Page 6

Chapter 6

Yoshi

I ncense clung to my robes as I kneeled upon the lacquered floor of my father’s audience chamber. The hall, usually a place of measured discussion and dignified decorum, felt stifling, heavy with the weight of expectations none of us could prepare to bear.

At the head of the room, Father sat with his spine impossibly straight, his fingers interlaced and resting comfortably atop his folded legs. Uncle Takeo was positioned one mat behind him to his left, his expression unreadable, though his hands were tucked inside his sleeves, as if hiding his tension there. I sat in the same position to Father’s right.

Across from us, seated woodenly in Father’s throne, sat Akira Takashi- heika Tennō .

It had been nearly twenty-four hours since we sat in exactly this same position, staring up—well, not staring up—at our Divine Lord. Those had been the most uncomfortable, doubt-riddled hours of my life. Mother, Father, and Takeo sat up late into the night, strategizing on what the Emperor might require, what impossible task he might request, what Imperial command he might issue. From the deep, dark circles clinging to Father’s lids, I could tell he’d enjoyed even less sleep than me.

The Emperor was not a man given to unnecessary movement. His presence alone made the vast chamber feel smaller, as if the weight of his gaze could shift the very stones of the walls or air we breathed. Though the Emperor himself had not spoken since he entered, the voice of the Grand Minister carried his will through the chamber like a river carving its inevitable path through stone.

“His Divine Majesty calls upon the valor of Anzu Han ,” the Grand Minister announced, his tone stately and precise. “Rebellion stirs. Maria Han , once a loyal vassal, has turned their eyes against the Jade Throne. Such treachery must not be allowed to fester. The Emperor requires your warriors to aid in quelling this disgrace and preventing further unrest.”

A ripple of unease passed through the chamber.

Even I could feel it, though I dared not move.

My father did not respond at once. He was a man who knew the rhythm of court, the precise beats to speak and rests in which to remain silent. Yet now, he seemed to measure his words as though they were stones in his mouth, each one a potential weapon or a burden dragging him down.

“Anzu is ever loyal to the Chrysanthemum Throne,” my father finally said, his voice steady. He bowed as best he could in his seated position. “It is our duty and honor to serve as His Divine Majesty’s shield.”

The Grand Minister gave a satisfied nod, but the Emperor did not shift, did not so much as blink.

Father’s fingers clenched so hard that his knuckles began to whiten.

“Yet this war—” He hesitated. “This rebellion was unknown to us. My people, my soldiers, have not prepared. We are in the midst of our own trials, and the planting season is yet unfinished. If we send our warriors, my people will suffer.”

The Grand Minister’s voice did not falter. “The Empire suffers when its Lords hesitate. This rebellion must be struck down while it remains in its crib. If allowed to grow, who knows what evil it may bring? The Emperor’s word is clear.”

My heart hammered against my ribs.

This was not a request.

It had never been one.

This was the weight of the throne, the unshakable will of the gods themselves, bearing down upon us.

And yet my father still hesitated.

To deny the Emperor’s will, even to ask for time, was a dangerous thing.

Silence was punctuated by the rustle of some noble’s robes as he shifted where he stood.

Finally, Father bowed low, his forehead nearly brushing his folded hands. “Great Lord of the Heavens, I beg you, allow Anzu Han the honor of preparing ourselves fully, that we might serve you best. Grant us time to gather our forces, to ensure that when our banners rise, they do not falter.”

The Grand Minister turned his head slightly, waiting for Takashi’s whispers. In that moment, the chamber felt as though it had been plunged into still water with everything suspended in anticipation.

At last, the Emperor moved. It was the smallest shift of his fingers, barely perceptible.

The Grand Minister straightened, his face giving away nothing. He began to speak, but the Emperor rising from the throne stilled his tongue. Hushed whispers flew around the room, as assembled nobles sought their Divine Lord’s intent.

“Hiroki- sama ,” the Emperor whispered.

The chamber held its breath.

“The dragon lives while the Emperor reigns.”

What in Ninigi’s balls was that supposed to mean?

I looked up, thankful the Emperor’s gaze was focused on Father, finding the aged ruler every bit as commanding when he stood before us as when he sat on a throne. My mind began turning over the Emperor’s words, seeking some opening or loophole we might exploit to save our people from war, but a thunderous roar jarred all thoughts from my head.

Dust and loose mortar fell from the ceiling as the walls shook.

Those in the Anzu court cried out and shielded their heads with their arms.

I looked up to find the Emperor unmoved, his gaze never flinching from Father’s.

Then a gout of flame flared across one of the open-air windows, and many inside screamed.

A moment later, an eye of golden bronze blinked in the opening.

“Holy Mother, save us,” Mother whispered from behind me.

The Grand Minister spread his arms wide and called, “Welcome Divine Nawa, companion to His Imperial Majesty and tether to the realm of the gods.”

The dragon blinked—rather, one eye did—then the beast pushed itself off the side of the castle and took to the air. I could see its body resolve as it sailed farther away, it massive tail swinging wildly as it gained height. It bellowed again, and, though it was aloft and sailing away from us, its breath still shook the castle walls.

Emperor Takashi remained fixed, his gaze firm.

“Five days,” the Grand Minister interpreted the Divine Lord’s will.

Father exhaled softly. “It will be as you command.”

The Emperor’s eyes closed, as though he thought deeply, then opened. His Imperial Majesty’s movement was slow and deliberate, yet it held the weight of an unspoken conclusion.

This audience was over.

My father, uncle, and every lord gathered bent their heads low as the Emperor’s procession departed, his dragon’s shadow flickering in the distance.

When the last of them had gone, only then did Father sit back, his hand pressing to his temple.

I exhaled, though my stomach still felt knotted. Five days. That was all we had. And when the time came, our banners would rise, whether we were ready or not.

Takeo let out a low whistle and shook his head. “Well, that could have gone worse.”

Father lifted a brow.

Takeo shrugged and smirked. “The beast could be using your bones as a toothpick right now.”