Rei fastened the last buckle of his tunic and checked his reflection in the metal plate nailed to the wall. The dressing room smelled of sweat and oil lamps; evening light from the high window cut the space into slats of gold and shadow. Behind him came the sound of shifting fabric and a low, growing frustration.
"Where the hell are they?" Kazuo muttered. He pulled open the wooden rack where he had neatly placed his clothes earlier—but the shelf was empty. He checked the hooks, the bench, the folded cloaks nearby. Nothing. Bare from the waist up, he frowned, annoyance rising. "They were right here."
Rei didn't turn. A sly smile tugged at his mouth. "Oh, I don't know," he said, voice far too casual to be innocent.
Kazuo straightened. "Rei… what did you do?"
Rei held up his hands as if innocent. "Relax. I hid them. You'll thank me later."
Kazuo blinked, caught between annoyance and disbelief. "You hid my clothes? Why?"
Rei shrugged, as though it were the most reasonable thing in the world. "Had to move fast. I needed extra time to get to the warehouse first."
"Why the warehouse? I told you—I want to see Gramps now."
Rei ran a hand through his hair, the grin on his face turning almost boyish."I made a deal with Gramps — I got you the whole day for myself. In return, I have to do the dishes for a month." He nodded toward the door. "Come to the one with no roof, you remember it, right? After that, we'll go to him. I promise."
A faint ache surfaced in Kazuo's chest. "I remember those nights," he said quietly, the memory folding him back into a time when the world had felt small enough to hold. "They meant everything."
"Then hurry," Rei said, already heading toward the door. "I'll be waiting. Got something prepared."
Kazuo sighed, half-smiling despite himself, and resumed the search for his clothes. "If Gramps gives us an earful for being late, I'm blaming you."
Rei's laugh echoed from the hallway, light and familiar, before fading into the evening corridors.
—
Gramps read by the weak circle of lamp light, the book heavy in his hands. When he rose, his bones made the small room sound older than it looked. He walked the length of his cramped space, fingers trailing over the peeling plaster until they stopped on a child's drawing pinned to the wall—crayon bright against gray.
When Kazuo was six, he had drawn a crooked family: a stern old man with funny goggles, a small boy with untamed hair, and beside them a stick-figure friend with a grin and red hair. Gramps had laughed at first—imaginary friends were common in the mouths of lonely children—but then he had found the boy hiding beneath Kazuo's bed. The child's clothes had been ragged, his eyes wide with hunger. Gramps had scolded them, yes, but he had also made stew that night; the stir of the pot had been louder than his words. From that day, Rei had not been chased out. He had been fed. He had been family.
"How I miss those days," Gramps said to the empty room, the sentence soft like an apology.
Suddnely the door slammed. The sound cut through the memory and slammed Gramps back into the present. He turned so fast his lamp rocked; a voice—soft, familiar—filled the doorway.
"You?" Gramps said, the single word heavy with disbelief. For a moment he could not place the face, then the recognition came with a strike of old pain. "I thought you were dead."
"I'm sorry, my dear old friend Hakim," the woman said. Her voice, polished but edged with something that could be called regret, slid into the room. "It was easy to find you, but not so easy to get close. The time is right now."
A second figure stepped out of the shadow behind her, hood pulled low. Her shoulders carried a tired kind of sorrow that softened even the hard lines of her mouth. Gramps' eyes flicked from one to the other, each name pulling a thread of dread through his chest.
"If you are still alive… are you planning to revive the uprising?" he asked, voice small as if he feared his own words.
The woman in front of him gave a soft, practiced smile. "I am not here to answer questions," she said. "I am here to take prisoners."
Gramps' eyes widened; the room seemed to tilt under him as the two figures stepped further inside. Their cloaks, once regal in stitching, were now worn and frayed with age — the kind that carried years of travel, rain, and secrecy in their seams. The woman with the hood kept her gaze lowered, a shadow of sadness resting in her expression, as if she wished she weren't here at all.
Gramps instinctively took a step back. His hand slid along the table behind him, searching for anything that could serve as a weapon. His fingers met nothing but smooth, empty wood.
As the smaller figure moved, her cloak shifted, and the fabric parted just enough for him to catch the faded insignia stitched over her chest — a green tree crowned with gold.
His breath locked. The old emblem of the Forest King.
A dozen memories struck him at once — the woman Rei had spoken about, the one who sang that old song.
She has to be the one Rei met.
The pieces snapped together with painful clarity.
His voice tore out before caution could stop it. "You… what did you do to Rei?"
The hooded woman flinched and instinctively placed a hand over the emblem, fingers curling as if to hide it. She opened her mouth — "I— I didn't harm him, I swea—"
"Solayne—"
The other woman's voice cut through the room like a blade. She stepped forward, gaze never leaving Gramps. "Be careful. He may be old, but do not underestimate him."
The air grew tight, the space between them shrinking as they closed in — and Gramps understood with chilling certainty that whatever was coming next, he would not face it on equal ground.
Gramps swallowed. The memory of a younger life folded from him like smoke: stew bubbling, a boy's laughter, the expensive, small kindnesses that had stitched them together. Now the room smelled of oil and fear. He reached slowly for the wall as if for balance and then, without answering, watched as the two closed toward him.
—
Rei walked the quiet road toward the old warehouse, hands tucked into his pockets, the night air cool against his skin. The full moon hung low and bright above the broken rooftops, silvering the stone path ahead. For a moment he slowed, lifting his face to the sky. The breeze carried the scent of distant fire lanterns and baked bread from the lower crescent. Memories drifted in—Kazuo falling asleep on his shoulder after a long day of mischief, Gramps scolding them for sneaking out past curfew but secretly leaving snacks on the table, the three of them sharing a blanket under this very moon as if the world belonged only to them.
ei closed his eyes and let the breeze wash over him. The city felt different tonight, as though it were exhaling after years of holding its breath. "The world's changing," he whispered to himself. "And maybe… finally for the better." A small, hopeful smile warmed his face. "Can't wait to buy my own home soon… and of course Gramps and Kazuo will live with me. And my future wife and kids too—no worries, no running. Just… a real home."
He stepped into the warehouse, the familiar crunch of gravel beneath his boots. Moonlight poured through the collapsed roof, casting long shadows across the scattered crates. He walked around the corner—
—and stopped.
Two cloaked figures stood inside, facing each other in low conversation beneath the broken roof. Their voices were hushed, almost swallowed by the hollow echo of the warehouse. Rei stopped at the entrance, the sight snapping him fully alert. He hesitated, unsure whether to slip away unnoticed or call out—but both figures turned toward him at once.
"Hey—who are you?" Rei asked, forcing his voice to stay steady. "And what are you doing in—"
The words fell apart as one figure shifted just enough for the moonlight to touch their face.
"You…" Rei's breath hitched. "I know you. What are you doing here?"
Only then did his gaze drop to the cloak—stitched over the chest, unmistakable even in its subtle design, an inverted lotus.
Rei's pulse stumbled. "What… is the meaning of this?"
The second figure spoke, voice calm and cold, almost bored. "Leave. I will handle the rest." Without waiting for a reply, they faded into the shadows of the warehouse and were gone.
The remaining figure stepped forward. He lifted both hands to his hood and pushed it back.
A young man stood before Rei. His dark blue hair was pulled into a high samurai ponytail that fell down his back, sleek and long. Two thin strands framed his face, falling straight on either side like sharpened lines of ink against his skin. His eyes burned a deep, unnatural red—focused, unblinking, and sharp enough to cut through silence itself.
Rei stared, confusion giving way to something primal. His knees weakened beneath an unseen weight, the air thickening as if gravity had suddenly doubled. His breath shortened; his body trembled without command.
"What… is this?" Rei whispered. "This pressure… I can barely stand." His gaze clung to those eyes—beautiful, terrifying, wrong. "I've never seen eyes like yours. That color…are you a noble? No… what are you?"
The man's voice was level, almost polite. "I see. You must be a civilian. That explains why I couldn't detect your aura at first."
He took a slow step closer.
"You saw that person, didn't you? You recognized her."
Rei's heart pounded, each breath a struggle.
"How unfortunate for you."
Darkness edged the corners of his vision—