Taro tried to say something, but it came out in something between a groan and a cry. Quiet, but distinct.
She flinched. Actually flinched.
The movement startled him enough that he forgot the pain for half a second. Kishi Eishi, who could pin a hand to a bow with an arrow and speak as if she were discussing weather, had flinched at the sound he made.
"Are you coming?"
Her voice was very close to his ear, even if it came through the cloth of the mask.
Taro tried to pull himself together.
What kind of question was that? Of course he was not coming. Of course he could not move. Of course she knew that.
Unless she meant something else. Unless she was asking whether he intended to fight, to quit, to remain a burden.
Unless she was asking if he chose life.
Her hand jerked away from his shoulder as he curled even more tightly. Then shoved himself straight, sitting, one hand pressed half an inch into the dirt.
The effort took all the air out of him. He sat for a moment, panting, his vision blurring momentarily.
The world narrowed to breaths. To the pressure of his palm in the mud. To the throbbing wrongness in his foot and the cold air on his wet cheek. Kishi's face hovered in front of him, but dimly, as if it stood at the far end of a tunnel.
She sat back on her heels, still watching him.
He touched his ankle experimentally.
This time he almost did scream.
The pain was immediate. White. Blinding. It came not only from the ankle itself but from the whole lower leg, as if everything from knee down had become one single raw nerve. His hand jerked away before his mind could command it to. His mouth opened–
Kishi's hand clapped over his mouth before the sound came out.
The pressure was hard enough to stop the scream but not hard enough to hurt. He stared at her, eyes wide, breath ragged against her fingers.
Her forehead furrowed. Her short hair was rough now, tangled.
"How bad is it," she hissed.
He shook his head, one escapist tear slipping out of the corner of his eye.
He did not know how bad it was. Bad enough. Too bad. Bad in a way that made the idea of standing again seem absurd.
The tear humiliated him far more than the pain had. It escaped without permission, cold against his face.
She pulled her hand away slowly, like she was afraid the scream would tear the air anyway.
It didn't.
He could see her frown in the way her upper cheekbones tightened.
She looked almost angry with him for being in pain. Or maybe angry with the pain itself. Taro was too tired to guess properly.
He wiped his face with the back of his wrist before he could stop himself. Mud streaked his cheek.
Wonderful.
Her hand came forward again, but this time not to silence him. Her fingers pressed lightly, almost reluctantly, against the side of his injured foot, just above the ankle.
Taro bit his lip so hard he tasted blood.
She did not apologize. She pressed once, twice, careful but not soft, as if she were asking the injury its own questions. The third touch made his whole body go rigid.
Kishi's hand drew back instantly.
He saw something shift behind her eyes.
"Can you stand on it?" she asked.
He laughed.
At least, he thought it was a laugh. The sound that left him was so broken and breathless that it might have been anything.
"No," he whispered finally, once the bitter little noise was done.
Kishi looked at him for a very long second.
Then she rose.
Not quickly. Not in alarm. Just with that contained precision she seemed to use for everything. She scanned the ravine around them, the slope behind, the low ground ahead. Taro could almost see her thoughts moving. Distance. Exposure. Time. Soldiers. Boy. Problem.
He hated the fact that he knew he was the problem.
He hated even more the fact that she had not left him yet.
Taro set his hand back into the dirt and forced another breath. He tried not to think about home. About what Runa would say if she saw him now. About how Heizo would lift his brow and say nothing for a moment before doing exactly what needed to be done. About Sakue, who would probably ask if the rakhai had chewed his foot off.
The thought almost made him smile. Almost.
Instead he looked up at Kishi and saw that she was still there.
Still deciding, perhaps. But there.
The fact entered him more deeply than he wanted it to.
"We have to move."
~~~
The fields were burned to the ground.
Kazu Nii was enjoying that fact probably more than she should have.
Burnt fields meant food shortage. Food shortage meant short tempers. Short tempers meant conflict.
And conflict was useful.
She felt bad for the families, of course. For the young.
She did not feel bad for the valoren and his soldiers.
Now she half-glanced through the village gate from behind the wall of someone's house. It was a far stretch to see what was left of the forest. But she could see enough to confirm that the flames had gone down dramatically.
What had once been a continuous dark edge of Hiyashi now looked broken. The treeline had thinned into uneven silhouettes. Some sections still stood dense and shadowed; others were blackened ribs of trunks with nothing between them but gray ground. A faint haze still hovered over the distant slopes, though the columns of smoke that had towered yesterday were gone.
Thanks to the rain, Norema was saved.
The thought passed through Kazu's mind with a faint irritation.
Saved villages did not change as quickly as threatened ones.
Yesterday the streets had been full of hands and voices and motion. Farmers, bakers, children, soldiers. Everyone moving together like a body that had decided to survive. Today the village had retreated back into itself. Doors closed. Windows half-open. Smoke from cooking fires rising thinly and without urgency.
Today was quiet. Few people came out of their homes. There were no orders to return to the fields—everyone knew the danger had passed.
Or at least, the obvious one had.
Kazu shifted her weight against the wall and watched the gate for another moment. Two soldiers stood there now, one leaning on his spear, the other staring down the road as if expecting someone to appear. Neither looked happy about being wet and idle.
Good, she thought. Idle soldiers were restless soldiers. And restless soldiers made mistakes.
She pushed herself off the wall and began to make her way back toward the center of the village. Her bakery would still be there, flour sacks and empty trays waiting patiently for a day that might not bring customers.
Still, routine had value. Routine implied predictability…which was also useful.
The street was damp and uneven under her feet. Rain had turned the packed dirt into a thin paste that clung to her shoes. She stepped around a broken cartwheel left near the well and continued along the row of houses.
Movement caught her eye as she passed the blacksmith's home.
Runa Zayasu.
Kazu slowed without appearing to. The other woman stood near the doorway, hands folded in front of her apron as if she had just come outside to check the weather. Her posture was neat. Controlled.
Too controlled.
Kazu glanced at her for a moment. Runa's gaze met hers.
"Miss Kazu."
Runa attempted to smile. Kazu knew immediately that it was fake.
She wasn't on friendly terms with Mrs. Zayasu. Few were. Everyone knew the family's loyalty was more toward the Hosharan occupiers than to Karun. That was the popular opinion, anyway. Heizo worked for soldiers. Their son trained with them. Their house had never lacked grain even when other homes did.
That was enough for most people.
Kazu's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Good morning, Mrs. Zayasu," she said anyway.
Politeness cost nothing. Sometimes it bought something.
Runa's face tightened as if she wanted to say something.
For a moment Kazu thought she would.
Runa's lips parted slightly. Her fingers tightened in the fabric of her apron. The movement was small, but Kazu noticed it immediately. People about to speak always betrayed themselves somewhere in the hands.
But the words never came.
Instead, she disappeared into the bakery, her hand waving briefly like an attempt at connection resigned to rejection.
The door closed softly behind her.
Kazu remained where she was for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
Then she resumed walking.
Her pace quickened as she turned back onto the street and made her way home. The quiet village seemed heavier now, as if the damp air had thickened around it. A man across the road swept rainwater from his doorway with slow, tired strokes. Two children sat on a stoop sharing something wrapped in cloth. No one laughed.
Something was bothering Runa. That much was obvious.
The woman had looked…wrong.
Not frightened. Not exactly.
Worried.
Kazu frowned slightly as she turned the corner toward her own bakery. The familiar shape of the building came into view, shutters still half-closed, the sign creaking faintly in the damp breeze.
For some reason, that bothered Kazu, too.