Slowly, Akiko came to be.
The world returned in pieces—the musty scent of tatami mats, the distant crackle of a cooking hearth, the rhythmic breathing of travelers still deep in slumber. Her fingers, curled tightly around the small satchel Sora had fallen asleep clutching, were stiff with tension. The scroll remained tucked securely into the inner sleeve of her kosode, undisturbed.
Her eyes adjusted to the dim morning light filtering through the slats in the paper window. Pale blue crept across the room, painting long stripes over the low forms of the other guests, wrapped in travel cloaks and faded blankets.
Akiko blinked, her breath shallow. She was back.
She sat up slowly, testing the stiffness in her arms and legs. Sora's presence was gone. Her body was hers again—familiar and foreign all at once. The weight of the scroll in her sleeve grounded her. Its presence was a thread that tied the waking dream together.
Across the room, Tsukasa sat upright against the wall, knees drawn up, eyes watchful.
Their gazes met.
"You're awake," Tsukasa said softly.
Akiko gave a slow nod, her voice still a whisper. "How long until we move?"
"Not long," Tsukasa murmured. "Yasuhiro took first watch. I told him I'd stay up until dawn."
Akiko stretched out her legs, careful not to disturb the nearby sleepers. "You didn't have to."
Tsukasa offered a faint smile. "I always do."
Akiko didn't respond. She pulled the scroll slightly tighter against her side, the scroll case grazing her wrist through the silk. It felt just as it had when she last held it. Just as it should.
With Tsukasa keeping watch, Akiko looked around. Their bags sat against the thin paper walls, Yasuhiro curled up in a ball on the thin straw mat—hardly a futon. The room smelled faintly of old wood and rice, quiet except for the soft breathing of other travellers.
What did Sora do yesterday? Where were they now?
She remembered falling asleep in the brothel in Kameoka, the lingering scent of incense, the barricaded door. Had they really moved all the way to Tanba no Kokufu?
The scroll was still sealed, still hers. That much was certain. Her grip loosened slightly.
If they had made it this far… if Sora had managed to keep them safe, to guide her body through the day and all the way here… she is proud of him. Happy, even.
She wanted to thank him, though she wasn't sure how.
After this was complete, she would find a way.
Just as the last traces of night began to lift from the rooftops, a single, resonant bell tolled through the city.
It rang clear and slow—once, then again—cutting through the early hush like a voice that belonged to the city itself. The sound echoed off wooden eaves and stone courtyards, slipping down alleyways and across still-damp roads, stirring the town awake.
In places like Heian-kyō, and its smaller cousins like Tanba no Kokufu, this was tradition. The bell marked the start of the day, rung at first light by the temple or the city watch. It was both a call and a boundary—one that separated the stillness of night from the order of the waking world.
Merchants stirred behind closed shutters. Officials in layered robes stretched in their shared quarters. Kitchen fires sparked to life as the first steam rose from iron kettles.
The bell tolled again, once more.
The day had begun.
Yasuhiro stirred awake, the toll of the morning bell still hanging faintly in the air. He exchanged a glance with Tsukasa—brief, wordless, but enough. It seemed he didn't need a moment to fully wake, as if his body had been waiting for the sound.
In one smooth motion, he sat up, rolled his thin sleeping mat, and rose to his feet. He reached for two of the bags leaning against the wall, tossing one to Tsukasa without a word, keeping the other slung over his shoulder. Tsukasa caught it without looking, already pushing himself upright, combing through his hair with his fingers.
They stood now, quietly focused. There was no ceremony, no announcement—but it was clear. They were ready.
Ready to deliver the message they'd come all this way for.
Ready to face the city. The Fujiwara. Whatever danger lay ahead.
They had risked everything for this scroll. Their names. Their lives. All for what it carried.
Akiko, watching them, felt something shift within her.
For once, she understood their glances. Their rhythm. That quiet way they communicated without speech. She could feel it too—the gravity of this moment, how the weight of the scroll pulled the air around them.
She rose to her feet, brushing the creases from her robe, and took up the bag that Sora had clung to so desperately when he'd last inhabited her body.
It was time.
Akiko followed close behind as Tsukasa and Yasuhiro moved silently through the common sleeping hall. Their footsteps were soft, measured. The dim morning light slipped between the sliding doors, casting long strips of amber across the woven straw mats. The inn was quiet, with only the gentle rustle of blankets and the occasional murmur from other travellers beginning to stir.
Through the hall and into the entrance chamber they went, the wooden floor cool beneath their steps. The innkeeper stood by the low counter, already preparing for the morning rush. A servant passed by carrying a tray of rice bowls and pickled radish. Akiko noticed neither Yasuhiro nor Tsukasa slowed—they must have already settled the night's cost, probably with goods traded somewhere along the way. Yasuhiro always thought ahead.
The soft clicking of their footsteps echoed against the wood, one of the few sounds in the inn at this early hour.
Then the doors opened, and the morning air met them like a breath held too long.
A crisp breeze greeted her, dry and clean. The humidity of the previous days had faded, leaving behind a coolness that kissed her skin and rustled the sleeves of her robe. The sun had just crested the eastern rooftops, casting gold across the waking streets of Tanba no Kokufu.
It was beautiful.
Vendors were beginning to arrange their wares, pulling open shutters and propping up cloth signs. A rice seller ladled steaming grains into a basket. A young boy swept the dust from the front of a sake shop. Even here, in this provincial seat, the rhythm of the capital pulsed quietly beneath the surface.
Yasuhiro moved ahead, long strides purposeful. He didn't speak until they'd passed three narrow streets and reached a quieter lane flanked by wooden storehouses.
"Remember what we came here for," he said, without turning. "We get to the kokuga. We present the courier seal. We request an audience with the court official. We deliver the message."
He said it like a drill, firm and unshakable.
Akiko nodded occasionally, taking it all in, while Tsukasa glanced back now and then, eyes sharp, making sure she hadn't drifted or missed a word.
Yasuhiro continued, more pointed now. "We are retainers. That is the story. You are Akiko of the Yamashina household. You speak. We stand behind. Do not mention the boat. Do not speak of anything since leaving Kameoka. Not until we know we are safe."
Tsukasa added, voice low, steady. "Even if everything goes smoothly, you don't speak of what happened. Not ever. Not even years from now."
He slowed his step just enough to look her directly in the eye.
"It'll haunt you if you do."
Akiko nodded again, this time more slowly. It hadn't been her on that boat, not really. But it had been her body. Her name. Her fate.
And Sora, in his strange borrowed role, had protected them all.
She couldn't tell anyone.
They walked through the morning streets in silence, the only sounds the soft pad of straw sandals against packed earth and the quiet bustle of a city awakening. Yasuhiro kept slightly ahead, scanning alleyways and rooftops with the reflexes of someone who trusted nothing to chance. Tsukasa now trailed behind Akiko, his eyes more subtle, but no less alert. Both moved like shadows trained to disappear into corners if needed.
But there was no danger. Not yet.
The streets of Tanba no Kokufu felt too calm.
Merchants laid out silks and millet under hanging signs. A temple bell rang far off in the east. Stray dogs and cats stretched in patches of morning sun. Nothing unusual. Nothing out of place.
And that, somehow, was what unsettled Akiko the most.
They expected tension. Pursuit. Suspicion. Instead, they were met with soft light and slow business. It made her grip the scroll case tighter inside her sleeve. Every step toward the kokuga made it feel heavier.
Tanba no Kokufu's administrative centre wasn't a grand palace like the one in Heian-kyō, but it carried a certain authority nonetheless. Built from lacquered cypress and black stone, the outer complex was surrounded by a modest earthen wall reinforced with wooden palisades. A single torii-like gate stood open at the front, wide enough for small carts to pass through, with narrow side lanes for foot traffic.
Just past the entrance, a gravel path led to the outer courtyard, where a scattering of officials and messengers already gathered. The grounds buzzed with early movement: clerks unrolling scrolls, attendants fetching water, low-ranking guards leaning on spears.
They weren't even the first to arrive.
Yasuhiro slowed as they neared the outer gate. He turned back toward Akiko, his face calm, but his tone purposeful.
"From this point on, you speak. We are your retainers again."
Tsukasa nodded once. "We are not family now. You are Lady Akiko. Head high. Voice steady."
Akiko adjusted the wrap of her outer robe, trying to still her heartbeat. She swallowed once, hard, then gave a small nod. "Understood."
They crossed the threshold.
Inside the outer courtyard, they stood slightly apart from the other visitors—merchants waiting to file complaints, temple envoys with local petitions, and a handful of peasants holding wrapped goods or neatly folded scrolls. No one paid them much mind, though one older official cast a curious glance in their direction.
A young guard finally approached. He was lightly armoured, with a simple chest plate and a sash tied in the colours of the provincial court. His hand rested near the pommel of his short sword, but his demeanour was casual.
"State your business," he said, his voice clear, if a little bored.
Akiko stepped forward before either of the others could move. Her voice was quiet, but steady. "We request an audience with the court official on urgent business."
The guard raised an eyebrow. "And what business would that be?"
Akiko met his eyes. "We carry a sealed message under the courier mark. It is to be delivered directly, by hand."
The guard blinked, then glanced behind her at Yasuhiro and Tsukasa. He seemed to take in the way they stood—not like servants, not like tradesmen. Something else.
"Show the seal," he said.
Akiko reached into her sleeve and produced the scroll case, still bound tightly with red cord. The small wooden mark of the courier office—a simple flower blossom design—had been painted across the wax.
The guard looked at it for a moment longer than necessary, then gave a nod.
"Wait here."
He disappeared through the side gate.
They stood in silence.
Yasuhiro shifted beside her. He leaned in, his voice barely above a whisper.
"You did well."
Akiko didn't answer. She couldn't. Her heart was pounding so hard she thought it might shake the scroll case. She was used to this back home, but the gravity of the situation here in Tanba no Kokufu made everything feel a thousand times more intense.
Tsukasa stepped forward just enough for her to see him in the corner of her eye.
"No matter what happens in there," he said, voice even, "you do not flinch. You do not hesitate. Let them talk, let them wonder. But you do not bend."
She nodded again. Her hands gripped the scroll as if it were the only thing anchoring her to the earth.
The sun climbed higher.
And they waited.
It wasn't long before another guard appeared—this one different. His armour was polished, darker, marked with an insignia Akiko could only conclude to be Tanba no Kokufu's emblem. He walked with a practiced stillness, every motion deliberates, eyes unreadable. An imperial guard, perhaps. Or something close to it.
He said nothing at first, simply gestured for them to follow.
Yasuhiro and Tsukasa tensed ever so slightly, but fell into step behind Akiko without question.
They passed beneath a second torii gate, this one set into a thicker, more finely finished wall. Beyond it, the noise of the outer court faded. The gravel path curved through a manicured garden—stone lanterns stood beside neatly raked beds of white sand, and plum trees, not yet in full bloom, reached quietly toward the pale sky. A small, temple-like structure sat at the garden's far end, its sliding doors shut, the veranda swept clean.
The guard led them to the base of the wide wooden steps.
Then he stopped.
He turned to Akiko, expression carefully neutral.
"You alone may proceed," he said.
His tone was calm, but something in it made the air around them shift.
Yasuhiro narrowed his eyes ever so slightly. Tsukasa's hand twitched near his sleeve.
Akiko looked between them, then to the building ahead. The guard stepped back—one pace, then another.
None of them could place it, not exactly. But there was something in his posture. Something slightly too still. A delay too calculated.
Not a threat. Not yet.
But not right, either.
There was no choice.
Akiko stepped forward, scroll in hand.
Akiko stepped onto the wooden veranda, her sandals brushing softly against the clean planks. The building before her wasn't grand by Heian-kyō standards, but its design still bore the quiet dignity of authority. The court official's residence was single-storied and wide, with deep eaves and white sliding doors trimmed in dark, lacquered wood. The roof was a soft sweep of cypress shingles, sloped against the morning sky.
She slid open the door at the guard's silent gesture and stepped inside.
Cool air greeted her first—the kind that came from thick walls and stillness. The scent of incense hung lightly in the air, sharp and earthy. Tatami mats covered the floor, finely woven, their edges lined with dark silk bands. The chamber was large, but uncluttered. Space was power here.
Wooden beams stretched overhead, their grains visible in the soft light filtering through high lattice windows. The room was divided by folding screens painted with mist-covered mountains and cranes in flight—simple, but elegant.
At the far end of the room, seated on a raised platform, was the court official.
He was older than Akiko expected, his beard neatly trimmed, his expression unreadable. His robes were the deep blue of court administration, layered in the ceremonial style—simple, but cut with authority. Two guards flanked him on either side, wearing short swords and stiff armour beneath their formal robes. They stood still as statues.
And then she saw him.
To the side of the platform, partially seated on his own mat but closer to the dias than any outsider should be, was a man clad in Fujiwara robes—cream silk with soft plum accents, the subtle mon of the Fujiwara family sewn at the shoulder. His hair was tied in the courtier's style, his posture perfectly at ease, as though he belonged here more than anyone else.
Her breath hitched.
She knew that mon. The Fujiwara—the same ones who had tried to stop this message from ever being delivered. The ones who would rather see her dead than this scroll handed over.
Her stomach turned cold.
She stepped further into the room, bowing low, keeping her gaze carefully lowered. She didn't know the man's name, but she knew the type—sent not to kill, but to watch. To guide the outcome. To ensure silence.
She could not let them know she knew.
"Lady Akiko of the Yamashina household," the court official said, his voice even, but carrying easily through the chamber. "You come with a sealed message. Present it."
His tone held no malice, no warmth. Pure protocol.
Akiko moved forward, each step measured, her heartbeat thunderous in her ears. Her mind spun—but she kept her face still. She had to be the noble daughter. The dutiful courier. Nothing more.
She walked to the edge of the dais and knelt on the mat, her knees pressing into the woven straw.
Slowly, deliberately, she bowed.
Then, with both hands, she lifted the scroll case—held flat atop her open palms, arms extended forward. Her sleeves pooled gently at her wrists.
"I humbly deliver this message," she said, the words practiced, but her voice barely above a whisper.
A beat passed.
One of the guards stepped forward, expression stony. He took the scroll from her hands with practiced precision, turned, and presented it to the official with a formal bow.
Akiko remained still, head bowed.
She didn't see the Fujiwara man's eyes flicker with interest.
She didn't see the court official's brow furrow slightly as he accepted the scroll.
She didn't see the way the seal gleamed faintly in the morning light, wax unbroken, untouched.
But in her chest, something twisted.
She had delivered it.
But something—something—was wrong.
The court official accepted the scroll with both hands, cradling it respectfully as tradition demanded. His posture did not shift as he examined the lacquered case—dark red, polished smooth, a simple wave pattern carved at its mouth. The wax seal glistened faintly under the chamber's light—deep ochre with the stylized kanji of the Yamashina pressed into its surface. Untouched. Whole.
He turned the case slightly, inspecting its edges without a word. Not for suspicion—this was a matter of diligence, of courtly rhythm. Every motion deliberate, measured, quiet.
The room held its breath.
Only when he was satisfied did he lower the scroll case into his lap, his sleeves brushing softly across his knees. With one hand, he reached into the sleeve of his formal robes and produced a small tool—thin, bone-handled, with a sliver of iron curved like a falcon's talon at its tip.
A seal knife.
He positioned the case just so against his knee and, with a practiced motion, slipped the blade beneath the wax. There was a soft crack as the seal split—clean and without crumbling, a sign of skilled work on both ends. He set the broken wax aside on a square of silk, careful not to mar the mat with residue.
Then, holding the scroll case upright, he tilted it gently.
The scroll slid forward with a whisper of parchment and pine resin. It emerged slowly—rolled tight, bound with a thread of raw silk. He caught it mid-slide and held it in both hands once more.
He removed the silk tie with a single tug, letting it fall loose to the floor beside him.
Still, he did not open it immediately.
Instead, he looked down at the rolled parchment, his thumbs at the outer edge. A single breath passed. Only then did he begin to unroll it.
The scroll unfurled smoothly, crisp and unblemished. The paper was thick—dyed faintly yellow, a sign of its noble origin. The ink was still bold, black and precise, written with the steady brush of a practiced hand. No flourish, no exaggeration. Bureaucratic. Direct.
His eyes moved slowly across the top line. Then the second.
He gave no reaction.
But the Fujiwara man shifted slightly, hands folded calmly in his lap.
The official read on.
Outside, a bird called once from the veranda beam.
Inside, not a sound stirred.
And still, Akiko knelt motionless, the shape of her breath steady, though her heartbeat like a war drum against her ribs.
The official's gaze reached the bottom of the scroll. His eyes paused.
He rolled it closed.
The official sat in silence, the scroll now tightly rolled between his palms. His eyes lingered on Akiko for a long moment, unreadable beneath the lines of age and duty. Then, in a tone that was low but carried no less authority, he spoke.
"This message," he began, "purports to be from the Bureau of Records, bearing the seal of the Yamashina household."
Akiko's breath caught. Something in his phrasing—purports—brushed against her nerves like cold wind.
He unrolled the scroll once more, slowly, the parchment whispering in the silence. The chamber's air seemed to shift, as though leaning in.
He began to read.
"By the will of Yamashina no Aritsune, head of household and loyal servant of the realm, this letter is dispatched in utmost secrecy to our esteemed official in the western province of Tanba no Kokufu."
Akiko's ears rang.
"The time has come to restore balance to the court. The Fujiwara have ruled in all but name, treating the Emperor as a child, and bending the rites of state to their advantage."
"We, the house of Yamashina, prepare to right this wrong. We ask for your allegiance—your discretion—and your sword, when the moment arrives."
"Together, we shall see the removal of the Fujiwara regents and, if the heavens permit, a new sovereign shall rise—one chosen not by blood alone, but by virtue and resolve."
"We have loyalists already stationed in Owari, and talks have begun with two eastern governors. Once all pieces are in place, the Palace will be reclaimed, and the Emperor's seal restored—under righteous counsel."
The court official's voice was steady, but each syllable hit like a hammer.
"In preparation, this message is entrusted to my daughter, Lady Akiko, whose bearing and purpose must remain unquestioned. Treat her as our envoy, our voice, and our trust made flesh."
The official stopped reading.
Silence returned. But it wasn't the silence of formality or reverence. It was the kind that filled a room just before a blade was drawn.
Akiko looked up, the motion stiff, her eyes wide with disbelief.
She tried to speak, but nothing came.
No one met her gaze but the Fujiwara observer— a fiendish smile on his face, meant only for her. Her voice, if she could have found it, would have meant nothing.
The scroll was returned to the official's lap.
He gave no explanation. No opportunity for defence.
Only one order.
"Detain her."
The guards moved.
One on each side stepped forward in perfect unison, the sound of their sandals firm against the tatami. Their hands found her arms before she had even realized she was rising to protest. Her body stiffened, a cry caught in her throat. She twisted to look behind her—to the court official, to the Fujiwara man watching with his fiendish smile.
He blinked, slowly.
This isn't right, she thought. This can't be right.
The words the official had read echoed in her skull like thunder. None of it—none of it—was true. Not in any world where justice held meaning.
This was not the original letter.
She knew it now with sickening certainty. Everything he read had been a lie—too specific, too targeted. Designed not to accuse, but to bury her.
The Fujiwara had gotten to it.
Her pulse roared in her ears.
But when? How?
Had they taken it while she was herself? Or had it happened while Sora walked in her body—unknowing, unguarded, watched?
Had they fooled him? Had they fooled me?
She didn't know. And now, it didn't matter.
The guards' grip tightened. Her feet stumbled on the mat as they turned her, facing her toward the door. Her knees burned against the tatami. Her voice still refused to rise.
She dared a final glance back—past the court official, past the silent Fujiwara observer, to the sealed scroll now resting once again in its case. Wrong scroll. Wrong truth.
And then she was gone from the room.
Only the scent of broken wax lingered, like ash on cold morning air.