The undeclaredhanwatched me warily. They waited to see what kind of emperor I would be, whether I would be strong enough to save them from the darkness ahead.
I laughed inwardly at this. If only they knew how desperately I waited for similar answers.
Tradition dictated my eyes remain fixed on the path ahead, that I walk like a statue, untouched by the mortal world, focused only on the divine.
But I wasn’t divine. Not yet.
And I needed these people.
I let my gaze drift to each representative as I passed—the Yumi and ChinamiDaimyo, the Cho minister, the young Kohana prince, and Yoshi standing proud in his Anzu blue.
I let them see me look at them, let them see the subtle incline of my head—my respect and acknowledgement that I valued their effort to be here.
It broke protocol, but protocol hadn’t saved Father.
Protocol hadn’t brought Kioshi back from his mission of peace.
Sometimes an emperor had to be willing to bend the rules—and unlike every other part of my new role,thatwas something I knew intimately.
As I passed, the crowd fell prostrate. Like waves crashing against a cliff, they dropped to their knees and pressed theirforeheads into the earth. Thousands of them, one after another, the sound like distant thunder.
Only the warriors remained standing. Only those sworn to protect me could look upon me during this sacred walk.
Closest to the dais stood my family.
Grandmother wore formal black robes, her ancient face showing pride and grief in equal measure. Sakura, my sister, stood by her side, holding her hand. Uncle Ryuji looked fearsome in his gold and blackDai Shogunarmor. Other relatives I barely knew, cousins and aunts and uncles, all wore the Imperial chrysanthemum somewhere on their robes.
And then there was Mother.
She stood apart from the others, wrapped in a ceruleankimonothat shimmered in the light. She bowed deeply as I approached—acknowledging the solemnity of the occasion, acknowledging the office, acknowledging everything I was about to become.
But her knees remained unbent.
Since wedding my father, she had kneeled to only one emperor in her long life. She would kneel to no other, not even her son. It was her right, her privilege, the last vestige of her own Imperial dignity.
Our eyes met as I passed, only for a moment, barely long enough for me to see the weight of last night in her gaze. I still felt the tears she’d wept, heard the words she’d spoken. I could almost make out the mother she’d tried to be, too late and too briefly.
Be better than your father, her eyes said.Be stronger. Be kinder.
I would try.
The dais rose before me, elegant wood draped in billowing fabrics of plum and gold, fluttering in the morning light. At its summit waited a simple seat of ancient wood. It was plain,unadorned, and so old it looked like it might crumble to dust if I sat too hard. Legend claimed it was the first throne of the Empire, crafted long before anyone had envisioned one carved of jade. It was believed that JimmuTennohimself had sat upon it when he became Amaterasu’s first Son, that every emperor since had added their weight to its ancient wood, binding themselves to the line, to the legacy, and to the burden.
Father had cursed this seat. He called it a torture device with splinters that caught his robes, a seat so hard it made every ceremony agony.
Now it was mine.
One step.
The robes pulled at me.
The headdress threatened to topple me.
I fought for balance, fought for dignity, fought to make this look effortless when every muscle in my body screamed.
Another step.
The crowd held its breath.
