“Unwilling men with full bellies and the promise of land fight better than willing men who are starving. And last I checked, men whose women and children remain behind with our blades at their necks carry an even greater motivation to remain loyal.” Katsumi looked to me. “We can’t reach Bara now, but we can ensure that when we do, we are unstoppable.”
I studied the map, seeing the truth in her words even as everything in me screamed to move, to act, to strike while the advantage was ours.
But what advantage did we truly hold?
The Empire was in chaos, yes. An emperor and crown prince lay dead by our hand, yes. But our troops were also separated from their target by bitter cold and snow-covered mountains that killed as efficiently as any blade.
A caged tiger could rage and snarl, but it couldn’t hunt through bars of stone and snow.
“Fine.” The word tasted like defeat even though I knew it to be strategy. “We winter here. We build our forces. We prepare.” I swept my gaze across the council, letting them see the fire still burning behind my eyes. “But come spring, we march on Bara with everything we have. No half measures. No caution. We take the capital or we die trying. Understood?”
“Hai,Daimyo,” they chorused, relief clear in every voice.
“Get out.” I waved them away like servants. “Go make your plans, train your farmers, and count your gods-damned rice. Go!”
They didn’t need to be told twice. Within moments, the room had emptied in a rustle of armor, silk, and hurried footsteps. Only Katsumi remained, hesitating near the door.
“Mother—”
“You, too, daughter. I need to think.”
For a moment, I thought she might argue; but she bowed, deeper than necessary, and departed. The door closed, and silence flooded in like water into a sinking ship.
I slumped back in the throne, feeling every one of my forty-eight years pressing down on my shoulders. When had I gotten old? When had caution started making sense? There was a time I would have led our armies through the mountain passes myself, dared winter to stop me, and laughed as the snow tried to claim what fire had already forged.
But that was before I’d buried a husband and three sons, before I’d learned that bravery and stupidity wore the same face when viewed from a grave.
My hand drifted to the scar that bisected my left eyebrow—a gift from Takashi during the war that made meDaimyo. We’d been young then, both of us, him fighting to unite the Empire under his father’s banner, me fighting to prove a woman could rule as well as any man.
We’d faced each other across a battlefield near Seto River, his father’s dragon breathing flame while my troops held their ground with iron discipline. I’d nearly killed him that day. My blade had opened his shoulder, and for one beautiful moment, I’d seen fear in his eyes. He was beautiful, even then, even as death stared at him through the shimmer of my steel.
Then his father’s reinforcements arrived, and I’d had to choose between death and retreat.
I chose retreat, wearing the scar from the dragon’s claw as a permanent reminder of how close I’d come.
Beautiful Takashi with his poet’s soul and emperor’s burden, who’d promised me forever, then married another for political gain, chose duty over love, empire over us, and left me with nothing but memories and rage.
I’d loved him once. Truly, deeply, stupidly loved him.
Now I’d killed him, and I felt nothing but satisfaction.
But empires weren’t built on what-ifs and maybe-shoulds. They were built on bodies and betrayals and the willingness to take what weaker people called impossible.
“Daimyo.”
The voice came from across the hall, near a tapestry filled with flowering fields and brilliant sunlight. The voice was quiet, genderless, and barely disturbed the air.
I didn’t startle. I’d been expecting this.
“Come out where I can see you.”
A figure emerged from the darkness where no human should have been able to hide. Black clothing absorbed the torchlight, leaving only the suggestion of a human shape and two eyes visible through fabric wrappings. I’d employed these shadows for years, using their networks and skills where conventional forces couldn’t reach. They had no loyalty to empire orhan, only to coin and contract. They killed with equal efficiency regardless of target, and they never asked questions. They were perfect tools, if one could afford them.
“Report.”
“Akira Takashi is dead.” The voice held no emotion, no pride. It simply stated a fact. “It appeared as ordered—an assassination that cannot be definitively pinned to any one source, though evidence strongly suggests Asami involvement.”
“Good.” I’d paid enough for that ambiguity. Let Bara’s court tear itself apart trying to determine which enemy had struck. “And the Crown Prince?”
