Chapter Text
The sun had barely crested over the eastern walls of the Imperial Palace, but Emiko was already awake. Not because of duty or obligation—no one expected a sixteen-year-old princess to rise early in the summer—but because sleep had become something she rationed, not enjoyed. Most mornings, she lingered in that strange space between dreams and memory, where her father’s voice still echoed and the past felt touchable.
She stared at the ceiling now, blank and domed like the inside of a pearl, sunlight filtering through the gauzy curtains as if the world were wrapped in gold. A beautiful prison.
She rolled out of bed, pulling on loose-fitting linen pants and a green dress embroidered with the Imperial dragon crest. It used to make her proud, once. Now it just reminded her that she wasn’t free to wear whatever she liked. That being Emiko, daughter of the Empress, came with guards, protocols, surveillance drones disguised as butterflies, and a hundred daily reminders that she was not normal.
Outside her room, the halls were quiet, polished to a mirror sheen, as if dust and sorrow weren’t allowed to settle. She walked barefoot, silent. The only sounds were the whisper of her feet on stone and the soft chime of the morning bells signaling the hour.
She passed her mother’s office and paused. The door was cracked open. Harumi’s voice was calm, composed as always.
“No, General. Postpone the press briefing. If we rush the expansion of the security patrols, it’ll raise questions.”
A pause. Then: “No, there are no new developments on the ninja investigation. Keep the reports vague. We don’t need the public revisiting old wounds.”
Emiko’s throat tightened. She moved on quickly, unnoticed.
In the garden courtyard, her guard trailed her at a discreet distance—close enough to intervene, but far enough to give the illusion of privacy. She hated it. She hated the illusion most of all.
The cherry blossoms were in bloom again. Her father used to say they reminded him of second chances. He told her once, when she was little, that people could be like trees—damaged, regrown, beautiful again.
“Even if someone’s been through fire,” he said, crouching beside her in the garden when she was barely five, “they can bloom again. Just takes time. And the right care.”
She blinked against the memory. That garden had bloomed eight more times since the day he disappeared.
She crouched down and tried the first form of Spinjitzu, hands curling just like he had shown her. She focused, pivoted, kicked.
And stumbled.
Her foot slipped on the grass, and she fell hard, catching herself on her hands. A scrape bloomed red across her palm.
The guard moved forward, alarmed. “Princess—”
“I’m fine,” she snapped, more sharply than she meant to.
He hesitated, then stepped back. Silent again.
She stayed crouched, staring at her bleeding hand, heart pounding—not from the fall, but from the sting of it all. Every day was like this. Everything used to mean something. Now everything just was .
She wandered inside and found herself in front of a door she hadn’t opened in months. The training room. Her father’s second home. Her home too, once.
It creaked open with a dry groan. The air was stale. She stepped inside.
Weapons still hung along the walls—sais, staffs, a practice sword with her initials carved beside his. The floor mats had faded where the sunlight poured in. In the corner, a storage chest. She opened it, hands trembling slightly.
Inside were old photos, gadgets, notes. One was a polaroid—her, as a toddler, nestled in her father’s arms. Uncle Cole stood behind them with cake on his face. Aunt Nya and Uncle Jay were in mid-argument about frosting technique, Zane looked serene with a cup of tea, and Uncle Kai had baby Liam strapped to his back while Aunt Skylor rolled her eyes.
She touched the photo. Her thumb lingered on her father’s face.
“You weren’t just a legend,” she whispered. “You were family .”
The door creaked again behind her. She tensed, but relaxed when she saw who it was.
“Michael,” she said softly, standing and wiping her eyes with the back of her sleeve.
The guard gave a respectful nod. “Your Highness, it's nearing midday. Her Majesty asked if you’d like to join her for lunch.”
Emiko looked around the dusty training room. Then she followed him out.
The dining hall was quieter than usual, but it always was in the summer. Just Emiko and her mother at the long obsidian table again. No ministers. No guests. Just two bowls of stew between them and a gulf of years they hadn’t figured out how to bridge.
“I had them add extra ginger,” Harumi said after a moment. “You used to like that when you were little.”
Emiko stared into her bowl. “I still do.”
Harumi offered a faint smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Then her eyes moved to her hand.
“Honey, is your hand alright?” Harumi asks, concerned.
“It’s fine.”
“Do you need to be treated, though? I should call the palace docto-” Harumi asks, already standing up.
“Mom, it’s really fine,” Emiko asserts angrily. Her mom sits back down.
They ate in silence for a few more minutes. Occasionally, Harumi would glance up, as if trying to find something safe to say, something neutral and motherly. Emiko didn’t make it easy.
“Did you... ever find anything new?” Emiko asked at last, not looking up.
Harumi’s spoon paused just slightly. “No. Not since last year’s sweep.”
That was it. No elaboration. No reassurance. Just another sealed door.
Then Harumi’s brow tightened just slightly. “I heard you’ve been in your father’s training room again.”
“You had Michael follow me,” Emiko said, not accusingly, just matter-of-fact.
“I had him watch over you. There’s a difference.”
Emiko set her spoon down. “Why won’t you talk about him?”
The words landed like a gust of wind in a room filled with ashes.
Harumi didn’t look up from her plate. “We’ve talked about this.”
“No,” Emiko said, her voice growing firm. “ You say things like, ‘He loved you,’ or ‘He was a good man.’ But that’s not talking. That’s reciting a eulogy.”
Harumi looked at her now. “What would you have me say?”
“Tell me what happened, ” Emiko said, her voice breaking. “Tell me if he was scared. If he thought of me. If he fought. If you even believe he’s dead.”
“I don’t know,” Harumi said quietly.
“That’s not good enough.”
“I’m trying to protect you.”
“From what? The truth?”
“From hope, ” Harumi said, finally raising her voice. “From the kind of hope that eats you alive.”
“You know I don’t believe he’s dead,” Emiko said, more to herself than her mother.
“I know,” Harumi answered softly, sighing.
Emiko pushed the bowl away. “You don’t even look at him anymore.”
A chair suddenly scrapes on the floor, and her mom walks up to her. Emiko is briefly confused, but she is quickly engulfed by a comforting warmth.
“I do,” Harumi said. “Every time I see you.”
Later that evening, when the sun had dipped low and the city below the palace was beginning to glitter with streetlights, Emiko slipped past the guards and out through the garden’s side gate. Michael, ever perceptive, had pretended not to notice—just for tonight.
She took the tram to the market quarter, pulling a hoodie over her head. The air smelled like fried noodles and oil smoke, and the streets buzzed with the energy of vendors, shoppers, and teenagers enjoying their summer nights.
Liam was already on the rooftop of the noodle shop when she arrived, legs dangling over the edge, a scowl on his face as he picked at a cracked tile.
“You’re late,” he said without looking at her.
“You’re always early,” she countered, climbing up to sit beside him.
They sat in silence for a while, watching the neon lights dance across the alley walls below. It was comfortable, familiar. Liam was a solid comfort from childhood, one she knew would never betray her and knew her best. And just like he knew her best, she knew him best too.
“So what’s wrong?” Emiko asks, already having a guess.
“She lectured me again,” Liam finally muttered. “About getting in fights.”
“What’d you do this time?”
“There were these guys messing with this younger kid outside the arcade. I told them to back off. They didn’t. So... I made them.”
Emiko sighed, but not with judgment. “You’re going to get banned from every hangout spot in Ninjago if you keep this up.”
“They were hurting someone.”
“I know.”
Liam picked at a thread on his sleeve. “She says I need to ‘strategize’ more. ‘Assess the full picture before charging in.’ But how do you wait when something bad is happening right in front of you?”
Emiko didn’t answer right away. “She’s trying to protect you.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I don’t want to be protected. Maybe I just want to do something. ”
That hit too close to home.
She pulled her knees up to her chest. “Do you ever feel like... they’re not really gone?”
“All the time,” Liam said without hesitation. “I hear his voice in my head every time I throw a punch. Telling me to stand tall. Fight fair. Don’t lose my temper—ha, fat chance.”
She smiled. “He’d be proud of you, you know Li.”
“Yeah, well. He’d tell me to cool it with the rooftop brooding.”
“Same.”
They laughed quietly. It faded.
“I miss them,” Emiko said after a long pause. “Not just my dad. All of them. Aunt Nya and Uncle Jay. Uncle Zane and Uncle Cole. They were always around. And now it’s like... they just vanished. Like the world kept turning without them.”
Liam looked at her, his voice more serious now. “Then we turn it back. Somehow.”
She met his eyes, and in that moment, something unspoken passed between them. A shared ache. A buried resolve.
Maybe they couldn’t bring the past back. But they could refuse to let it fade.