Chapter Text
The trips stopped.
Not abruptly — more like a door closing softly.
Shiba still came to the estate, still did his rounds, still nodded at Akemura in passing. But he didn’t linger.
Didn’t offer crackers or hover around him.
Akemura told himself it didn’t matter. He trained harder. He stood his watches. He didn’t ask.
But he noticed.
He noticed the way Shiba’s eyes slid past him now. The way he always had somewhere else to be. The easy warmth had been replaced by professional distance....polite, efficient, empty.
What did I do? Akemura thought. Then, sharper: What did he see that made him pull away?
The training yard was empty when Akemura arrived before dawn. He moved through his forms alone, sword strokes precise as breathing, footwork so clean it left no mark in the sand. Takeda, an instructor appeared at the edge of the yard, watched for a few minutes, then walked away without a word. There was nothing left to teach him. Everyone knew it. At sixteen he had surpassed every adult in the clan except the elite guard themselves, and the only reason he wasn’t among them was the age rule — a formality that had nothing to do with skill.
He was sixteen going seventeen now. The rule would fall soon.
He drove his blade into the training post and split it clean in two.
“You’ll have to requisition another one,” a voice said behind him.
Akemura turned. Hiroto stood at the edge of the yard, arms crossed, his dark eyes unreadable. He was the only other young sorcerer in the clan who came close — the first in a generation to awaken the Soga’s innate sorcery. But even he didn’t train as hard as Akemura. No one did.
“I’m not paying for it,” Akemura said.
“No one asked you to.” Hiroto walked closer. “Your sister’s ritual is tomorrow. The Ancestral Purification. On the island.”
Akemura’s grip on his katana tightened. He had asked to be included in the last three rites. Each time, the elders had refused — too young, not yet officially a guard, let the professionals handle it. Each refusal had landed like a small cut.
“I know,” he said flatly.
“She asked for you specifically,” Hiroto continued. “Said she wouldn’t go unless you were part of the escort.”
Akemura’s chest loosened. He kept his face still. “I see.”
“I’ll be there. Mashiro too. And Shiba.” Hiroto paused. “You should rest. You look tired.”
Akemura sheathed his blade. The corner of his mouth twitched — not quite a smile, but close. “I’m fine.”
Hiroto looked at him — not quite a smile either, but close. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“So I’ve been told.”
The boat left at dawn, a small wooden vessel with a motor that coughed blue smoke into the salt air. Mashiro stood at the stern, one hand on the helm, his face set in its usual expression of mild annoyance. He looked at Shiba, who was already sprawled on a bench with a paper bag of rice crackers, and said, “You’re going to eat those before we even leave the harbor.” Shiba crunched one deliberately. “That’s the plan.” “You could have had breakfast at the estate.” “I did have breakfast at the estate. This is second breakfast.” Mashiro’s eye twitched. “That’s not a thing.” “It is when I say it is.”
Hiroto sat at the bow, legs crossed, eyes closed, a faint hum of awakened sorcery around him like heat haze. Akemura sat across from Chiaki in the cabin. She wore a simple grey kimono, her hair loose, her ceremonial robes folded beside her. She watched the horizon with the distant look she got sometimes — not seeing the sea, but something beyond it.
“You’re thinking about him again,” Akemura said.
Chiaki glanced at him. “I’m always thinking about him.”
“Mother would be angry.”
“Mother is always angry.” Chiaki smiled — small, secret, sad. “At least Shiba still brings the letters. That’s something.”
Akemura looked out at the deck, where Shiba was now arguing with Mashiro about whether the motor sounded “wrong” or “perfectly fine.” His voice was light, easy, the same as always. But he hadn’t looked at Akemura once since they’d boarded.
The island rose from the sea like a clenched fist — green, steep, wreathed in mist. A small pier jutted from a cove, and beyond it a stone path climbed into cedar forest. Mashiro killed the motor, and the sudden quiet was immense. No wind. No birds. Just the lap of water against wood.
Chiaki stepped onto the pier first, her sandals clicking on the weathered planks. Hiroto opened his eyes and followed. Shiba hopped off, still chewing, and offered a hand to Akemura. Akemura didn’t take it — not because he was angry, but because he wanted to see what Shiba would do. Shiba shrugged, pulled his hand back, and fell into step behind Chiaki. “Suit yourself.”
The path was old, lined with mossy lanterns, the cedars blocking the sky. The air smelled of earth and incense and something sweet — wild azaleas blooming out of season. Mashiro took point, scanning the trees with the practiced efficiency of someone who’d survived things. Shiba and Akemura brought up the rear.
“You’ve been quiet,” Akemura said.
“Been thinking.”
“About what?”
Shiba glanced at him. “About how you’re still holding a grudge over nothing.” He crunched a cracker. “It’s been weeks. Let it go.”
“I’m not holding a grudge.”
“You’re holding something. Your shoulders are up by your ears.”
Akemura forced himself to relax. It made no difference. Shiba was still looking at him — not with the usual ease, but with something sharper. Testing him.
“I’m fine,” Akemura said.
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“So you’ve said.”
Mashiro called back without turning: “If you two are done, there’s the shrine ahead.”
Shiba called back, “Jealousy isn’t a good look on you, Mashiro.”
“I’m not jealous. I’m out of patience.”
“You were born out of patience.” Hiroto’s shoulders shook once, a silent laugh.
The shrine was small — a wooden building with a curved roof, tucked into a hollow between three massive cedars. A rope hung across the entrance braided with white paper. Beyond it, an altar held offerings of rice and fruit and a single burning candle. Chiaki stopped at the rope. “The rite takes two hours. You’ll wait outside. No one enters except me.” Mashiro nodded. “I’ll take the east path.” “West,” Hiroto said, and moved off without waiting. Shiba leaned against a cedar, arms crossed. “I’ll stay here.” Akemura stood at the edge of the clearing, watching his sister disappear into the shrine.
The forest breathed — slow, ancient. At some point, Shiba spoke. “You don’t have to watch the door like it’s going to attack her.” Akemura didn’t look at him. “It’s not the door I’m worried about.” “There’s no one here. Just us.” “I know.” “Then why are you still standing like that?”
Akemura turned. Shiba had pushed off the tree and walked closer, hands in his pockets, his posture loose but his eyes sharp. This was the Shiba who’d broken a man’s feet for information, who’d teleported enemies into the sky and let them fall.
“Because standing like this is what I do,” Akemura said. “I protect her. That’s my job.”
“Your job.” Shiba stopped a few feet away. “You’re sixteen. You could be doing a lot of things that aren’t standing in a forest watching a door.”
“Like what?”
“Like eating crackers. Like sleeping. Like being an idiot with your friends.”
“I don’t have friends.”
Shiba tilted his head. “What am I, then?”
Akemura stepped closer. “I don’t know. What are you?”
Shiba’s smile didn’t waver, but something behind his eyes flickered. “I’m the guy who’s been taking you on trips.”
“Not lately.”
The words hung in the air. Shiba’s smile faded. “No. Not lately.”
“Why.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a demand.
Shiba looked at him for a long moment. The forest held its breath. Then he said, quieter: “Because I got too close.”
Akemura’s chest tightened. “To what?”
“To you.” Shiba waved his hand in the air nonchallantly. “I’m not here to make attachments. I’m here to guard. To protect. That’s my job. And it’s not fair to you or to your sister, or to the clan .....to pretend it’s something else.”
“Who said anything about pretending?”
Shiba’s jaw tightened. “You’re sixteen. I’m —”
“I know how old you are.” Akemura stepped closer. Their faces were inches apart. “I know you had to come. Your sorcery is indispensable. But you don't have to stand beside me. You could have walked the perimeter with Mashiro. You chose to stay..”
Shiba didn’t step back.
“You came yourself,” Akemura repeated, “because you wanted to. Because no matter how hard you try to keep your distance, you keep showing up.” He held Shiba’s gaze. “So stop pretending you don’t care. It’s insulting to both of us.”
Shiba stared at him. Then, slowly, he laughed, low and surprised. “You’re terrifying, you know that?”
“I’ve been told.” Akemura’s mouth twitched — not quite a smile, but close. “Now stop avoiding me and help me watch this door.”
Shiba shook his head, but he stepped closer until they were standing shoulder to shoulder. “You’re bossy.”
“You’re the one who taught me to speak my mind.”
“I taught you to eat crackers.”
“Same thing.”
The forest breathed. And for the first time in weeks, the silence between them wasn’t heavy. It was just there.
The second hour passed. The candle inside the shrine guttered and died. The door slid open, and Chiaki stepped out — pale, red-rimmed, but smiling. “It’s done.”
Mashiro and Hiroto reappeared from the trees. “Hot springs?” Chiaki asked.
Shiba grinned — the first real grin Akemura had seen from him in weeks.
“Finally, something worth doing.” Mashiro sighed. “You’re going to complain about the temperature.” “I never complain.”
“You complained about the water pressure at the last inn for twenty minutes.”
“That was constructive feedback.” Hiroto walked past them toward the springs. “The water is hot. Don’t drown.” Shiba called after him: “I’m an excellent swimmer.” Hiroto didn’t turn.
“You teleport. That’s not swimming.”
The hot springs were tucked into a rocky hollow behind the shrine — three pools fed by a narrow waterfall, the water milky and almost blue, smelling of sulfur and moss. Chiaki claimed the smallest pool for herself, hanging a cloth barrier to mark her privacy. Mashiro and Hiroto took turns soaking and keeping watch. And then there were two.
Akemura sat on the edge of the largest pool, his feet in the water. He’d stripped to a towel around his waist, his upper body bare — lean, muscled, scarred from years of training. Shiba emerged from behind a rock, similarly dressed.
He looked at Akemura. Looked at the water. “You’re not getting in?”
“You first.” Shiba snorted. “That’s not how hot springs work.”
“I don’t care how they work.” Akemura looked at him — steady, unwavering. “You’ve been keeping your distance. Now you’re in a pool with nowhere to go. Get in.”
Shiba stared at him. Then, slowly, he stepped into the water. The heat rose around him. He sank in up to his shoulders, his back against the stone edge. His hair came loose from its tie, fanning out in the steam.
Akemura watched him. “You’re not getting in?” Shiba asked again. “I’m thinking.” “About what?” Akemura slid off the edge. The water was almost too hot, but he didn’t flinch. He moved through the pool until he was close — shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip. Shiba didn’t move away.
“You said you got too close,” Akemura said. His voice was low, meant only for the space between them. “What did you mean by that?”
Shiba was quiet for a moment. Then: “I meant I started caring more than I should. More than is safe. For either of us.”
“Safe.” Akemura turned to face him. The water lapped at their chests. “I’ve been training for the elite guard since I could hold a sword. I’ve never done anything safe in my life.”
“This isn’t the same as fighting.”
“No.” Akemura reached out — slowly, giving Shiba time to pull away — and touched his wrist under the water. “It’s better.”
Shiba’s breath caught.
“I’m not asking you to stop being careful,” Akemura said. “I’m asking you to stop disappearing. If you need space, tell me. If something changes, tell me. But don’t shut me out because you decided what’s best for me without asking.”
Shiba looked at him — really looked, the way he had in the garden, the way he had on the ferry.
“You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
“No.”
Shiba exhaled — long, slow. “Fine.” He didn’t pull his wrist away. “No more disappearing.”
Akemura’s thumb pressed against the inside of Shiba’s wrist, feeling his pulse — faster than before. “Good.”
Mashiro’s voice came from somewhere beyond the rocks: “We’re leaving in twenty minutes. Don’t make me come get you.”
Shiba called back, his voice steady despite everything: “Relax. We’re not children.” “Could’ve fooled me.” Hiroto’s voice, flat: “They’re in the pool.” “I know where they are.”
“Then stop complaining.” A pause. “I’m not complaining. I’m observing.” “You’re complaining.” Mashiro grumbled something unintelligible.
Akemura laughed, a real laugh, quiet and surprised, the kind he hadn’t made in months. Shiba looked at him like he’d seen something miraculous. “You should do that more often,” he said. “What?” “Laugh. It suits you.” Akemura’s ears burned. He looked down at the water. “Don’t get used to it.”
They stayed in the pool until their fingers pruned. The boat ride back was quiet, the sun hanging low over the sea, turning the water to gold. Shiba and Akemura sat side by side on the deck. Their shoulders touched. Neither moved away.
“Tomorrow?” Akemura asked.
Shiba looked at the horizon. “Yeah.”
“No more disappearing?”
Shiba was quiet for a moment. Then, softly: “No more disappearing.”
Akemura leaned back against the railing. The boat swayed. The salt wind dried the last of the hot spring water from his skin. He didn’t close his eyes. He watched the sun set. And for the first time in weeks, he wasn’t waiting.