They said my father was a warrior. But no one knows his favorite color, the hands he held in youth, or his first love. Aunt Hinabi holds her head in her hands when she speaks of him. Not because she really knew him, but because it is her duty to love me. And she cannot look at me, green eyed and black haired. I am the child that can slip away and no one would mistake me for cursed. I do not have the white eyes, but I have the gift. I am not a man, but I am the heir, for I was first born of the man she loved, and so I am half perfect and half healer.

My half brother Hanu weaves stories about me to the servants and the city. I am a liar to him, a seldom approachable truth. He thinks just because my eyes are colored, just because my mother was a common healer, I am beneath him. But his mother will never turn me away, because I am what happiness brought. She tells me all she knows of my mother, which is more than she knew of her own cousin, my father.

“She healed. She was kind. She had pink hair. We thought her a sprite, here in this home. And that is why Neji slept with her, she had magic inside her.” She sometimes sends her son away and asks me what it is I want most.

But I shake my head, and turn away. I wonder what it would have been like if my mother had never died, if my father had stilled his warrior’s heart enough to watch us grow. And one day I will rule this house hold, one day I will ascend a throne, and I will write down the stories of the people too weak to survive or perhaps too smart to stay.