“Heika,” the eldest said, her voice trembling. “These ones are honored to prepare His Divine Majesty for his ascension.”
“Thank you,” was all I could think to say.
They led me to the bathing chamber where water had been drawn and blessed by priests. Steam rose from the surface, carrying the scent of sacred herbs. They undressed me in silence, stripping away the last vestiges of the prince I’d been.
The water was hot enough to hurt. I sank into it and let it burn, let it scour away everything that had come before. When I emerged, my skin was red and raw. The servants wrapped me in silk so fine it was nearly transparent.
Then came the layering.
I’d watched Father prepare for ceremonies, had seen the ritual dozens of times, but I’d never understood the weight of it.
Or the symbolism.
The innermost layer was pure white, representing innocence, renewal, and the blank slate of a soul prepared to receive divinity. The servants wrapped it around me with reverent hands, each fold precise, each tuck meaningful. They bound itwith a cord of undyed silk, whispering prayers as they tied the knots.
The second layer was pale gold—the first touch of Amaterasu’s light and the beginning of transformation. It was heavier than the first, embroidered with subtle patterns that caught the light.
More prayers. More bindings.
The third layer was deep crimson, marking the blood of the Empire, the sacrifice of those who came before, and the promise of those yet to come. I felt a weight settling on my shoulders like a physical thing.
Like armor.
Like chains.
“Heika,” the eldest servant whispered, “you must stand very still now. The next layer is . . . significant.”
Significant was an understatement.
They brought out the ceremonialkimono, and I understood why Father had always looked so stiff during sacred rites. The fabric was magnificent—cloth of gold trimmed with thread so fine it looked like liquid light, embroidered with the Imperial chrysanthemum repeated a thousand times across the surface.
But it was heavy, impossibly heavy. Two servants had to lift it together. When they draped it across my shoulders, I nearly staggered forward. It had to weigh more than armor, more than steel plate. Every step I took would be a battle against its bulk.
“The burden of the Empire,” the eldest said softly, adjusting the way it hung. “Heavy, but necessary.”
They fastened it with a sash of golden silk, tied in an elaborate knot that took three of them to complete. Each pull of the fabric made breathing more difficult, as the collar pressed against my throat, stiff and unyielding.
I tugged at it, trying to loosen its grip.
It didn’t budge.
“Forgive me,Heika,” one of the younger servants said, “but you must not adjust it. The collar represents the throat of the Empire—it cannot yield, cannot bend, even when it feels like it might steal breath.”
Perfect. Another metaphor I didn’t need causing pain I didn’t choose.
The final layer was the outer drape—a massive sheet of golden fabric that cascaded from my shoulders to the floor like a waterfall of sunlight. When they placed it on me, I did stagger. Only one servant’s quick hands kept me upright.
“Heika, you must lean back slightly,” she advised. “Counterbalance the weight. Yes, like that. You will adapt.”
I wasn’t sure I would, but I had no choice.
Then came the headdress.
I’d seen it many times, of course, but I’d never truly looked at it, never understood what it was. Now, as they carried it toward me on a golden cushion, I saw it for what it was: a slave’s cap of gold and wire, designed to transform a man into something divine.
The base was a circlet of gold, fitted snugly around my head. They tied it beneath my chin with a golden cord, pulling it tight enough that I felt every breath. From the circlet rose a single translucent wing—some six hands tall, made of lacquered silk stretched over wire frames. It caught the light and threw it back in shimmering waves.
And it pulled.
