"Kishi, stop!"
Taro found himself shoved forward, but he backed into the man again anyway.
The gorge swallowed the sound of his own voice and threw it back at him in a thin echo. Rain slid down the rock walls in uneven threads, gathering in cold streams that soaked into his sleeves and collar. The dark was thick enough that shapes were suggestions more than bodies.
Kishi didn't swing again.
That was a plus.
He could not see her clearly, but he knew exactly where she stood. The air around her felt sharpened, drawn tight like a bowstring. The stranger in front of him shifted his weight. Leather creaked.
The man was trying to draw a sword.
Taro spun and caught his wrist.
"Don't," the boy hissed.
His fingers slipped at first on wet skin and cloth, but he tightened them stubbornly. The wrist under his grip was strong. Solid bone. Controlled tension. Not the frantic jerk of someone panicking in the dark.
The man's other hand landed on Taro's shoulder.
Heavy.
Solid.
But not rough.
Taro registered that before he tried to wrench away. The grip was steadying rather than crushing. For a disorienting instant, he did not know whether he was being restrained or protected.
Then Kishi was between them.
He did not see her move. He felt it. A sudden absence of pressure. A displacement of air. The stranger's weight shifted as she inserted herself into the narrow space.
She jerked Taro backward.
Hard.
He nearly lost his footing. Words tore out of his throat before he could think them through.
"Don't kill him!"
His back slammed into the rock face. The impact drove the air from his lungs. Pain flashed white from his ankle up through his calf. His leg buckled and he went down, palms scraping against slick stone.
Cold water ran down the wall and into the collar of his tunic. He gasped, sucking in air that felt too thin and too wet.
A blade flashed dimly in front of him—just enough to catch what little light filtered down from the mouth of the gorge.
His mouth opened again.
Nothing came out.
The stranger was backing away. Taro could hear the scuff of boots against wet rock. Slow. Measured. Not scrambling.
Then Kishi's voice cut through the rain.
"Don't touch him."
For a heartbeat, Taro didn't know whom she meant.
The stranger.
Or him.
"Taro?"
The sound of his name snapped something taut inside him.
"Ki—"
"What do you want him for?" she demanded.
The blade shifted.
Not toward the man.
Toward him.
Taro's heart stuttered painfully.
"Don't—" He swallowed, coughed. "Don't kill him."
The rain intensified for a moment, drumming against the upper walls of the gorge. Water splashed from ledge to ledge.
She stepped closer.
Not toward the stranger.
Toward Taro.
She faced him squarely, as if unconcerned about exposing her back to the newcomer. Through the dark, he could just make out the outline of her mask. Black against deeper shadow.
"Why."
It was not a question shaped like one.
Taro swallowed again. His throat felt scraped raw from smoke and river water.
"He might not be an enemy."
He did not know what the man was. He did not know why that mattered so suddenly. He just knew that if she struck now, the gorge would hold the sound of it forever.
Taro forced himself upright. Slowly. Carefully.
His ankle flared with pain the moment he put weight on it. He clenched his jaw and stepped forward anyway.
There was a soft sound of displaced air as Kishi sheathed the sword she had drawn.
Not fully relaxed.
Just not striking.
She turned back toward the stranger.
"Taro," she said again.
He did not know what she wanted from that word.
A confirmation.
A denial.
A warning.
He took one more step, feeling the uneven stone beneath his boots.
"Who are you?" he asked, rain dripping from his hair into his eyes.
The stranger took a moment before answering.
Long enough that the rain filled the space between them.
"My name is Genjo Masahiro," he said at last. His voice was steady, measured. "I…am a friend."
"Huh," Kishi snorted.
The sound was small but sharp.
Taro could just make out the man's hands rising slightly in the dark. Not high. Just enough to show they were not gripping steel.
"Who are you?" Taro asked again.
He did not know what answer he expected. A lie would have been easier to hear.
There was a quiet exhale.
"I am from the Sarai range," Genjo replied, each word deliberate. "I am Karunic. I am looking for…"
Taro could almost hear the man draw in a deeper breath.
"I am looking for Kishi Eishi and Taro Zayasu."
The gorge seemed to contract around them.
Rain continued to fall.
~~~
Rii had stopped hours ago.
There was a village some distance away. Perhaps an hour's ride if Nishi had been fresh.
She had not turned toward it.
Instead, she had chosen the small grove of trees off the road. Sparse cover. Uneven ground. No lanterns. No questions.
She was never going to catch up with Mino's group now.
Don't think like that, she told herself.
But the calculation had been running since midday.
Too much time lost.
Too much ground to cover.
Rii dropped her head back against the bark of the trunk behind her.
Near her, Nishi breathed deeply. Each inhale labored slightly more than the last.
She did not think the horse would make another hard day.
Her own breathing evened out despite the tightness in her chest. Her hands clenched together in her lap as she thought of Josuke in the morning. Of Saemon standing too straight in the doorway.
Why had she tried?
Why had she believed she could outrun men who had started before her? Outdistance riders who had fresh mounts and fewer doubts?
Because waiting would have been worse.
Because stillness felt like surrender.
Because someone had to try.
She pressed her palms into the damp earth at her sides.
There had been a light sprinkle earlier. Just enough to dampen cloth and darken the horse's coat. The heavier storm had broken somewhere else. Somewhere nearer the forest.
Good, Rii thought distantly.
Let it soak the ash. Let it drown the flame.
Her legs ached. She drew them closer, boots scraping softly against exposed roots.
The grove was quiet.
Too quiet.
No riders. No distant calls. No flicker of torchlight.
Only the slow, rhythmic breath of a tired horse.
Her eyes fell closed.
She did not intend to sleep.
Only to rest them.
Just for a moment.
Her hand remained looped through the reins.
Even in the dark.
Even as the rain softened.
She did not let go.
~~~
The door slid open with a muted scrape.
Nishida heard it from the mat where he had been sitting, back against the wall by the fireplace. He didn't look up.
Rain tapped lightly against the roof. The storm had passed its height.
His mother stepped in first, shaking droplets from her sleeves. His father followed, sandals damp, shoulders heavy with the kind of fatigue that came from hours of labor rather than travel.
"You're still up?" his mother asked.
Nishida straightened slightly. His injured hand rested in his lap, cradled instinctively by the other.
"Yes."
They both glanced at the wrapping around his palm.
He saw the look pass between them.
"You should be resting," his father said, not unkindly. "If you had been able to help—"
"I would have," Nishida finished evenly.
He did not need to defend that. He did not see a reason to.
"The rain did most of it," his mother said quietly, as if to relieve him of something. "The fields are soaked. The fire won't cross tonight."
Tonight.
Nishida nodded once.
He did not ask about the gates. Or about the valoren. Or about whether anyone had mentioned Taro's name again in the lines of villagers.
He had heard enough earlier.
Valoren Yazawa had said Taro Zayasu was the hidden heir of Karun.
Nishida closed his eyes briefly.
That couldn't be.
The thought was not desperate. It was measured. He was used to it now, sifting back into his mind every so often to remind him it had not yet been resolved.
Taro had refused initiation, yes. He had kept training anyway. He had always carried something slightly apart from the rest of them.
But heir? No.
Because Taro was his friend.
Because Nishida had grown up beside him. Had known the shape of his anger, the sound of his laugh, the stubborn way he set his jaw when he thought something was unjust.
There had been nothing hidden about him.
Nishida knew it–for the twentieth time.
He didn't understand why his mind kept bringing it up.
"I'm going upstairs," Nishida said as his parents stepped into the kitchen, probably to find something to eat.
Pausing, his father studied him for a moment. "Keep that hand elevated."
"I will."
At the top of the stairs, Nishida paused outside his room.
If Taro was still alive—
He did not finish the thought.
He lay down on his mat, injured hand resting across his chest, and stared into the dark.
He was tired.
He was concerned.
But he was not confused.
Taro was being falsely accused.
And if he had to stand before his uncle to say that again, he would.