Our master rode in the cart ahead of us, his back rigid and straight despite the violent jostling. I leaned forward, straining to hear him speak with the driver, but caught only fragments.
“. . . rebels . . .”
“. . . convoy . . .”
“. . . dying . . .”
Rebels?
My blood turned cold.
We’d heard of attacks well north of Bara, but thus far, the rebels had yet to venture southward. The natural geography of the island made that virtually impossible.
Idle chatter claimed the Asami would focus their forces on the capital, possibly after securing the seat of ToshiHan, the city of Yubi. It sat near the border with the Asami and was an important port town. It was also on the other side of an impassible mountain range, one we’d thought would keep rebels from our doorstep for many winters, possibly forever.
I also couldn’t help being reminded of the attack that had burned Tooi, thewakoraid that had stolen everything from me; but unlike that assault, hundreds of miles on an island to the north, this incident washere, on the mainland, close enough to threaten Imperial supply lines, close enough to demand a reply from the temple,ourtemple.
How had rebels made it past enemy lines, past the mountains? How did they now threaten the very heart of the Emperor’s lands?
“It’s a raid,” I muttered, the pieces clicking into place with terrible clarity. “Rebels attacked something. A convoy, I would guess.”
“How do you—” Daichi started, but our master turned in his seat and met my eyes, only for a moment, but long enough for me to know I’d guessed correctly—and that I should keep my conjecture to myself.
The carts rattled on. Samurai continued racing past, more with each passing minute. How many had the temple sent? How many more were coming from elsewhere? The response seemed massive and well coordinated—this hadn’t been a simple bandit raid.
Time stretched and compressed. The journey felt like both moments and hours.
My mind wouldn’t settle, couldn’t focus, as I tried to prepare myself for what we might find, but how could I? I’d seen violence in Tooi, had watched my home burn and my people die.
But this?
This felt different. It felt like watching poison spread through the Empire’s veins.
What had been a distant horror was nowhere. It was real. It was immediate.
The cart finally slowed, and the scene that unfolded before us silenced all chatter and drove the air from my lungs. A convoy had indeed been hit, one carrying rice, food for Bara or the troops; but rice was so much more than food. It was currency. Tribute. The lifeblood of the Empire.
A dozen carts sat broken, frozen in time, their contents spilled or stolen.
And there were bodies. So many bodies.
They lay scattered across the road like broken dolls, their blood painting spilled rice crimson. Horses screamed in the distance, their cries mixing with the moans of dying men.
I stumbled from our cart, and the world tilted.
Not again,I thought.
The smell hit me first—blood and death and smoke—so much smoke. It clawed at my throat and filled my nose, tasting of ash and copper and terror, the exact stench that had choked Tooi’s streets, the exact reek that had hounded me for weeks after, haunting every breath.
My legs buckled, and I went down hard, my knees slamming into blood-soaked earth.
Tooi. My father’s land. The home I hoped to inherit, however broken it might still be.
The words exploded in my mind, and suddenly I wasn’t on this road anymore. I was back on my home’s burning streets, watching neighbors fall, listening to my sister’s screams as she was dragged away by ravenous, angry men.
Then I was searching frantically through smoke . . .
For anyone alive . . .
