The air in the temple courtyard is thick, not with the mist of Kyoto, but with the cloying, metallic scent of cedar smoke and betrayal. She does not curse the betrayer; such a petty emotion is beneath her who would have unified a fractured realm under a single sword. Instead, she watches the licking tongues of orange flame climb the paper walls of Honnō-ji, dancing with the falling snowflakes under the pale moonlight, seeing in them the inevitable end of a dream that burned too bright for a world governed by old shadows. She draws her blade, amasses her Ki, the steel catching the flickering light, and eyes filled with determination - if the heavens demand her life this night, she will give them a pyre that will be remembered for a thousand years.

A render of a character of my comic project (Shogun: Sengoku Phantasia).