“Tonight, you observe,” he said. “Watch how I move, where I place my hands and feet, how I distribute my weight.”
He approached the wall and began to climb. I tried to memorize every detail: the way he tested each handhold before trusting it, how he used his legs more than his arms, the rhythm of his movement—constant, fluid, never stopping long enough to strain. In less than a minute, he was on the roof.
He looked down at me and gestured.
Shit. It was my turn.
I approached the wall, found a handhold—a decorative beam jutting out, and pulled myself up. My arms screamed. I had never done this, never trained these muscles. Swordplay against Yoshi was one thing, but youthful sparring and pillow talk in pleasure houses did not prepare one for scaling buildings.
I made it perhaps six feet before my grip failed, and I dropped, landing hard on the ground. Airwhooshedout of my lungs as pain shot up my leg.
“Again,” Sakurai called down, his voice an urgent whisper.
I tried again. Made it to the same point.
And fell again.
“Your arms are too tense,” Sakurai said. “You are fighting the wall instead of using it. Relax. Trust your legs.”
Third attempt. I focused on my legs, on pushing rather than pulling.
Made it eight feet before falling.
Fourth attempt. Ten feet.
Fifth attempt. I reached the first-story roof, collapsing onto it, gasping.
“Rest briefly,” Sakurai said from above. “Then continue.”
It took seven attempts to reach where Sakurai waited at the top. By then, my hands were scraped raw, my arms shook, and my legs felt like jelly. I collapsed onto the tiles, my chest heaving.
“We will also do this every night,” Sakurai said. “Different buildings. Different angles. Until climbing is as natural as walking.”
“I can’t—”
“You can and you will.” He helped me stand. “Come. I will show you the paths.”
He led me across rooftops, though not quickly—this was for instruction, not speed. He showed me how to step only on the strongest beams, how to test tiles before trusting them, how to read a roof’s structure from its exterior.
The city looked different from up there. It was vast, a landscape of tile and wood and stone stretching in every direction. Below, the arteries of this manmade beast sprawled empty— except for the occasional Samurai patrols.
“Watch,” Sakurai said, pointing to a patrol below.
There were two guards walking a regular route. I observed their patterns. It was predictable.
“Our work here is not pillow talk,” Sakurai said quietly. “From up here, you can observe, overhear, see who visits whom. No one thinks to look up, especially in the darkness of night.”
We watched for perhaps half an hour. Two more patrols passed. A merchant left his shop long after closing, carrying a bundle he hid beneath his cloak.
“Tomorrow night,” Sakurai said, “we will practice movement. For now, we return.”
The journey back was easier. My body was learning and adapting.
By the time we slipped back through the hidden door into the House of Petals, I was exhausted but exhilarated. Sakurai stopped me before I could return to my chamber.
“What you did tonight—what you will continue to do—must remain secret. Not even the Prince may know, though it serves his line. When you undress, hide this clothing. Find a place even Hana will not see.” His eyes held mine. “The shadows protect through anonymity, not only you but those around you. The moment others know what you are, you lose your usefulness and become a target—and so do those for whom you care. Do you understand?”
I nodded.
