Chapter 32
Yoshi
The convoy attack had shattered Temple Suwa’s neutrality like a stone hurled into a sheet of thin ice. I stood in formation with my classmates, trying to focus on the morning kata, but across the yard, two Samurai faced each other with unveiled suspicion and naked hostility.
“Your han borders Asami territory,” one snarled. “How convenient that you were absent during guard rotation that night.”
“And your cousin serves in the capital,” the other shot back. “Perhaps he whispers in more ears than just the Emperor’s.”
Steel rang as a blade cleared its sheath.
CRACK.
Master Hachan’s staff slammed between them. “ENOUGH!”
But the damage was done. Trust had died in that mountain pass, along with the monks who’d guarded the rice. Someone within these walls had betrayed them. Everyone knew it. And everyone suspected everyone else.
I moved through the forms—block, strike, pivot—but my focus shattered when Daichi “accidentally” stepped too close, forcing me to stumble.
Yesterday, someone from the northern provinces had questioned whether southern han loyalists could be trusted.
Daichi, whose family held lands in the south, had simmered ever since.
The master’s reed found my shoulder. “Your stance is too narrow, Yoshi-san.”
I adjusted, but the correction felt hollow.
How could we perfect our forms when we couldn’t even stand beside each other without suspicion?
Our midday meal began in silence until someone uttered five words that changed everything: “Prince Haru arrives next week.”
The hall erupted.
“An Imperial prince! Here? The honor—”
“The honor of being slaughtered when the rebels come for him?” Another voice, bitter and sharp. “He’ll bring death with him.”
“You dare speak against the Imperial family?”
“I speak the truth! Every royal convoy has been attacked. You think—”
CRACK.
A master’s staff struck the floor with such force that dust rose from the boards. Behind him, Master Giichi appeared—ancient, implacable, and terrifying in his stillness.
“Those who speak against the Imperial family speak against Heaven itself.” Giichi’s voice was soft, which made it far worse than if his shouts had rattled bowls and cups.
“Prince Haru honors us with his presence. Anyone who disagrees should gather his belongings and leave before sunset. This temple will know peace and respect.”
His eyes swept the room like a sickle shearing tallgrass.
“The rebellion tests us, seeks to divide us, makes us forget that we serve something greater than our individual han. It preys on our fears.” He stepped forward.
“Any student . . . or Samurai . . . heard questioning the Prince’s arrival or showing anything less than absolute loyalty will be expelled immediately.
There will be no exceptions. Do you understand? ”
“Yes, Master,” the hall barked in unison, though more than a few lacked heart in their replies.
“Eat. In silence. As it should be.”
The masters remained and watched. But beneath the enforced quiet, I felt disquiet simmering—in clenched jaws, in white-knuckled grips on chopsticks, in glances that darted between tables when the masters looked away.
“Prince Kioshi’s convoy was attacked yesterday,” Teshi whispered, barely breathing the words. “Three assassins. He barely survived. I think that’s the fourth time they’ve tried for the Crown Prince.”
“And now Prince Haru travels south on the same road the rice convoy took?” Kenta added, his voice grim. “We won’t have to worry about his presence painting a target on this temple. He’ll never reach us alive.”
Afternoon training brought partner forms—exercises requiring absolute trust. I was paired with a boy from Kohana Han, one of three houses—including my own Anzu Han—who remained undeclared in the brewing conflict.
We struggled to synchronize. My blocks came late because I didn’t trust his strikes. His strikes came in too hard because he didn’t trust my blocks. We were broken, unable to move as one.
“Enough,” our master snapped, his voice cutting through the clatter of practice, though he had barely spoken above a whisper. “You train your bodies, but your spirits are in chaos. Tomorrow, we return to training the mind. You will learn to see clearly, or you will leave.”
He turned and strode away, leaving us standing in formation like scattered pieces of a shattered whole.
That night, I lay on my mat listening to my classmates’ restless movements through the paper walls that separated our chambers. No one slept soundly anymore. We all waited—for an attack, for an accusation, for the moment this powder keg of a temple exploded.
Has Nawa abandoned me? The question came unbidden in my mind.
I’d tried to push any thought of the dragon or her admonition out of my head, but in the quiet of night, her eyes glittered like stars, unmoving, unrelenting, a fixture in my sleeping thoughts.
After a year of training with the monks, nothing had awakened.
I’d received no divine strength, no mystical insight.
I had, however, redoubled my efforts at growing my frail frame. I’d forced myself to eat double. Begged Uncle Takeo to train in the evenings after the others retired or drank or did whatever they chose in their free hours.
Slowly, so damn slowly, my body responded. Muscle layered atop muscle, forming shapes I’d never known, rounding my shoulders and chest. I was nowhere near as strong as the others, but I no longer looked like a reed poking up from a pond ready to snap at the slightest breeze.
And confidence grew alongside strength. My bokken hadn’t slipped once, not since the convoy attack, not since my vow to never let it fall.
I hadn’t won bouts, remained thoroughly defeated, yet my strikes held more weight, my forms flowed more freely, and I finally felt like I belonged with my peers in the ring.
It felt good to grow, to finally seize some measure of control over my fragile future.
Still, Nawa’s words rang hollow in my ears.
“You must awaken,” she had said.
How? To what? What if there was nothing inside me to wake?
Outside, guards made deliberately heavy footsteps. Were they watching for external threats or monitoring us? Waiting for the simmering disquiet to boil over into something violent or deadly?
Tomorrow, our master promised training of the mind; but how do you train trust back into hearts that have learned to doubt?
In only a matter of days, we’d gone from a temple of warriors to a collection of suspicious strangers, each wondering who would strike first. And somewhere along a dangerous road, a prince approached—either our salvation or our doom. I couldn’t know.
But the whispered doubts of fearful boys had already burrowed into my consciousness, causing my chest to ache: He would never make it to us alive.