Master Ito stood at the front, his reed in hand like a sword. “Tonight, we contemplate emptiness,” he intoned. “The void from which all things arise and to which all return.”
Dear gods, I was already empty.
Empty of energy, empty of thought, empty of everything except the desperate need to lie down. Beside me, Yoshi’s breathing had already deepened, the weariness of the day seizing control of his body and mind.
His head began to nod forward.
Thwack.
The reed caught him across the shoulders. “Meditation is not sleep, Yoshi-san.”
“Yes, Master,” Yoshi mumbled, jerking upright.
I tried to focus on my breathing, on the prescribed emptiness, but my eyelids felt like stones. The incense smoke made everything hazy and dreamlike. My chin dipped toward my chest.
Thwack.
The reed struck my back, but I barely felt it through my exhaustion. “Presence of mind, Kaneko-san. Always presence of mind.”
I’m not even one of his students. What in all the hells?But that was my mind’s voice. Aloud, I said, “Yes, Master.”
The hour crawled by like a wounded animal.
I counted my breaths to stay awake—one, two, three . . . I lost count and started again. Yoshi swayed beside me like a reed in wind. Twice more the master’s switch found us, but the strikes barely registered. All I could think about was my bedroll and the promise of horizontal rest.
Finally, mercifully, the closing bell rang.
“Dismissed,” Master Ito said, his disapproval clear. “Though some of you were clearly dismissed from consciousness an hour ago.”
The other students filed out in orderly silence. Yoshi and I struggled to our feet, legs protesting after sitting so long.
“I need to get fresh clothes from my chamber,” I told him as we reached the corridor where our paths diverged. “For tomorrow.”
“Want me to wait?”
“No, go ahead. You look like you’re about to collapse where you stand.”
He nodded, too tired to argue, and shuffled off toward his room. I watched until he turned the corner, then climbed the narrow stairs to my own chamber, each step an effort.
The corridor was dark. Only a single oil lamp flickering at the far end. My footsteps echoed off the wooden floors, unusually loud in the silence. Something felt different about the temple at this hour, as if the shadows held weight.
I slid open my door and froze.
Nothing looked disturbed.
My few possessions remained exactly where I’d left them—my spare training clothes folded on the shelf, mybokkenleaning inthe corner, the small carved fish Yoshi had given me sitting on the windowsill. Yet the air felt wrong, charged with a presence recently departed.
I stepped inside, closing the door behind me with deliberate slowness. My exhaustion had vanished, replaced by the same sharp awareness that had kept me alive in the House of Petals. My eyes swept the space again, searching for what had triggered my instincts.
The window was latched.
The floor showed no marks.
Even the dust motes floating in the moonlight seemed unconcerned.
Then I saw it.
On my bedroll, precisely centered on the thin pillow, sat a paper crane—but not the cheerful colored paper children folded during festivals. This crane was black as a moonless night, its edges sharp enough to draw blood.
