“What about them?” One of the Samurai gestured to the bodies—fallen attackers and our own dead.
I looked down on the warriors who’d died protecting me. They, too, were young men, barely older than Yoshi. They’d volunteered to escort a prince they barely knew. They were men with families, probably, parents who would never see them again, brothers, sisters, lovers who would wait for someone who would never come home.
Like my father, whom I would never see again.
“We honor them,” I said firmly. “We carry our own. And we . . .” I looked at theninjacorpses. “We leave theirs for the crows.”
Giichi nodded approval. “It will slow us.”
“I don’t care. We’re not leaving them in the road like refuse.”
It took nearly an hour to bandage the living, gather the dead, fashion makeshift stretchers, and collect what we could salvage. My fingers shook as I helped wrap the fallen Samurai, their faces peaceful in death in a way that made my throat tight. One of them had been humming that morning while he saddled his horse. The other had shared his water when mine ran out. Now they were little more than cold flesh and empty eyes.
“You did well,” Esumi said quietly, appearing at my side. His sleeve was torn where he’d wrapped his own wound, blood seeping through the makeshift bandage.
“Two men are dead because of me.”
“Two men died protecting the Imperial bloodline because that’s what they swore to do. You didn’t kill them. The assassins did.”
“Semantics.”
“Truth.” He caught my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes. “YousavedYoshi’s life. And mine, too, probably. You fought like the warrior your father always knew you could be. He would be proud.”
“He would be alive if I hadn’t—”
“Stop.” His voice went hard. “Don’t you dare make his death about your guilt. He was murdered by enemies of the Empire, not by you existing.”
I wanted to argue, but Kaneko called out that we were ready to move.
We limped north like the wounded remnants of a defeated army, which I supposed we were. The Samurai took turns carrying the bodies. Yoshi and I supported Giichi between us, the old monk refusing to admit how much pain he was in.
“You moved well,” he said after a while, his voice rough. “Your father’s gift, yes?”
“Yes,” I admitted.
“Emperor Takashi could not control it until he reached his twentieth year. You are, what, twenty-two?”
“Twenty-four.”
“And already you move between moments like smoke. Remarkable.” He smiled through his obvious pain. “He would have loved to see it. He would have been very proud.”
Everyone kept saying those words. Why did they not make anything hurt less?
By the time Heiwa’s walls appeared on the horizon, we were all stumbling with exhaustion. The sun had set, painting the sky in shades of blood and fire that felt too appropriate for the day we’d had.
“Halt!” Guards appeared on the walls, torches blazing. “State your business!”
Giichi tried to call up to them, but his voice cracked, so I stepped forward instead.
“I am Akira Haru, third son of Akira Takashi-samaTenno, the Son of Heaven. We were attacked on the road and carry wounded and dead. By Imperial decree, we request sanctuary.”
The guards disappeared.
For a long, terrible moment, I thought they might refuse us.
Then the gates groaned open, and a flood of soldiers poured out, led by a figure I recognized even in the dim light.
“Prince Haru-sama.” Yumi KonDaimyobowed deeply, his face stricken. “Gods above, what happened?”
