“What do you think? Does it suit me?”
“Put that down, please,” Yoshi hissed, looking genuinely alarmed. “If someone sees you—”
“Who’s going to see? We’re alone. The guards don’t even bother guarding this room when Haru’s not here.” Esumi draped the robe over his shoulders, striking an exaggerated pose. “Behold! I am the Emperor! Bow before my magnificence!”
I couldn’t help it. I laughed.
“Kaneko!” Yoshi turned to me, scandalized. “Don’t encourage him!”
“I’m sorry, but look at him.” Esumi was now strutting around the dais, the robe’s hem dragging behind him, doing what I assumed was meant to be an impression of Imperial dignity but looked more like a drunk rooster. “He’s—” I dissolved into laughter again. “He’s terrible at this.”
“I’m amazing at this,” Esumi corrected, climbing onto the throne itself. “This is exactly how Haru’s going to look: uncomfortable, overdressed, and deeply regretting his life choices.”
“Get down from there!” Yoshi was standing now, actually distressed. “That’s—that’s sacrilege! If the ministers catch you up there—”
“The ministers are busy boring Haru to death.” Esumi lounged on the throne like it was a common chair, one leg thrown over the armrest. “Besides, I’m doing everyone a favor. Someone needs to test if this thing is actually comfortable before Haru has to sit in it for hours at his coronation.”
“And?” I asked, still grinning.
“It’s possibly the worst chair ever, like sitting on an ornate torture device.” He shifted, the silk robe shimmering in the afternoon light streaming through the high windows. “How is anyone supposed to rule an empire while their ass goes numb?”
“Esumi—” Yoshi started.
Wsht.
A flash of silver streaked past Esumi’s head and embedded in the wooden wall behind the throne.
Behind a pillar at the far end of the chamber, a shadow coalesced, becoming solid.
My training kicked in before conscious thought. I dropped into a crouch, my hand finding the knife at my belt with muscle memory so ingrained I didn’t have to think about it. “Down!”
Another throwing star whistled through the air where Esumi’s head had been a heartbeat before. Itclangedoff jade and fell to the floor. Thankfully, he had already rolled off the throne at my shout, the robe tangling around him.
Time slowed.
Then sharpened.
This was what Sakurai had trained me for—the moment when everything crystallized, when instinct took over, when you stopped being a person and became a weapon.
Yoshi’s power surged.
I could feel it like pressure against my skin, the air itself crackling with energy. His eyes went wide, pupils dilating as divine force flooded through him.
Esumi finally tore free of the robe and came up balanced on the balls of his feet.
The assassin stepped from shadow into light. All in black. Head to toe. Face covered by a dark cowl and mask, only eyes visible—cold, calculating, professional.
I knew that stance. I knew the way they held their weight, ready to move in any direction, knew the slight cant of the shoulders that meant throwing weapons were ready.
I knew because I’d been taught to standexactlythat way.
My hand tightened on my knife.
My body moved into position without conscious thought—weight distributed, knees bent, ready to dodge or strike.
Behind me, Yoshi’s breathing changed, becoming deeper and slower, power building like a storm.
The assassin moved.
