Chapter 28
Haru
Iwoke alone.
For a moment, I didn’t remember where I was. Then the morning light streamed through the windows, and reality crashed in.
Coronation day.
Esumi had left before dawn, as we both knew he had to.
Our relationship was the worst kept secret in the palace, but if the servants had found him in my bed the night before my coronation, the scandal might have destroyed us both before I even reached the throne.
Still, waking without him felt wrong, like I’d already lost something I couldn’t name.
I sat up and found a note on the pillow where his head had been.
Heika,
You’ll be extraordinary. I believe in you. I love you.
Es
Ignoring how he’d so formally addressed me as “Your Majesty,” knowing it to be more of a very Esumi-like dig than a show of respect, I chuckled, folded the note, and tucked it inside my robe, close to my heart. Then I stood, squared my shoulders, and prepared to shed my own skin.
Servants arrived precisely at the Hour of the Rabbit, the same servants who’d dressed me for mourning a day ago.
They knew their duty better than I knew my own name, bowing so low their foreheads touched the floor.
When they rose, none of them dared lift their eyes.
Yesterday, they stared deeply and offered comfort. Today, they feared to meet my gaze.
“Heika,” the eldest said, her voice trembling. “These ones are honored to prepare His Divine Majesty for his ascension.”
“Thank you,” was all I could think to say.
They led me to the bathing chamber where water had been drawn and blessed by priests. Steam rose from the surface, carrying the scent of sacred herbs. They undressed me in silence, stripping away the last vestiges of the prince I’d been.
The water was hot enough to hurt. I sank into it and let it burn, let it scour away everything that had come before. When I emerged, my skin was red and raw. The servants wrapped me in silk so fine it was nearly transparent.
Then came the layering.
I’d watched Father prepare for ceremonies, had seen the ritual dozens of times, but I’d never understood the weight of it.
Or the symbolism.
The innermost layer was pure white, representing innocence, renewal, and the blank slate of a soul prepared to receive divinity.
The servants wrapped it around me with reverent hands, each fold precise, each tuck meaningful.
They bound it with a cord of undyed silk, whispering prayers as they tied the knots.
The second layer was pale gold—the first touch of Amaterasu’s light and the beginning of transformation. It was heavier than the first, embroidered with subtle patterns that caught the light.
More prayers. More bindings.
The third layer was deep crimson, marking the blood of the Empire, the sacrifice of those who came before, and the promise of those yet to come. I felt a weight settling on my shoulders like a physical thing.
Like armor.
Like chains.
“Heika,” the eldest servant whispered, “you must stand very still now. The next layer is . . . significant.”
Significant was an understatement.
They brought out the ceremonial kimono, and I understood why Father had always looked so stiff during sacred rites.
The fabric was magnificent—cloth of gold trimmed with thread so fine it looked like liquid light, embroidered with the Imperial chrysanthemum repeated a thousand times across the surface.
But it was heavy, impossibly heavy. Two servants had to lift it together. When they draped it across my shoulders, I nearly staggered forward. It had to weigh more than armor, more than steel plate. Every step I took would be a battle against its bulk.
“The burden of the Empire,” the eldest said softly, adjusting the way it hung. “Heavy, but necessary.”
They fastened it with a sash of golden silk, tied in an elaborate knot that took three of them to complete. Each pull of the fabric made breathing more difficult, as the collar pressed against my throat, stiff and unyielding.
I tugged at it, trying to loosen its grip.
It didn’t budge.
“Forgive me, Heika,” one of the younger servants said, “but you must not adjust it. The collar represents the throat of the Empire—it cannot yield, cannot bend, even when it feels like it might steal breath.”
Perfect. Another metaphor I didn’t need causing pain I didn’t choose.
The final layer was the outer drape—a massive sheet of golden fabric that cascaded from my shoulders to the floor like a waterfall of sunlight. When they placed it on me, I did stagger. Only one servant’s quick hands kept me upright.
“Heika, you must lean back slightly,” she advised. “Counterbalance the weight. Yes, like that. You will adapt.”
I wasn’t sure I would, but I had no choice.
Then came the headdress.
I’d seen it many times, of course, but I’d never truly looked at it, never understood what it was. Now, as they carried it toward me on a golden cushion, I saw it for what it was: a slave’s cap of gold and wire, designed to transform a man into something divine.
The base was a circlet of gold, fitted snugly around my head.
They tied it beneath my chin with a golden cord, pulling it tight enough that I felt every breath.
From the circlet rose a single translucent wing—some six hands tall, made of lacquered silk stretched over wire frames.
It caught the light and threw it back in shimmering waves.
And it pulled.
Gods, how it pulled.
Forward, always forward, threatening to tip me onto my face if I lost my balance for even a moment.
“Please stand tall, Heika,” the eldest servant said. “The headdress represents Heaven itself reaching down to touch you. If you lean forward, the underworld will pull you down. You must stand straight and strong. Let it crown you rather than crush you.”
More metaphors. More weight. More burden.
At least I could relate to that last one.
When they finished, they brought a mirror, and I barely recognized myself. The boy who’d stumbled drunk through Bara’s streets was gone. The prince who’d wept in his mother’s arms last night was hidden. In his place stood someone else—no, something else—golden and radiant and terrible.
Something divine.
“You are ready, Heika,” the eldest servant said as every servant dropped to their knees and pressed foreheads to the floor.
She was wrong. I wasn’t ready. I might never be ready.
But it was time anyway.