So much for inner peace.
As I walked, the path curved and wandered.
It also gave everyone time to see me, time to witness, time to believe that this was real, that their emperor lived, that the Empire would survive.
The full gravity of it struck when we rounded the final turn.
The public gardens opened before me, and I nearly froze.
Thousands.
There werethousandsof people.
The Imperial Guard lined the paths, an unbroken wall of armor—black and gold, steel and discipline. Between them stood ranks of Samurai in brilliant colors, each representing their clan, their lord, and their sworn loyalties. Reds and oranges and blues and greens and grays, a riot of color that made the already lustrous garden blaze with life.
Beyond the warriors stood the nobles, hundreds of them, dressed in their finest, their faces showing everything and nothing—hope and fear and desperate relief. The ministers of theDaijokanstood near the front, including Uncle Satoshi and Uncle Ryuji and Uncle Teruma, all in formal robes. Behind them stood lesser ministers, court officials, merchants wealthy enough to merit an invitation.
And in the back rank, behind the minor ministers, I caught sight of a familiar face.
Kaneko.
He stood alone, wearing simple formal robes. His face was composed, but his eyes were bright. He’d witnessed everything—Father’s funeral, Kioshi’s desecration, my rise from third prince to heir.
And now he was here to see me crowned.
I couldn’t nod, couldn’t acknowledge him openly without breaking the sacred protocol. Hells, if I tried I might’ve tipped over sideways, but despite it all, I let my eyes linger on him for a heartbeat longer than necessary, let my eyelids close in the barest suggestion of recognition before moving on.
Kaneko’s lips quirked in the tiniest smile.
I see you. I’m with you, he seemed to say.
I edged forward.
The time constraints for the funeral and coronation had been brutal. Messages sent only yesterday couldn’t reach the far provinces in time for their lords to make the journey, but some had found a way, some had made the effort.
The YumiDaimyostood in robes of pale blue and white, his silver hair adorned with pins shaped like cranes and a topknot banded by intricately carved jade. Beside him, the Chinami lord wore deep purple embroidered with silver thread, his weathered face showing the strain of rushed travel but also determination. These two had come themselves. They were loyal, committed, and willing to drop everything to witness their emperor’s ascension.
But the others . . .
The Cho, still undeclared and unaligned, sent a high-ranking minister, not theirDaimyo. That was understandable, given the distance and the man’s advancing age. The Kohana, also undeclared, sent theirDaimyo’s eldest grandson, young and uncertain in gray robes shot through with crimson thread.
The Toshi sent no one at all.
How could they?
TheirDaimyowas dead. Their heads were reeling. They were leaderless and trying to survive under the boot of Eiko’s occupation. I didn’t fault them for their absence. I grieved it.
And then there was the Anzu.
Yoshi stood where his father should have stood, wearing the deep blue of hishanembroidered with silver. He was no longer a guest or an observer. He stood as heir in the place of the AnzuDaimyowho could not make the journey in time.
His presence was significant.
It was a statement.
The Anzu had only just declared for the throne. Takashi’s murder had sealed that fate. I knew, deep in my heart, that Yoshi’s father would have attended, would have offered his blade personally, had time and thewakoblockade not prevented him from doing so.
Still, the Anzu heir stood for me. Yoshi stood in his father’s stead. He stood in the place of honor reserved for the great clan lords, not hidden in the back with minor officials.
