The second boy was his opposite in almost every way, short and stocky, built like a barrel, with thick arms and legs that suggested strength. His face was round and as remarkable as chipped pottery, his nose flat and eyebrows thick and dark. He danced on the balls of his feet. Back and forth and back and forth, waves of energy pouring off of him.
The third boy stood perfectly still. He was perhaps my age, maybe younger, with delicate, unmarked skin that made him look almost feminine, but when he shifted his weight, I saw an angry purple bruise smeared across his neck, disappearing beneath his collar. His hair was longest of all of ours, falling just past his ears in glossy black waves. While he wore the same training clothes as the rest of us, they somehow looked more elegant on him, as if he had been born to wear silk instead of rough cotton. His posture was impeccable—spine straight, shoulders back, chin level.
The fourth boy looked like he wanted to be anywhere else. Smaller than me with a wiry build that suggested quickmovements and nervous energy, his face was all sharp features: pointed chin, sharp cheekbones, a nose like a blade.
Each bore marks of training written in welts and bruises and still unhealed wounds.
My skin was unmarked, naming me an outsider as clearly as if I had announced it.
“I’m Yoshi—”
The tall, thin boy’s head snapped toward me. His eyes were hard and filled with warning as he gave the slightest shake of his head.
The stocky boy with the scar glanced toward me, and something like pity flickered across his face before he looked away.
Silence followed.
Deep, unrelenting silence.
I had just revealed myself as ignorant, as someone who had yet to understand the rules. As prey.
I closed my mouth and stood with them, waiting, desperate to fidget or run or do anything to expel the nervous energy welling inside me like a dam ready to burst.
Amaterasu’s light continued to grow. Purple gave way to deep blue, then to gold over the horizon. Birds began to sing in the trees beyond the courtyard walls. The air was cool and damp, and I could see my breath.
Then he arrived.
Our master.
He moved silent and fluid, emerging from a doorway I had not noticed. He was neither young nor old. His shaved head and face, though darkened by sun and wind, gave away nothing of his years. His robes were the same rust color as the younger monk’s, but bore no decorations, no marks of rank. Bare forearms below rolled sleeves revealed scars whose stories I hoped never to learn.
The same marks the boys bore.
He had walked this path before them. Before us.
In the master’s right hand, he carried a long reed, dried and flexible. It looked harmless, delicate, even.
When his dark gaze fell upon us, I felt stripped bare, as if he could see every thought, every fear, every weakness. He studied each of us in turn, his gaze lingering on me, the newest arrival, the unmarked.
The unknown.
I tried to meet his gaze but found I could not.
I stared at the stones beneath my feet.
“Sit,” he commanded, his voice quiet yet firm.
Cross-legged, backs straight, hands resting on our knees, we sat as one.
“Close your eyes.”
We obeyed.
“Breathe in and hold,” he said, waiting a heartbeat and then ten. “Out through the mouth. Feel the air enter your body. Feel it leave. There is no wind. No temple. No master. Only breath.”
I tried. I truly did. But in the stillness of the master’s words, my mind raced.
Where is Kaneko? Is he safe? Will I ever see him again?
