Chapter 9
Asami Eiko
Akira Kioshi Tennō had been gone an hour, barely enough time to gather whatever escort waited outside my walls and begin his trek back to Bara.
My uncle and daughter had spent that hour chiding me for letting the boy leave, releasing him from my grasp in a move they argued would only prolong the coming war.
But killing a boy who’d just lost his father—the new Emperor—as he stood as a guest under a banner of parlay within my hall would have inflamed passions far more than marching an army into his lands and ripping the Jade Throne from beneath his scrawny backside.
His murder—for that is how it would’ve been seen—would engender sympathies for a boy in mourning, an uncrowned king, and most troublesome, a gods-blessed ruler awaiting the kiss of Amaterasu herself.
I had long ago lost my faith in gods or whatever glared down from the heavens. If they didn’t bother showing themselves, why should I bother paying them any mind? But the people—and the monks and priests—they believed. They saw the Emperor as divine.
No, feigning respect and releasing the quaking boy had been the only path forward.
In that moment.
But the rules of engagement were far different once he’d left the courtesy of my home.
Raven feathers lay before me on the lacquered table, two perfect specimens of midnight black. I’d plucked them myself from the birds that roosted in the northern tower—creatures that fed on the battlefield, the carrion of defeat.
My private chamber stood on the northern end of my fortress, its stone walls covered with maps of the Empire rather than the decorative scrolls favored by southern nobles.
The room was spartan by court standards but precisely arranged—every object serving a purpose, every piece of furniture positioned for maximum utility.
Iron braziers burned in each corner, their light casting dancing shadows across weapons displayed on the walls: a naginata that had belonged to my grandmother, paired swords taken from a Yumi general who’d thought a woman couldn’t hold the northern passes, a crossbow from one of the island provinces, its foreign mechanisms a reminder that power could come from unexpected directions.
But it was a war table that dominated the space, its dark wood surface scarred from years of knife points marking troop movements and territorial boundaries.
Ceramic pieces representing different han forces stood in careful formation with my own black stones massed along the mountain passes like gathering storm clouds.
A single red piece marked the capital, isolated and surrounded by mountains, ancient sentinels who’d protected emperors throughout millennia.
“Step forward,” I commanded, and a pair of shadows detached themselves from the walls of my private chamber.
They moved like smoke given form, these assassins I’d cultivated over years of careful planning. The very best had been purchased not with gold but with promises of what a new order would bring. They kneeled before me in perfect synchronization, heads bowed, awaiting my will.
I lifted the first feather, running my finger along its edge, sharp enough to cut if one wasn’t careful. “The old tree has fallen so that new growth may flourish,” I said, as much to myself as to those kneeling before me.
The feather caught the lamplight as I turned it, seeming to shimmer with an oily iridescence.
“The heir presents a different challenge,” I continued, placing it before the first assassin.
“Crown Prince Kioshi commands the loyalty of the eastern armies. He is younger, stronger, and more far more vigilant than his father, but every man has patterns and routines. Use them.” The assassin took the feather with delicate fingers—a woman’s touch for a prince who appreciated such things.
Whether he died on the open road or in a pleasure house made little difference, so long as he died.
The second feather I held longer, considering its weight.
“The spare,” I said finally, “poses little threat but requires the most . . . creativity. Prince Haru has been sent to Suwa Temple, ostensibly for training. In truth, I believe his father seeks to keep him distant from court, safe from the coming storm.” I smiled at the irony.
“How disappointing it will be for the Emperor’s spirit to learn that nowhere is safe. ”
The second assassin accepted the feather.
The journey to Suwa would take two weeks, perhaps more. By then, the other raven would have completed her work, and the third prince would find himself very much alone in the world.
“My lady,” the first assassin spoke, his voice like grinding stone. “The Emperor’s dragon—”
“Is dead,” I interrupted, moving to the window where the mountains stretched endlessly northward.
“The priests speak of divine blood,” I continued, not turning from the window.
“They claim the Emperor’s line descends from the gods themselves, that this grants them the right to rule, but gods can die, and bloodlines end.
When the last Akira falls, the people will see that divinity is nothing more than a lie told by those who would keep them on their knees. ”
One of the assassins—the woman—dared to speak. “The other han lords—”
“Will fall in line once the Akira are gone,” I said with certainty.
“The Toshi already lean toward our cause, despite Imperial pledges staining their tongues. The Yumi can be bought, and the Chinami will follow whoever controls the trade routes. And the Maria . . .” I smiled.
“The Maria remember what it was like before the Empire, when each han ruled themselves. They hunger for a return to those days.”
“And if they resist?” the first assassin asked.
“They will learn what the Emperor’s family is about to discover—that the old ways return, that strength, not bloodline, determines who rules, and that a woman can command as well as any man, better even, because we understand that true power is not inherited; it is taken.”
I turned back to face them, and I knew they could see the determination burning in my eyes. “You have your orders. The new moon comes. Strike then, when the night is darkest and the gods look away.”
They rose as one, again bowing deeply before melting back into the shadows. Only one, the one bound for Temple Suwa, hesitated near the door. “The third prince,” he said carefully. “He is untested. He was unwanted by his own father. Why eliminate him?”
“Because,” I said, returning to my table where maps of the Empire lay spread, “it is far better to remove pieces from the board than leave one that might someday become a king.”
He bowed and disappeared, leaving me alone with the presence in the shadows.
I moved to my war table, studying the positions of my forces.
Thousands of warriors gathered in the mountain passes.
Another three thousand moved up from the southern valleys.
My Asami lands had always been harsh, breeding even harder people.
We didn’t need divine blood to rule—we had iron will and steel resolve.
The Empire had grown soft under Takashi’s peace, had forgotten that peace was merely the pause between wars, that harmony was an illusion maintained only as long as the strong permitted it. They believed the Emperor was untouchable, their princes protected by heaven’s mandate.
In days, they would learn how wrong they were.
I picked up a brush and began composing letters I would send once news of the assassinations reached me.
They were letters of shock and condolence, letters suggesting the need for strong leadership in uncertain times, letters positioning myself as the reluctant but capable hand that could guide the Empire through its darkest hour.
By the time the other Daimyo realized what was happening, I would already control the northern passes and trade routes. My armies would be moving toward the capital, not as conquerors but as protectors, coming to restore order in a time of chaos.
And if some whispered that I had orchestrated that chaos?
Well, whispers were simply wind, and wind could be silenced.
Ravens outside my window cawed as if in agreement, and I smiled.
Two feathers. Two deaths.
And from their ashes, a new Empire would rise—one where power went to those strong enough to seize it, not those lucky enough to be born to it.
The gods, if they existed at all, would have to accept a new order.
And if they objected?
Let them try to stop what was already in motion.
Even gods could learn to kneel.