Chapter 24
Yoshi
Son of the Goddess?
The words repeated in my mind like a chant, like a prayer I didn’t know how to finish.
Son of the Goddess.
I lay on my mat. The presence that had filled my chamber—that voice, that power, that overwhelming sense of being seen—was gone now. It had vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. Leaving only questions. So many questions.
“You must awaken,” she had said.
What did that mean? Awaken what? To what? How?
I turned onto my side, wincing as my abused ribs protested. Every part of my body ached from the day’s training, from so many months of training that had pushed me beyond what I thought I could endure.
But Nawa—if that truly had been Nawa and not a phantom creation of my weary mind—seemed to believe in me.
Why?
That question burned hotter than all the others.
Why would the Dragon of Bara, the Emperor’s companion, speak to me?
Not once, but again and again, whispering in my mind.
I was a nobody, a boy from a backwater island learning to hold a wooden sword without bruising his own foot.
How could I possibly matter to the gods? Or to a mystical beast such as Nawa?
Son of the Goddess.
Weren’t all men children of the gods? That’s what we were taught.
The gods created the world and everything in it.
We descended from them in some distant, unknowable way.
So why single me out? Why name me specifically?
What made me different from Daichi or Kenta or Teshi—or any of the countless other boys training in temples and shrines across the Empire?
Or the Samurai who were already masters of their arts?
Or anyone else who held more strength, more power, more . . . everything?
The darkness did not answer. Only the echo of Nawa’s words reverberated in my skull.
Then another question bloomed.
How had Nawa even spoken to me?
She had only ever spoken to me when we were close, in near proximity. Yes, she had spoken to me while we visited a shrine in the south of our island, but shrines were holy places. Surely, that allowed her to do . . . whatever it was she did.
But on this night, she was half a continent away, safe in the palace with her divine other half.
I lay in the middle of a Buddhist temple, not a Shinto shrine.
The monks’ martial magic was entirely different from the priests’ connection to the land and nature.
How had she whispered to me as though the distance meant nothing?
My knowledge of dragons was beyond limited. I’d barely paid attention when priests schooled me in the pantheon, much less the Emperor and his worm.
Unless Nawa was . . . Unless the title “Dragon” was more than metaphor.
That made my skin prickle, made the darkness of my chamber feel heavier and more oppressive.
The legend of the tether, of the Emperor serving as man’s link to the gods, flooded my thoughts.
Before, I’d believed the story, along with the celestial actors in it, to be little more than fiction, tales parents told their children to keep them abed in the depth of night.
And yet, when Nawa spoke to me that first time, my eyes opened to the possibility that—
No. That’s ridiculous. There are no gods or spirits or—
But what other explanation was there? If Nawa could speak in my mind, if she could reach across land and sea to touch my thoughts, what was she? Truly?
What was the Emperor?
And were the gods . . . were they truly real?
I sat up, pressing my palms against my eyes, trying to think, to make sense of something that made no sense.
You must awaken.
Those words implied there was something sleeping within me. Something dormant. Something waiting.
But what?
I felt no hidden power, no secret strength, only exhaustion and pain and the constant, grinding awareness of my own inadequacy.
Was I reading too much into Nawa’s words? Was I hearing what my desperate heart longed to hear rather than what was actually there? Was I building fantasy from fragments because I could not accept that I was simply . . . ordinary and weak?
Maybe there was no deeper meaning. Maybe Nawa spoke to all students and this was some ritual or rite of passage. Maybe “Son of the Goddess” was just something the dragon said, a title without significance.
But even as I thought it, I knew the falseness in my thoughts.
The power in that voice—its certainty—the way it had filled not just my chamber but my entire being, that was not casual or meaningless or false. Something was expected of me, something I had yet to understand and couldn’t imagine achieving.
You must awaken.
“Fine. I must awaken. I get it,” I muttered bitterly. “Mind telling me how? I’ll take a hint, thank you, Divine One.”
No one spoke. Not a peep. Wonderful.
How did one awaken something they didn’t know existed? How did one find power when their entire existence was pathetically weak?
My mind was strong, sure. Strategy lessons proved that. I saw patterns, anticipated movements, solved problems the others struggled with, but thinking could only get a Samurai so far. Eventually, the blade had to swing, the body had to act, and mine barely wanted to rise from my mat.
What was I supposed to do? Excel at planning battles I was too weak to fight? Become some kind of advisor, watching from the sidelines while stronger men executed the strategies I devised?
That thought made something twist in my chest.
I didn’t want to watch. I wanted to do, wanted to be strong enough to protect, to fight, to matter. To find Kaneko and bring him home.
You must awaken.
The words mocked me now.
I flopped back down, pulling the thin blanket over my head, and tried to quiet my racing thoughts, tried to find sleep. It would not come. I stared, seeing nothing, hearing only Nawa’s voice echoing in my memories.
Son of the Goddess.
You must awaken.
Finally, I dreamed.
Suwa Temple’s training yard, bright with morning sun.
But different. Wrong somehow, in the way dreams are wrong—too vivid, too real, while simultaneously impossible.
I stand with the other students. Daichi, Kenta, Teshi, Hiroshi. We hold bokken. The others look at me through narrowed eyes, their gazes wary, unsure. My chin is high, shoulders back, as a smile parts my lips. I feel free in a way I haven’t known since sparring on the docks with Kaneko.
The master calls for us to begin.
The others form a ring about me, encircle me.
They fight as one—against me?
I move. But not the way I usually move. Not slow, not hesitant, not struggling to remember forms while my body protests.
I am fast.
My bokken is a blur, whistling through the air. I step into Kenta’s guard and tap his weapon—once, twice—sending it spinning from his grip before he can even react.
I turn.
Daichi is already moving to intercept, but I see his intention before he commits.
I sidestep.
His momentum carries him past, and I strike the back of his knee—gently, precisely—and he stumbles.
Teshi comes at me from the left. I parry without looking. Our wooden swords crack, but mine holds firm. I twist, using his own force against him, and his bokken flies from his hands.
The master steps forward now.
Sweet goddess, the master raises a bokken he hadn’t held a moment earlier.
Then another master, one who watched from the side, enters the ring, then another—all three engaging me simultaneously. Their movements are sharp, economical, honed by decades of practice, enhanced by magic that flowed through every monk’s veins.
But I see them.
I see every strike telegraphed a heartbeat before it lands, every shift of weight revealing intention. I flow between their attacks like water. My bokken sails in arcs and circles, defending and countering, faster than thought.
My body feels different, looks different, too. Lean muscle cords my arms and shoulders. My movements are fluid and effortless. There is no hesitation, no doubt.
This was what I can be, what I should be.
Laughter bubbles up from my chest, genuine and free, a sound I have not made in so long I have nearly forgotten the feeling of joy.
I am strong.
Finally.
After all the struggle and pain and failure, I am—
Another laugh joins mine.
It is deeper, resonant, also joyous.
I turn.
Prince Haru stands at the edge of the training yard, a katana—a real blade—rests casually over one shoulder. He wears training clothes but carries himself with the easy confidence of someone who has never doubted his right to exist in the world—or to rule it.
He grins at me, wide and toothy and full of warmth.
Beside him stands another man. Esumi. He’s pointing at me, saying something I cannot hear over the rush of blood in my ears.
He’s grinning, too.
The Prince and his consort were watching me, approving of me, seeing me as something worthy to catch their eyes.
I open my mouth to respond—
And wake to protesting muscles and the dark stillness of my chamber.