Courtyard (2)

"Do you remember his face?"

Her voice was barely there. A whisper wrapped in thorns.

I looked away.

And then I looked back.

"…Yeah."

She waited.

So I gave it to her.

"He was skinny. Like all of us. Bones you could count under his skin. Had this scar above his lip. Said he got it trying to steal a plum from a merchant's cart. I didn't believe him. Thought it was a dog."

I leaned forward. Elbows on my knees. Eyes not on hers.

"He was the fastest runner in our slum. Everyone said so. And on the nights the monks didn't bring food, he'd sneak into the merchant quarter. Grab something. Dash out. Always came back with something—half an apple, or a heel of bread."

I smiled, but it was a dead thing.

"One night, I followed him. Didn't know why. Just did."

Kiyomi didn't speak. Didn't interrupt. Just listened.

That was worse somehow.

"He had two rice balls in his hands. One in each. They were steaming. Still warm."

My fingers curled. I could feel it again.

"The smell hit me like a fist. I hadn't eaten in three days. I could barely stand."

I swallowed.

"So I tackled him. Thought I'd scare him. Get one, maybe. But he fought back. Elbowed me. Called me names."

I shook my head slowly.

"I hit his face into the stone. Once. Maybe twice. I don't know. I just remember when I stopped, he wasn't fighting anymore. Wasn't moving."

I looked at her then.

"The first time I killed someone, it was over rice. Not justice. Not coin. Not war. Rice."

She didn't recoil.

Didn't look away.

She just said, soft:

"…You were a child."

"So was he."

I leaned back. Closed my eyes.

"The monks covered it up. Said he ran away. I knew better. I buried the body behind the washhouse myself. Hands shaking. Could barely dig through the frost."

Her hand touched mine. Not grabbing. Just there.

A flicker of warmth. Human and terrifying.

"I never told anyone that story," I muttered.

"Then I'm honored."

"Don't be."

She didn't let go.

Not until the wind picked up and the bell in the distance rang again—soft this time.

Dinner.

But I wasn't hungry.

The next morning I woke up with the taste of dirt and rice still in my mouth.

It wasn't a dream.

Didn't feel like one.

It felt like old bones being dug up and left out to dry.And now I had to walk around pretending the stink wasn't still on me.

The courtyard was soaked in pale sunlight when I stepped outside. Servants bowed, eyes avoiding mine. Word traveled fast.

Ronin snaps. Breaks a man's face.

Whispers like that? They echo in places like this.

Good. Let them fear me. Easier than trusting.

I found her by the koi pond. Same place we met.

Except this time she was feeding them.

She didn't look up when she said, "You snore like a dying ox."

"I'll take that as affection."

She smirked. Just barely.

Then:

"I want to leave."

That got my attention.

She tossed the last of the feed into the pond and stood.

"There's nothing more for me here. Not answers. Not safety. Just lies wrapped in brocade. I need to go to the Temple of the Hollow Flame."

I crossed my arms.

"You realize walking into a place with 'hollow' and 'flame' in the name is usually a bad idea."

"Then I'll need someone who's good at getting out of bad ideas."

She turned, finally meeting my eyes.

"And someone I can trust. Even if I don't always understand him."

I stared at her for a moment.

Thought of the scroll.

The prophecy.

The blood.

Thought of the boy with the rice ball.

And how far I'd come from that corpse.

"…Fine," I said. 

We didn't tell many people.

She said goodbye to one maid. The only one who ever spoke to her like a person and not a porcelain doll. Didn't even hug her. Just pressed a charm into her hand and whispered, "Don't let them make you come back."

That said more than tears would've.

I gathered my things—took stock of what mattered.

Katana. Spare clothes. Tinderbox. Whiskey flask.

Not for drinking.

Not only, anyway.

For the burn. For the sting when old wounds opened and the cold set in. Better than prayer.

The gates creaked open.

Kiyomi stepped through first.

We were three steps down the path when someone called out behind us.

"Leaving so soon, girl?"

We turned.

A boy—no, young man, maybe a few years older than her—stepped from the gate's inner edge. Finely dressed, hair tied back in courtly style. Eyes like polished glass and a smirk carved by privilege.

Kiyomi's breath hitched. "Tetsuya."

"Cousin," he said, with a mock bow. "You didn't think you'd slip away without saying goodbye, did you?"

She stiffened. Said nothing.

He walked forward, arms open in false warmth.

"You're chasing prophecies now? Ink and flame and ancient temples?" He clicked his tongue. "We always said your imagination would get you killed."

I stepped between them.

Fast.

"Back off."

Tetsuya blinked. Not afraid. But annoyed. Like I was a fly buzzing too close to his wine.

"And you must be the dog they let in to guard her."

"Sure," I said. "but I also don't ask twice before biting."

Kiyomi's hand brushed my sleeve. Just lightly.

"Don't," she whispered.

Which was the only reason I didn't break the prince's nose.

Tetsuya's smirk returned.

"Fine. Go play your little adventure. Hunt ghosts. Stir up the ashes of dead women. Just know this—if you bring ruin back with you…"

His eyes sharpened. All the courtly charm gone.

"…you won't be welcomed home again."

Kiyomi's reply came cold and quiet.

"Then I won't come back."

We turned. We walked. The gate didn't close behind us.

But it might as well have.

We'd been walking for three days. Talking less.

Our map was rough—secondhand sketches, half-memories, rumors wrapped in superstition. The Temple of the Hollow Flame was old enough to have outlived its founders and cursed enough to be forgotten on purpose.

Locals said the ground around it went cold even in summer. That no birds sang there. That sometimes travelers vanished.

So naturally, that's where we were going.

On the fifth day, we met a traveler.

Because of course we did.

He was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the road, sipping tea from a chipped porcelain cup like he wasn't in the middle of nowhere.

Thin. Smiling. Bald head wrapped in a faded orange cloth. His kimono was patched more than cloth. His sandals were newer than mine, and that made me suspicious.

Anyone with clean shoes on a dirty road was up to something.

"Ah," he said, raising his cup. "Two souls on a thread. How curious."

Kiyomi narrowed her eyes. "We don't need a fortune."

"Oh, child," he chuckled. "Fortune doesn't need you either. But it finds you all the same."

I didn't like the way he looked at her.

"Out of the way," I said.

"Of course, of course." He sipped. "But tell me, ronin… do you bleed on your blade, or from it?"

I stepped forward. Fast. Blade half-drawn.

He didn't flinch. Didn't blink.

Just smiled.

"Good," he whispered. "You'll need both answers soon."

Then he stood, brushed off his robe, and walked past us with the kind of grace that smelled like incense and grave dirt.

We didn't look back.

Kiyomi broke the silence first. "That man was no monk."

"No," I said. "He was something worse."

That night, we didn't light a fire.

And the forest was too quiet.

Even the wind didn't dare speak.