Chapter 2
Haru
Present Day
“You’re doing that thing with your shoulder again,” Esumi called out, not even looking up from where he sat polishing his katana in the morning sun.
I lowered my bokken and glared at him across the training grounds. “I haven’t even started my forms yet.”
“You were thinking about starting them. I could tell.” He finally looked up, that insufferable smirk playing at his lips. “Your shoulder tenses when you’re about to do something stupid.”
“Falling for you was pretty stupid,” I shot back, beginning the first form with exaggerated precision. “My shoulder must have been practically screaming the night we met.”
“Oh, it was. I just thought you had a permanent injury.”
Two of the younger students passing by tried to stifle their laughter. Even after only a month at Temple Suwa, they’d grown used to what Master Chen called our “disgraceful public displays of affection disguised as sword training.”
I completed the first form in the sequence, my bokken cutting through air with practiced ease.
These morning sessions had quickly become my favorite part of each day—not because I particularly enjoyed practicing the forms, but because Esumi always watched with that focused intensity that made me feel like I was the only person in the world.
“Better,” he admitted, setting his katana aside and rising in one fluid motion. “But your hip rotation still needs work.”
“My hips are perfect,” I protested. “You said so last night.”
“That was a different context entirely.”
“Same principle.” I cocked a brow in challenge.
Esumi crossed the training ground and stepped behind me, his hands settling on my waist. “Here,” he said, his breath warm against my ear. “When you pivot, think of it as one complete motion, not segments.”
As he guided me through the movement, I may have leaned back against him more than was technically necessary.
“Your Highness is being deliberately obtuse,” he murmured.
“Your Highness is enjoying the firmness of your . . . instruction.”
“My instruction would be more effective if you paid more attention to your movement than my . . . sword.”
“But your sword—”
Master Chen’s voice boomed across the courtyard: “Prince Haru, if you’re quite finished using Esumi-san as a training post, perhaps you would honor us with a little practice?”
The monks of Suwa had never shied from treating me like every other would-be Samurai training at their feet, despite my royal lineage. Father would have bristled, and Mother would have rained hellfire. To me, it was a blessed reprieve from the endless groveling that came with the title “prince.”
I stepped away from Esumi, offering Master Chen an unrepentant bow. “Of course, Master. I was merely receiving correction on my form.”
“Is that what we are calling it now?” The old warrior’s eyes twinkled with amusement despite his stern tone. “Esumi-san, since you seem so invested in the prince’s . . . form . . . you will spar with him. Full contact.”
“Master, I don’t think—”
“Excellent idea,” I interrupted, spinning my bokken with a flourish. “I’ve been working on something new.”
Esumi sighed, retrieving his own practice sword. “Remember, you asked for this.”
We took our positions, and I couldn’t help a grin. Even preparing for combat, Esumi was beautiful—all controlled grace and coiled power. The sun caught the highlights in his inky hair, still mussed from sleep because someone had insisted on one more kiss before morning training.
“Focus,” he warned.
“I am focused.”
“On the fight, Haru.”
“That, too.”
He attacked without warning, his bokken whistling through the air. I barely got my guard up in time, the impact jarring my arms, but I’d been expecting it—Esumi always pressed hard when he thought I wasn’t taking things seriously.
I gave ground, letting him push me back.
I knew his patterns better than my own.
There—that subtle shift in his stance before his favorite combination. I shifted my weight and—
Found myself flat on my back, Esumi’s bokken at my throat, his knee planted on my chest.
“You’ve been broadcasting that counter since yesterday’s session,” he said mildly. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”
“I was hoping you’d be distracted by my devastating charm.”
“Your charm is middling at best.” He smirked and extended a hand to help me stand.
“That’s not what you said this morning.”
“I was being polite.”
“You moaned poetry—actual poetry—something about moonlight and eternal springs.”
His ears turned red, but he kept his expression neutral. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“‘Your eyes are stars that guide my nights’—”
He pressed the bokken against my throat. “Would you like to yield, Your Highness?”
“To you? Always.”
Master Chen’s cough interrupted us. “Prince Haru-sama, I believe you are scheduled to assist with the junior class this morning.”
“Next time, I use mahou,” I said, bumping Esumi’s shoulder as I stepped out of the ring. “We’ll see how you fight against a living god.”
Esumi snorted. “Full of ourselves much?”
He fell into step beside me. Across the courtyard, bokken sang as Yoshi battled an older, far thicker boy in a dusty ring.
“Gods above,” Esumi breathed. “How is he moving like that? Like . . . you . . . when you use your magic?”
We moved closer, drawn by the spectacle. Yoshi attempted a jumping strike that should have been graceful, but he overshot so disastrously that he slammed into a nearby practice dummy, sending both himself and the wooden figure tumbling.
Master Ito shouted from the side: “Control, boy! Speed means nothing without control!”
But Yoshi was already up, already moving, his body blurring through another form. This time he spun too fast and went careening sideways like a leaf in a windstorm, barely managing to stay upright.
“It’s like watching a newborn colt discover it has legs,” I murmured to Esumi. “All that raw power and no idea what to do with it.”
“He’s going to hurt himself,” Esumi said, wincing as Yoshi nearly impaled himself on his own bokken during an overcorrected thrust.
We reached the edge of the ring just as Yoshi attempted another sequence.
His feet moved so fast they seemed to barely touch the ground, but he couldn’t maintain his center.
He stumbled, caught himself, overbalanced the other way, and ended up spinning in a complete circle before crashing into his stunned opponent.
“Again!” Master Ito barked. “This time, try not to destroy my training ring!”
Yoshi pushed himself up, panting, sweat streaming down his face. His eyes met mine for a moment—wide, frustrated, almost frightened by his own body’s betrayal.
I’d seen that look before . . . in my own mirror, when Father’s expectations pressed down like mountains and nothing I did was ever enough, when my own mahou awakened, and I struggled to find my own balance, when the weight of the Imperial family pressed down and—
“Master Ito,” I called out, moving toward the ring’s entrance, not realizing I’d stepped forward until it was too late. “May I?”
“Your Highness should not concern himself with students,” Master Ito said stiffly. “The boy merely needs discipline.”
“I was assigned to assist these students, and the boy needs more than the crack of a reed,” I countered, stepping into the ring despite the monk’s disapproving frown.
Esumi followed me in, earning an even deeper scowl, but the older master stepped back.
One did not argue with Imperial blood, even a third son’s useless blood.
I stepped toward Yoshi slowly, the way one might approach a spooked horse. “That was impressive,” I said. “Your speed, I mean.”
“I can’t control it,” Yoshi said, sounding more like a pouting four-year-old than a Samurai-in-training. “Ever since—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “It just happens. The power comes so fast, and I can’t stop it, can’t direct it. I’m going to hurt someone.”
“No,” I said, reaching out and gripping the boy’s shoulder.
“You are going to learn—but not by trying to suppress your power. This will be different from any form or kata.” I gathered my thoughts as the boy stared.
“Think of your power as a mighty river. You cannot fight the current. You must learn to flow with it, to feel its power, to guide and shape it without losing yourself beneath its swells.”
Yoshi blinked, his gaze showing none of the recognition I’d hoped for.
“Come on,” I said, picking up the practice dummy he’d knocked over. “Let’s try something different.”
Master Ito said nothing, simply crossed his arms and scowled as Esumi and I positioned ourselves in the ring with Yoshi between us. His opponent, sensing a lesson far beyond his skill, stepped out of the ring to stand beside the master.
“Now then,” I said, raising my bokken. “Let’s see if we can help you find your balance, young colt.”