By the time the clouds had shifted enough that the sunlight fell between the houses in a different angle, all three of them were sweating. Even Rii. Her hair had loosened from behind her ears, and the borrowed wooden sword felt easier to handle now only because her hand had adjusted.
Daisuke came at her this time, and to his credit he did not lead with the shoulders. He stepped properly, tested the line, and then tried to force her blade low before cutting across.
Better. Considerably better.
Rii parried. Turned. Let him recover. And then, because she was growing careless with hunger and because the boy had improved more quickly than she had expected, she delayed half a beat too long.
The wooden sword struck her side.
Not hard enough to break anything. Hard enough.
Rii caught her breath and stepped back.
Daisuke's face went white.
"Kish'tar!" he gasped, dropping the blade at once. It briefly crossed through Rii's mind that she hadn't given them any title. "I'm sorry–I'm sorry, I didn't mean–"
Keita's eyes widened. "Did I–did he–"
Rii held up a hand and pressed the other lightly against her ribs. The ache shot up in reply, hot and immediate, but not dangerous.
At least, she thought not.
"Hm," she breathed. Her mouth twisted into something between a wry smile and a contortion.
Daisuke looked near tears. "I'm sorry."
She glanced at him and then, despite herself, laughed.
"That was the point," she said.
Neither boy looked convinced.
Rii exhaled carefully. "You struck where I left an opening. That means you were paying attention."
Daisuke still looked horrified.
"It also means," she added, with a faint grimace, "that I should have eaten something more substantial than half a cup of water this morning."
The boys stared at her.
Then Keita blurted, "You haven't eaten?"
Rii shrugged one shoulder. "Travel is not always elegant."
Daisuke stooped and snatched up his wooden sword, clutching it to his chest. "You should come home with us."
His brother turned to him. "What?"
"Well, she should!" Daisuke insisted. "Mother has food."
Keita blinked, then glanced at Rii. "We…we do have food."
Rii studied their faces.
Twin boys. Damp-haired, flushed, earnest. Their swords still in hand as if they thought hospitality required weaponry. The sight almost made her smile again.
"Your parents won't mind?" she asked.
Daisuke shook his head so quickly he nearly dislodged the mask. "No. I mean– Mother won't. Father's out with the others."
Keita nodded. "You can eat before you go."
Before you go.
So they did not expect her to stay. Good. Sensible boys.
Rii looked at the wooden sword in her hand, then passed it back to Daisuke hilt-first.
"Very well," she said.
Both of their faces brightened at once.
"But," she added, and they straightened instinctively, "if your mother asks where you learned those footwork drills, you tell her a half-starved stranger bullied you into competence."
Keita laughed first. Daisuke followed.
Rii's ribs ached when she straightened fully, but she ignored that and gestured for them to lead on.
The twins did. Side by side, too quickly, still carrying the swords as if they meant never again to leave them unattended.
Rii followed more slowly.
Food. Shelter for an hour, perhaps two. Then the road again.
Still, as she watched the brothers in front of her jostle each other and argue quietly over whose strike had been cleaner, she felt something in herself ease. Only slightly. Like a knot that had been pulled too tight and had finally decided to spare the rope.
Not home. Never that.
But warm bread, perhaps.
And for the moment, that would do.
The image of Nishi drifted through her mind.
She set it aside for later.
Karun needed her here, for the time being.
She was lost, it seemed. Adrift. Her husband's forces would already be moving. Mino was–who knew where?
But she was here.
She could work with that.
~~~
The morning passed slowly.
Rain had left the streets slick and gray, and the usual rush of villagers never quite materialized. Kazu worked through the quiet with practiced efficiency. Dough folded beneath her palms. The oven breathed warm air into the shop. The rhythm of the work steadied her thoughts.
But they would not settle.
Runa's face earlier had been wrong. Too careful. Too contained.
Kazu had spent most of the morning telling herself it meant nothing.
The door opened. She glanced up without pausing her hands.
The man who stepped inside shook water from his sleeves and pulled the door closed behind him. He was not from Norema originally. Kazu knew that much. One of the quiet men who had begun appearing in the village months ago, working odd labor and asking few questions.
People like that did not usually come to bakeries in the middle of the morning.
"Bread?" Kazu asked, her mouth flickering into a smile.
So he had noticed.
The man nodded once. "Loaf will do."
She slid one from the rack and set it on the counter. The crust cracked softly beneath her fingers.
He set down two coins. Karunic.
Excellent choice.
Neither of them moved for a moment.
Then the man said quietly, "You hear what they're saying at the gate?"
Kazu wiped flour from her hands onto her apron.
"Soldiers are always saying something."
"Not like this."
That made her glance up.
He broke a corner from the loaf and rubbed the crumb between his fingers, like he was deciding whether or not to trust her.
Kazu knew he was.
"They're talking about the blacksmith's boy."
Kazu felt something small and sharp tighten behind her ribs.
"Taro?" she asked, her eyes narrowing.
The man shrugged faintly. "Apparently."
Kazu leaned one hip against the counter. "And what trouble has he managed now?"
The man hesitated for a moment.
"They're saying he's gone."
"Gone?" She tilted her head to the side.
"Disappeared before the fire."
Kazu snorted softly.
"That so."
The man's gaze flicked toward the street, then back.
"They're saying," he continued quietly, "that the blacksmith's son is the heir of Karun."
The words hung in the warm air of the bakery.
Kazu did not move.
The man studied her face as if measuring the effect.
"They're looking for him," he added. "Slowly. But this will spread."
Kazu's fingers curled slowly against the edge of the counter.
"Soldiers repeat all kinds of nonsense," she said after a moment.
The man gave a short breath that might have been agreement.
"Maybe."
He tucked the loaf beneath his arm.
"But it's a strange kind of nonsense for them to be spreading."
Kazu said nothing.
The man nodded once, almost politely, and headed back out into the damp street.
The door shut behind him. The shop grew quiet again.
For a long moment Kazu stood where she was.
The oven popped softly. Flour dust drifted down from the counter where she had been kneading.
The blacksmith's boy.
Taro.
Her thoughts pulled backward without asking permission.
A boy standing in her doorway a few evenings ago. Breathless from running. Eyes too serious for his age.
I want to join the resistance.
Kazu felt the memory land in her stomach like a stone.
She had laughed.
Not even a thoughtful laugh. A sharp one. Dismissive.
You? Taro Zayasu?
Her jaw tightened.
The boy had looked so earnest then. So convinced he had something important to say.
And she had not let him say it.
Instead she had reminded him of what everyone in Norema believed.
The blacksmith's family worked with the occupiers.
Their son rode the valoren's horse.
And boys who played at rebellion deserved doors shut in their faces.
Kazu pushed herself away from the counter and began gathering the empty trays.
Her movements were sharper than usual.
Missing heir.
The phrase settled into her mind with unpleasant weight.
The soldiers believed it enough to search. Enough to talk, anyway.
Which meant the rumor had already begun moving beyond the villagers.
Unless it had not begun there.
Kazu stopped halfway to the oven.
The image of the boy's face returned again, clearer this time.
Not arrogant. Not mocking.
But desperate.
Her stomach sank. He had come to her first.
And she had sent him away.
Suddenly Kazu stepped towards the door of her bakery, her eyes scanning the streets for the man. If he knew anything else–where Taro was–
No.
He had gone.
Kazu bit her lip as she stood there–almost as if he would come back to her, ask her for help, ask her what she knew.
He did not.
Finally Kazu went in to rescue the next loaf from the oven before it smoked the place and sent the whole village into panic after yesterday's chaos.
But her mind was elsewhere.
If Taro had come to her to ask about the resistance…
Then he didn't know how to contact them. Because Kazu wasn't resistance.
And if he didn't know how to contact them…
Then he was alone.
Wherever he was, he was alone.