while Shisui howls with laughter.

  Wariness fills him as he takes his seat opposite her. Shikamaru sits up and focuses on the board with furious determination.

  Miyu beats Itachi in half an hour.

  He stares at the board between them, Sharingan activated to burn the pieces into his memory.

  “Thank you for the game, Itachi-sama,” Miyu is still sitting in perfect seiza as she bows to him gracefully.

  His eyes are drawn to the delicate slope of her neck, her brown hair as it falls over her shoulder to swing before her. Her eyes meet his, and he watches her breath catch at the sight of them. Still, he can’t force himself to stop the flow of chakra.

  She’s beautiful. Not just the gentle lines of her face, the soft scent that follows her every move, or even the clever brown eyes that observe and understand so much.

  Every careful movement, each measured action, it’s like watching a moving piece of art. One that smiles genuinely only rarely, whose laugh makes something in his gut swoop low. The flutter of her lashes, the slightest blush across her high cheekbones, and Itachi has to force his attention elsewhere.

  It’s not the first time he’s been distracted by something beautiful. Still, he lets himself indulge. Just a little.

  “Why don’t you play us all?” Shisui suggests, “Not Shino, he’s on watch right now – but us three, Sugawara-san?”

  She raises a delicate brow, “There’s only one board.”

  Shisui turns his expectant gaze to Shikamaru.

  “Ah…” begins the Nara sheepishly, “I have a few spares handy.”

  The only inkling that Miyu is taken aback is a single slow blink.

  “Well, it’s not quite late yet,” she acknowledges, “if Itachi-sama and Nara-sama wish, I would be happy to oblige.”

  .

  Shikamaru frowns down at his board. Shogi is an art that has taken him years to learn. And he likes to think – well he thought – he was rather good at it.

  The games between he and his father go for at least two hours now.

  As far as he knows, both Itachi and Shisui are no slouches either.

  The Uchiha, as with most clans and merchants in Konoha, teach their children shogi as soon as they’re old enough to sit seiza. Strategy and poise, and tradition, most of all.

  Shisui – well, he may play the grinning fool at times but Shikamaru won’t forget that he was a child genius, promoted to jounin at fourteen and deserving of every moniker given to him.

  And yet.

  Sugawara Miyu cuts through their defences with her small, steady hands. Three games, three mismatched boards, and not a slip. Not a single moment of weakness or indecision.

  He watches her clean up – first Itachi, then Shisui, and finally him.

  “You’re a genius,” he breathes, studying Shisui and Itachi’s boards in wonder as they cast Sharingan-red eyes over his board in turn.

  “I could say the same for you, Nara-sama,” she placates in that ever-polite tone, reminding him of his status and humbling herself in one breath.

  He may only be eighteen, but Shikamaru understands that the woman kneeling before him arms herself with courtesies in the way that often only the highborn do.

  “You flatter me,” he says, shaking his head, “I didn’t stand a chance.”

  “Come now,” she begins to gather the pieces with those pale, graceful hands. “Your first thirty-four moves were solid. Caution took that game from you more than I.”

  Her fingers rearrange the pieces on the board, and she points with a slender finger at his general.

  “Here,” she says, “your forty-sixth move.”

  She remembers the board. Holy shit, she remembers every single move.

  “You held back, fortified your defence,” she points to his bishop on the other side of the board, “you could have launched an attack – backed it up with your knight, and here-”

  She shifts the pieces around as she had indicated, and suddenly Shikamaru witnesses his seemingly dire position change. The board opens up, broadening her area of focus in a way he hadn’t thought could be done that far into the midgame.

  “Amazing,” he breathes again.

  “Do me, do me!” Shisui is practically vibrating with excitement beside him. Shikamaru watches in awe as she retraces the game move by move, instigates careful, clever attacks on her own pawns that might have helped them hold out against her.

  “That was… fun,” she murmurs once Shikamaru has cuffed Shisui over the head to get him to shut up. “I would be glad to join you in play again Nara-sama, Uchiha-san, Itachi-sama.” She nods her head respectfully to each of them in turn.

  “Don’t tell Shikamaru that,” snorts Shisui, rubbing against the back of his head, “the stamina of a ninja and the shogi obsession of a Nara is something to behold.”

  She huffs out a small laugh, accepting the bowl of rice and sautéed beef that Itachi has been meticulously preparing over the fire in the twenty minutes it’s taken to break down Shisui’s match.

  “Thank you,” she says, the fine dusting of pink across her cheekbones the only sign of Shikamaru’s observed magnetism between the shogi player and Itachi.

  Sasuke’s older brother has always been difficult to read. But here, away from the prying eyes of Konoha’s gossip mill, Shikamaru watches as the Clan Heir softens his reactions. Just enough for civilian eyes to catch the emotion in his gaze, hear the uncharacteristic rasp to his tone, feel the touches that he lets linger when they cross paths.

  It’s enchanting. Like watching two exotic birds dance in a pattern only they know.

  But Shikamaru finds himself wondering at Itachi’s actions. As the Heir to the Uchiha, he has been betrothed since he was nine.

  What the hell is he playing at?