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Chapter 8: Sleep and Stability

8th Day of Tearful Sky, 1554

“She's still burny-burning up," croaked Chihiro. She felt Hana's forehead and clacked her beak as Sota scampered and brought over another bucket of water.

Hana may have been evasive about her feelings after the incident at the bandit camp, but there was no denying that staying out in the cold rain all night had taken its toll on her body. She had seemed faded the day after but insisted on resuming her duties in helping Kyoba village's springtime preparation. Her still-healing injuries meant she could only work with her hands, where she set about weaving straw into hats for the farmers in her room, only for Natsume to find her collapsed when delivering her dinner. Now, she lay shivering, both hot yet huddled beneath her blankets as Sota wrung a wet cloth and placed it over her brow.

“I'll be fine," Hana mumbled and listlessly swatted at his arms. “I'm not some... child in need of coddling."

“We can't be too careful," Sota said and chewed on a fingernail. “Shit, maybe it's an infection setting in? What if I screwed up?"

“Sota, honestly! It's nothing," Hana insisted with a stare.

“It's not nothing. You're sick. I should have insisted you keep resting! Besides, Natsume will be taking over soon. You won't have to put up with me that much longer."

Hana coughed, then looked up at Sota, frowned and bit her lip. “Th- that wasn't what I meant."

“And I don't always know what you mean either," Sota replied and offered Hana a cup of water, to which she shook her head. He continued, “I've been worried sick myself these last few weeks with how you've been so isolated from me. Especially with the state you were in after we arrived in Kyoba village. Every step of the way, I've just wanted to help you."

“That's all I've wanted to do for you and Chih-" Hana's reply fell into a fit of coughing.

Chihiro tapped Sota's arm. “So-Sota, stop."

Sota ignored her and pleaded, “look, I know the path you felt forced to take. I know why you act this way sometimes, and I won't even expect you to truly move on so easily, but I just want to come to terms and to leave this side of ourselves in the past. We can't keep merely surviving anymore."

“I tried, I really tried to avoid-" Hana rasped but her throat seized up.

Sota rubbed his brow. “You don't have to throw yourself into-"

Chihiro squawked, interrupting him. She flapped her hands to get their attention before she hopped onto Hana's bed and raised her scaled forearms into a cross in front of him. “No fighty-fighting! Stop!"

Sota almost snapped back but caught himself. Fighting? That's exactly what he was doing, fencing with words and poking at weaknesses to get his point rather than treating this situation as it should. A matter of the heart, and his was racing.

“Sorry," he muttered and left Hana's room before his self-inflicted demand to exacerbate the matter grew too strong.

Natsume approached just as Sota turned the corner of the building. The young waif offered a bow, and after a moment to cool his own head, Sota returned the gesture.

She asked, “how is Hana?"

“Frustrating," he replied, pacing back and forth. “Stubborn. Combative."

Natsume giggled. “She can't be too unwell if she's acting so much like herself, no? Or were you talking about yourself?"

Sota's brow flinched, but her words cut through the haze of his annoyance, and he scoffed. “I guess you're right. I've been desperate to try and just talk with her after all this time, then she goes and gets hurt because of my failure, and now this illness? I keep thinking I'm to blame."

“I'm sure it seems worse than it actually is. Has she complained about any of her wounds?"

“Eh?" Sota wondered what she meant but caught on. “No... at least she hasn't mentioned it. I don't think even Hana would be so stroppy as to ignore a chance to poke fun at my novice surgical efforts."

Natsume smiled. “Then I believe you did a fine job cleaning her wounds from the bandit camp. She's just been pushing herself too hard helping the village, then throwing herself into a fight in the rain. It's no wonder she's fallen ill, but she's strong. She'll recover. You just need to give her time."

Sota nodded but grumbled. “You're right... we've just been at odds since arriving here. Finally, she's been opening up and another wall gets in the way."

“It's obvious you care for her," Natsume said, her calm aura slowly whittling down Sota's fidgeting. “It's just as plain that she cares for you a great deal, every bit as you want her approval."

“I'm not going to be coy and avoid it. I do. It's not as simple as... you know, that." Sota wriggled his fingers as if he could grab the words from the air, but it was pointless: he was too frustrated. “What I mean to say is it's... it's a long story."

“I'd be happy to listen if you feel like talking about it with me, but I should see to Hana."

“Yeah..." Sota pinched his brow. His own head hurt. “Yeah... thanks, Natsume. I guess I need some time to think anyway."

The pair bowed to each other and Sota jogged to his hut. He pulled up the boards near his bed and took out a bottle of rice wine he had saved for a rainy day. It wasn't fit for a celebration, being a cloudy, unrefined and overpowering brew, he just needed something to slow his senses and quiet his mind. He popped the cork and took a long draw. Liquid fire filled his mouth and licked at the back of his throat. Just a raw burn with a faint sweetness. He coughed and swore he saw fumes, but it was just the wetting of his eyes.

Sota wiped his lips, then sighed. It wasn't the injury or illness that felt like it had soured his attempts to connect to Hana again, but himself. It seemed every time things became clear he would find a way to cast up a fog. He would never apologise for the incident with Lord Kou, but he would forever beg forgiveness for how their fates had intertwined and his part in this whole debacle, all those years ago.

It was his first act as a Ministry Tongueless. The final proof he had what it would take to truly represent The Dragon. A tale he had regaled to Varisidra as well.

What was that proverb the cera'an enjoyed so much?

“A hunter hunts as prey doth pray,

But Saints watch not the arrows nock,

Instead, witnessing hunts delay,

They be transfixed upon the flock."

It was an obtuse little term, but it felt appropriate. Onlookers shouldn't watch the hunter; they should watch the target. That's where the action would happen. Watching for any trace of nervousness in the prey, or the presence of another hunter, or whether the herd decided to move. Hana and Sota were the prey, and all the cats had to do was wait and watch and let them slowly reveal their weaknesses.

“Tricky bastard cats," Sota said and took another fiery sip.

* * *

20th of High-Scatter, 1552

“What is this stuff?"

Sota knew the answer already, it was common easterner's wine. Sota was just being indignant and difficult. It felt an appropriate way to act as a prisoner. It wasn't even bad wine. It was no sake, but still.

“It's that or water," Quartz said as a cera'an servant finished delivering the meal, then left as the burly catfolk sat at the table with a gentle smile. “We intended to pick up some fruits for juicing from Port Akutoka, as well as some rice wine, but someone decided to get us in trouble with the authorities before we could finish supplying."

“Well, it's fractionally better than water, I guess." Sota swished the full-bodied red wine around his mouth, then gulped as he tried to evade Quartz' eyes and instead took in the room.

This was a prison that would turn an honourable peasant to crime: comfortable, secure and warm. Wood panel walls, a Vliechoven coil lightbulb chandelier bolted to the ceiling, a window with a view of the great Samsaran eastern sea, even if it was too small to squeeze through with a fire mesh cover. A goose-down bed with equally plush pillow, a dresser, desk and two-person dining table, replete with three chairs and just as many square meals a day. He even had access to the training room where Hana had apparently fought Varisidra, although only when under watch and during clan practice.

Sota maintained his forced indignation and huffed, then tucked into a plate of butter-basted chicken, mixed vegetables and seasoned rice.

Quartz watched him eat for a time, then smirked. “I'm guessing you aren't used to eating this well."

“Would you stop doing that?" Sota ripped another chunk of moist, delectable meat from the bone and chewed as loudly as he could.

“I can't not inspect everyone I talk with. Everyone talks with their hands, eyebrows, shoulders..." Quartz clasped his fingers together, and his pale blue eyes narrowed. “You're stuck between emotions. On the one hand, you desire your freedom. Undoubtedly to pursue Lord Kou, even if you're equally unsure as to his whereabouts. On the other hand, you're enjoying this reprieve in self-reliance. You've been alone for some time... not truly alone, having dealt with others, but you've presented yourself in a constant state of untruthful guises and masks. Now you're wondering whether to maintain this small facade or let your guard down, weighing which will earn you favourable placement in your dealings with me."

Sota's nose wrinkled. “And you're a... big cat who can't keep his big nose out of my big, important business."

Quartz sniffed and his grin returned. “I'm just trying to understand you better. What drives a man who relies on his wits into a suicidal attack on a ship of a hundred trained cera'an elite soldiers on their own turf? I would hazard a guess it was Lady Akikawa, but I know that isn't the whole picture in light of your connection to The Ministry. For one thing, you fight like them, yet you have a distinct... accent to your fighting style. Not to mention your magic, and how even that changed your martial prowess. I've never seen the like."

“You've never seen that before?" Sota tore off another piece of chicken and spoke with his mouth full. “Conshidering how your shister fought like she was posheshed?"

“You're unfamiliar with my people, that is understandable. The cera'an are seen as a peculiar sort by many, and our kind have only existed since the time of St. Gareg, the first of our people."

Sota chuckled and swallowed his food. “Nonsense. The Saints are all human."

Quartz extended his claws for a moment and prodded the pad of his fingers with the tip. “That is what humans claim. Our people tell a different tale. You see, my people are both resistant to many toxins and poisons, and respond strangely to concoctions that most consider inert, a trait that The Father of Alchemy also shared. For every poison, a cure, and yet in every toxin and treatment, there was balance; a poison of the mind could cure the body, and every curative to sustain life could weaken or kill. In this, he sought to find the deepest secrets of our world and learn how every single distillate and mix worked, and so earned his sainthood."

Sota sucked a chicken bone clean and then licked his fingers, then shrugged. “Everyone knows that. Most of his creations are still in use today."

Quartz mirrored the gesture and replied, “it's said his studies of the magic within the world were so thorough, so pervasive, he discovered how to create truly miraculous substances, able to change the form of a being, perhaps even create life."

“Seems a tall tale if you ask me," Sota said and relaxed in his chair. “I've seen true miracles. The powers of the Tongueless easily surpass such things. With but a word, they can shred flesh from bone. That's not even including The Dragon's capabilities."

“While true, and we have no proof, it is still mysterious that there is no mention of our people before his time. It is something of a mystery."

“Where does Rose and her feral madness come into this?"

“People create chemicals within themselves too. Modern medicine has detected all number of strange components in a living thing's blood. Likewise, as said, my people have quirks within their reaction to substances both natural and created. My sister, as you witnessed, has an extreme reaction to sudden shock and has an... energetic response to her own anger. I have been known to have 'kobold-like' reactions to consuming magically rich substances such as drakemould. I even receive benefits from it, healing from wounds swiftly whilst not suffering from mana toxicity."

“So, she has a temper. The rest of what you just said is a lot of big words, few of which matter to me," Sota said as he leaned back on his chair and picked his teeth with his fingernail.

Quartz' brow twitched, then he sighed. “You're playing false ignorance yet absorbing what I say like a sponge, but... I suppose we are getting into a long tangent. I shall leave you to finish your meal, unless there anything you wished to ask whilst I'm here?"

“Ah, well-"

“Besides the location of Lord Kou," Quartz clarified and smiled. “Anything at all?"

Sota rolled his eyes. “I'd be a pretty lousy guest if I didn't ask about your sister. Is she alright?"

“Recovering. She'll be up and about in a couple of weeks, certainly before we dock in Nabanba. She's a tremendous fighter, but the way you handled her fury was quite impressive. Most cave to her ferocity and barely get to respond before she crushes their heads like a melon. That you fought to a draw-"

“A draw?" Sota laughed. “Is that what we're calling being run through?"

“It is, Sota." Quartz folded his arms, and his shoulders bulged as he clenched. “Your heart stopped. It took my resuscitative efforts and Sensei Hanbei's direct intervention to spare your life, whereas Rose was still alive, if teetering on the edge of the final sleep."

Sota frowned for a moment, then shook his head. “Then no, I don't have anything further to ask."

Quartz nodded and stood. “Very well. I shall see you in the training hall this evening then?"

“Who can say?"

The two exchanged a calculating look, then Quartz left without another word.

Sota resumed eating, but didn't savour the delectable meat, spiced vegetables or perfectly balanced rice. Instead, he looked out the fenced window and considered his next move.

* * *

“Lady Akikawa, may I enter?"

Hana placed her calligraphy brush aside the parchment and atop the inkstone pan, then sighed.

“Yes, Hanbei-san."

The door opened. A catfolk soldier entered first, armed but relaxed, followed by a slim, venerable old human with neatly tied white hair. He was clean shaven and meticulous in his appearance with a perfectly white cotton robe and a kind glint in his eyes.

Hanbei bowed. “I trust you do not mind if I allow my apprentice to assist with your care, as we discussed last time?"

“Do whatever you deem necessary, hakase." Hana returned the bow.

The aged physician beckoned toward the doorway and a catfolk boy entered, carrying a large bag. A slim, tiger-patterned lad with amber eyes in identical, pristine garb.

“Gearal?" Hana tensed as she stared and scowled, and the boy gasped and stepped back in fear.

The cera'an guard stepped in the way, but Hanbei clapped his hands and drew everyone's attention.

“Stop. None of that. Everyone at peace. Lady Akikawa, this is Twikoren-kun. He is Gearal's twin brother, as well as both my apprentice." He nodded to the boy and gently guided him forward. “Twikoren_-kun,_ this is Lady Akikawa. Be polite now."

Twikoren trembled, his hands clutching the handle of the bag so tight that, had he no fur, no doubt his knuckles would be white. Nonetheless, he bowed low, if for a less than typical duration.

“I- I hope the day finds you well, L-Lady Akikawa." Twikoren stood upright, his eyes glanced here and there around the room in rapid flicks and twitches and seldom at Hana herself.

She first assumed the boy was studying the room in a frantic fashion, but there was something else about his motions, as if they were not his own. Impulse, and not by choice.

Hanbei gently squeezed Twikoren's shoulder. “Breathe, young master. Slow, steady."

“Y- yes." Twikoren replied and took a few sharp breaths, then his mentor guided him to approach. The doctor took the bag and opened it, producing a selection of bandages, bottles and tools.

Hana's wounds had healed swiftly under Hanbei's expert care. The strange green substance he had applied when both she and Sota were captured kept both the skin together and sealed the gauze against the wounds, yet the stickiness gave way to an easy-to-clean and dry powder after a day.

Hanbei went through the same routine as before: he washed the residue away, then using a soft brush, painted another layer of the medicine over each small cut on her head. Lastly, he wrapped an additional bandage around her temple for the deeper cut she had received from Varisidra's scimitar, but even that was healing well. Hanbei called out something in the cera'an tongue.

The catfolk guard by the door rolled his eyes, muttered something and turned his back.

The doctor then resumed, in Samsaran, “if you could expose your back, please, Lady Akikawa."

Hana nodded, but then looked at Twikoren and hesitated. Hanbei offered a gentle wave to get her attention.

“The boy must learn how all species respond to injury. We lack inousan patients."

“I don't doubt that, hakase... I simply do not quite trust the cera'an yet."

“You said you wouldn't mind his presence, no? Besides, as the ship surgeon, if you trust me you can trust him. He is a healer before all else, as you are a patient, not an inousa, nor a captive or noble. All are equal in my eyes."

Hana remained still for a time, then pulled her kimono down from her shoulders but kept her arms up to cover her bust.

Hanbei carefully cut the bandages away as she listened. His robes shifted gently, and Hana could feel his breath on the fur of her back, then he shuffled aside. “What do you think, Master Twikoren?"

“It appears to be healing well," Twikoren said, now clear and confident. “No signs of infection at present, though that's to be expected, it's still far too soon for such complications to set in and mother is meticulous in cleaning her blades. Continued application of calendula, St. Gareg's root and yarrow styptic will continue to disinfect and assist clotting. The muscle is repairing together well and should continue to do so with the patient's compliance in not exerting herself. She appears to be of good breeding."

“Very good," Hanbei said. “The inousa are known for their strong blood and fast healing. As you were, young master."

“Ah... r-right, of course, sensei." Twikoren once more stammered.

Hana felt his thin fingers smooth the fur a short distance around the edges of the cut on her back, brushing them apart to allow better access to the wound. Then cool water, applied by a smooth cloth, ran along its length in smooth, gentle strokes to remove the previous treatment's residue. Then the familiar, subtle sting as the styptic was applied and gave way to the numbing effect. Finally, a fresh bandage was wrapped around her body.

“Well done, Master Twikoren" Hanbei said. “Your treatment is complete for the day, Lady Akikawa, and you may pull up your dress."

“My thanks, hakase," Hana said and pulled her garment back over her shoulders.

Hanbei smiled and bowed, then tilted his head toward Twikoren.

Hana sighed. “And thank you, Twikoren."

“Y-yes... uh! I mean... m-my pleasure," the catfolk boy said and bowed twice.

“Compared to his cocksure brother, he seems... uncertain," Hana said.

Twikoren averted his gaze and pouted as Hanbei packed his medicine bag.

“They have strange reactions to certain stimuli, medicinal and otherwise. This also goes for what I surmise is bodily chemistry. It was assumed this was to do with what the Easterners call the four humours, but-"

Twikoren scoffed, and his nervousness shattered into a righteous, indignant fire. “A fallacy of medical ignorance already disproven by Vliechoven pioneers from the Arcane Institute. It is far more likely that the secretions of the body that give form to peculiarities of mind and body are in a state of asymmetrical imbalance, and that the commonality of both moazyglic and even deszyglic conception in my people split the receptors to our biochemistry by measurably different degrees, as if the strengths of one take from the other and vice-verse."

Hana's eyes grew wide as the boy blinked and his ears turned red from blushing, and he looked at the floor and fidgeted.

Hanbei laughed. “Indeed, young master." He then addressed Hana and offered a shrug. “I can't keep up with those Eastern mages and their new findings. Did you know they conjure lenses, like in spectacles, out of pure magic and of extreme magnification to study what we look like on a tiny scale? Anyway, what Master Twikoren means is that catfolk twins always have strong differences in personality, likely owing to how their minds respond to the secretions of the body. Lady Rosarris and Master Quarzanris are non-identical twins and are already quite different, with Quarzanris' placidity to Rosarris' ferocity, but Masters Twikoren and Gearal are even further apart."

“A strange people," Hana whispered.

“Aren't we all in our own way?" Hanbei grunted as he stood and rubbed his back. “Oh, and before I leave, you are given pass to attend the training hall this evening. I understand your companion, Nakamura-san, will be there too. While I forbid strenuous exercise, a brisk walk will do you some good."

Hana clicked and bruxed her long incisors together. She hadn't seen Sota since the night of their capture and the revelation of his direct help of their mutual enemy in Lord Kou. Her foul mood had long passed, and she wanted to see him, and not just to get some deeper answers to his association with Lord Kou. She was glad for the wait, as it gave her a chance to consider what to ask, and to do so without the venom she felt at the time.

“Lady Akikawa? Are you alright?"

She snapped from her thoughts at Hanbei's question, then she closed her eyes and turned back to her calligraphy. “I... I shall give it some thought and inform the guard when I make my decision. Thank you."

“As you wish. Be well, Lady Akikawa," Hanbei said and carried the medicine back out, with Twikoren offering a rapid bow and following.

The catfolk guard exited last and closed the door, leaving Hana to her thoughts.

* * *

The training hall was a din of clashing wood and steel. Small groups of cera'an soldiers filled the hall, holding oaken training weapons as they went through combat drills or sparred, though a couple of the most experienced fought with dull steel tulwars and daggers.

Sota paused by the entrance. It reminded him of the Ministry dojo, and he couldn't help but reminisce, yet the budding whimsy was broken when his personal guard pushed him through.

“Hey!" Sota protested, “In Samsara, it's rude to just walk into a training hall without paying respects."

“And everywhere else it's rude to block a door, human," the guard said with a smirk, his sharp teeth glinting in the coil-lights. “You're in our home, you follow our rules."

“I've got him from here," said a young, familiar voice in Bralranian.

Sota looked around and saw Gearal storming up to him. “Ah... uh, good night?" He fumbled for his words. “Or- no, wait, it's good evening, correct? About what ha-"

Gearal punched him full force in the groin. Sota collapsed to his knees, then onto his side, and the boy chided, “y_ou absolute bastard! You made me fail my test!_"

Sota groaned and clutched his hands between his legs. His already modest grasp of Bralranian, or any mental strength at all, flew further from his mind, awash as it was in a torrent of agony that echoed from the punch up through his belly and made Sota slowly roll back and forth. Hell was made of this feeling. He once more wished for lightning to strike him down.

The catfolk guard started saying something, but Gearal pushed him barked something in the catfolk language to dismissed him. The boy returned his attention to Sota. “Still think I can't knock a guy out with one hit?"

“Oh Dragon," Sota mumbled, “oh fucking Dragon..."

Gearal folded his arms and waited for Sota to recover.

After what felt like a merciless eternity, the overwhelming ache began to fade and Sota slowly sat up. If nothing else, his slow recovery let him find the words he needed. “You listen here, you shit, you tried to trick us, and I tricked you better. Get over it. If you failed your test, then that is your fault!"

“I- you.... but...." Gearal went quiet for a moment, then looked away. “I guess..."

Sota sighed and stood. He jumped up and down for a few moments, hoping his testicles would descend from his belly, or at least stop aching. When he turned his attention back to Gearal, the boy had his hand out to shake.

“How about a fresh start?"

Sota began to respond in kind, then squinted, licked his teeth and leaned forward to look into the boy's hand. “You are not hiding another needle?"

Gearal blinked and curled his fingers over his palm. “... nooo?" He then gulped.

“There is, isn't there!?"

The catfolk boy's pout returned two-fold. “Fine! You win, _ taffir _!"

“Mind your language, brother," said the bassy tone of an approaching Quarzanris. “Glad you could join us, Sota."

Sota nodded. “Less glad to have a violent clashing of my balls, but sure, thanks for letting me out of my room."

Quartz chuckled then addressed Gearal. “Have you two made up yet?"

Gearal began to speak in the catfolk tongue, but Quartz raised his hand, then wagged his finger. The wordless message was clear, so Gearal said, in Bralranian, “I was going to, honest."

“Not with an injector in your hand, you're not," Quartz said and folded his arms. “Come now, be nice."

With a heavy sigh, Gearal removed the tiny, needled pod from his hand and placed it in a belt-pouch filled with cotton wool.

Sota chuckled. “If it means anything, you seem to be good in spirit if mischievous."

“He is," Quartz said and patted Gearal on the head, ruffling the boy's fur to the lad's annoyance. “He's quick to make friends and eager to please, especially when it comes to mother's tasks. He just takes it too far and grows annoyed when he comes up short. You demonstrated some quick wit in figuring out his ploy, so it's only natural he's a little testy with you."

Sota winced and bounced up and down on his feet. “Less said about testy the better..."

Gearal scowled at Quartz. “Hey, you give me crap for not talking in a way Tonguey can understand, then leave me out of the conversation? No fair!"

Sota cocked his head. “Tonguey? Is that even a word?"

“It's a part of his training: associate traits with names for coded messages for quick mental reference. You're a tongued Tongueless."

“Right, of course," Sota said and shook his head. “I shouldn't have asked."

Gearal stuck his tongue out to make a point.

Sota smiled down at boy. “How about we have a good talk tomorrow, young one? I hope we can start anew." He held his hand out this time, and Gearal took it and shook.

“Sure, sure... sorry for lashing out. Mother really didn't like how I handled my task since I overcomplicated it, but I think she was still a bit pissed at you getting on board."

With a smirk, Sota replied, “watch out for your language."

Gearal stuck out his middle finger, emphasised with an extended claw. “Stick penis inside you're!" he barked in awful Samsaran.

Sota cackled as Quartz bopped the lad across the top of the head with two of his own fingers. “Language, brother!"

The boy stormed off, and Quartz shrugged. “I apologise on his behalf. Now, I'm content to let you roam the hall, but please don't try to leave. Besides, Lady Akikawa should be along shortly."

Sota gulped “Right. Thanks, Quartz."

The elder brother headed away and left Sota with his thoughts. It was a mixed blessing. Sota wanted to see Hana, to ensure she was well in the face of their lost pursuit of Lord Kou, but he had no clue in what sort of mood she would arrive. He wasn't left waiting long as another group of catfolk guards entered the hall, with Hana following behind with her usual ghost-like grace.

Any onlooker wouldn't have an idea of her inner torment with her gentle steps and the way she held her hands in front of her, hips in a gentle sway, one wrist in the palm of the other and her eyes taking in the room. She still had lines of the wound treatment around her face and the side of her head, but she looked healthy and strong.

Sota began to walk to her, only to stop. He knew a barrage of questions would be forthcoming as much as he knew even the catfolk would want to know everything he could explain about both their situations. Despite all this, his mind drew a blank at seeing Hana and his body responded much the same. A mixture of uncertainty and fear.

She spotted him across the hall. Her expression remained neutral, but her ears perked up. She stared for a moment, then looked down as her own doubts flowed across her eyes.

After a laborious minute, they both walked together in unison and stopped.

“How-"

“Are-"

Both paused.

“Y-you first."

“No, please. I've been worried."

Another pause. Sota beckoned for Hana to start.

“Have they been treating you alright?" she asked.

“Just fine," he replied. “You look like you're healing well."

“Yes, I have been settling in for the time being, though I couldn't help but wonder if you were going to stage some daring escape."

Sota scratched his nose. “I fear we're a flightless bird amongst cats both literal and metaphorical. Just as well they enjoy playing with their food. Sorry to disappoint."

Hana offered a small bow and her ears drooped. “Think nothing of it... I am just glad we are reunited."

“Likewise! Uh..." Sota raised both hands before him and bowed his head. “I owe you an explanation about my affiliation with Lord Kou. I apologise for not being forthcoming."

Hana's eyes danced between Sota and the floor. “I do want to know, but I also understand you certainly have your reasons."

“That's a bit surprising."

Hana tilted her head, one drooping. “It is? Why?"

“Oh, just... you know." Sota said and rubbed his nose. “You're a bit sensitive at times, especially pertaining to that topic. The Lord Kou business..."

“I beg your pardon? I am not sen-" Hana pointed a clawed finger, then clenched her jaw and a fist before lowering her arm, finally submitting into a buck-toothed pout. “... point taken, Sota-kun. Though not without reason, I assure you."

Sota and Hana had another pause, and then Sota nodded to one side. “Come. Let me tell you what happened."

The pair found the quietest area they could find, a stack of padded mats, and climbed on top. They first settled on opposing ends, but Sota glanced around.

“This really isn't something I want out in the open..."

“Right. Of course."

The two shuffled closer. Both cleared their throats and looked at the mat, then one another, before getting closer still, within arms reach. As the pair bowed from dragging their knees across the surface, Hana's ears brushed the top of Sota's head, and the pair froze. Sota smiled and scratched his head. Hana smoothed her ears back as her mouth flickered upward at the edges then they shuffled back an inch. After finally getting comfortable, Hana sat patiently as Sota folded his arms and let his mind wander back to his past.

He centred himself and sighed. “So, I don't think I need to address this all draws from the War of the Three Heirs, right?"

Hana nodded. “Yes. My father took part in that war to protect a village that was caught in the middle of that conflict. An old friend of his from his youth lived there."

Sota sucked air through his teeth. “Yeah, well, protecting a village and directly getting involved in the slaying of these heirs are two very different things. I guess you could call it being proactive defence, but still..."

“Speak plainly, Sota-kun. Please. Just tell me what happened."

With a deep sigh, Sota bowed his head and replied, “as you wish. It was eleven years ago..."

* * *

37th of Burning Cloud, 1543

Sota lay flat on his back and sighed. Beads of sweat trickled down past his ears and continued to drench his short hair.

“Stupid Burning Cloud... give way to Sighing Mountain already!"

The secluded hut was half ruined, yet also secluded and far from any civilisation. Private enough, with only the company of broken pots, the supplies he carried here and the straw mat he now rested upon. The sticky air was more stubborn than a mountain, or as if wind ceased to exist. Even the abatement of the sun did little to alleviate the thick, almost soup-like thickness to the humidity. The only thing that stirred was the constant screech of cicadas on the nearby trees, trilling their everlasting song.

A month running overlong was said to be a sign of importance, as if a great and momentous event was due to pass. Sota couldn't help but wonder what it meant. After all, he was here for his first official duty as a Tongueless. If he succeeded here, the next path of his advancement would be h tongue being extracted, and all the powers of The Dragon would be at his fingertips. At last, he would be Sota Nakamura, protector of the people. There could be nothing as important as that. The month would change with his powers being used to change... something. His mentor had been quiet about their purpose, besides a name. A man, of whom his mentor was to bring to this hideaway.

Sota sat up, listless yet tired all at once, and took out a talisman and studied the stiff paper. Upon it was the winding and convoluted mixture of draconic words, written in his own blood, yet translated into old Samsaran. One of the records of The Dragon, as he gave his final words to his worshippers before his persistent slumber. The first was the tale of recall. Memory. Kioku. To first recall The Dragon's words, before all else.

It was the most basic magic of the Tongueless, yet most flexible. Magic permeated all things, and The Dragon lived and breathed magic. By invoking His words, a Tongueless could demand people or things give their memories, either imparted like a story or restored to a condition still remembered.

A tiny connection had already been invoked in Sota. He had partaken in the blood of a Dragon, little by little, to complete the Rite of Flow. He now possessed a touch of draconic influence in his veins, and so he could invoke His words. The problem was that he needed to demonstrate his mastery over this first word before he could strengthen his powers through more blood, until every word he spoke could invoke His power.

This was why the Tongueless were made. They converted their use of the memory spell to briefly invoke the memory of their tongues to speak further words. Otherwise, even a passing utterance could harm or destroy everyone and everything around them. Such was the power of merely the words of The Dragon.

Footsteps. Sota stood and slipped beside the door and drew his jutte. “His blessings," Sota asked.

“Given, unasked," replied the voice.

Sota sighed and replaced his weapon inside his robe. He then pulled the damaged door aside, then bowed. “Master Riku. Welcome back."

Riku entered, patted Sota on the shoulder and smiled. “Bid our guest welcome too. You may enter, Mitsuhiro."

Sota blinked at the kind-eyed and meticulously trimmed old man, then bowed towards the door. “Ah. Yes, welcome, Lord Kou."

A dark mirror of his mentor, Mitsuhiro was a grim looking man of a similar age to Riku, clutching the grip of a beauteous katana at his side. His red and gold robes silken, yet dusty, the sleeves frayed and worn. He walked with pride, yet his shoulders hunched, eyes filled with fire, yet burned out from the darkness lingering around them, as if consumed from within. Mitsuhiro was man alive, yet not truly living. He offered a small bow in response, but his already scorched and broken persona somehow grew even more ashen.

“This whelp?" Mitsuhiro balked. “You promised me justice owed, Riku. I've supplied The Ministry at cost through my lands for decades, and this is all you can afford me!?"

Sota tutted, but Riku didn't react. Instead, he answered, “all Tongueless are as the seeds of the mighty tree that is The Dragon. We grant them the birthing earth in the soil, feed them life-giving water, shroud them with warmth from the sun's flame, but it is up to the seedling to flourish and breach into the air and stand tall. So, too, must my apprentice fight to earn his right to breathe. If you find his talents wanting, then his life is yours to snuff out. Otherwise, he shall grow as a mighty tree, steadfast and able to break the mightiest wall with his presence."

Mitsuhiro gritted his teeth, huffed, and folded his arms. “So be it. How does this work?"

“You brought the weapon which took your son's life?" Riku asked.

“What's left of it." Mitsuhiro gulped, then took out a bundle of cloth from his robe. He held it out, and Riku reached for it, only for Kou to suddenly pull it back and clutch it against his chest. Mitsuhiro's dark expression weakened, his eyes growing wet, and he muttered under his breath.

“Lord Kou, please."

Mitsuhiro smoothed his furrowed eyebrows, then slowly unfurled the cloth. The snapped head of a broad-bladed spear, rusted around the break.

Riku nodded to Sota, and the boy gingerly took the fractured blade as the elder Ministry man addressed Mitsuhiro.

Sota examined the spear for a moment. “We shall relive this moment through the spear of your son's killer. All things carry magic, and by The Dragon's will, we can remind them of their history. Through that memory, we shall learn what we need to know."

“My son's murderer," Mitsuhiro corrected through his teeth. “The inousa. Curse the soldiers for being too afraid or simple to recognise one filthy hare!"

Sota held back a chuckle at Mitsuhiro's ignorance. “Their heraldry is strange, but you can't expect common soldiers to know to which family any given inousa belongs. They let their fur colour and warpaint upon the ears dictate much of their identity on the field of battle rather than flags or even their armour."

Mitsuhiro glared at Sota. “Watch your tongue, boy. They're a pack self-righteous monsters. Why the Ministry tolerates their constant, lackadaisical interference in Samsaran affairs, I'll never understand."

Riku folded his arms. “It is their way, and we will not interfere should they choose to mobilise, so long as they do so in small numbers and do not openly instigate wars. Your plight, however, is a special case. This particular inousa went too far. Now, let us sit and we shall begin."

The three knelt in the middle of the hut, facing the central firepit. Sota gently turned the spearhead over in his hands as Riku took out a talisman and tossed it into the ashes.

“Kioku!"

The ashes gathered and darkened, then a flame sparked to life as dried logs formed from the remnants until a full flame spat and popped, as if it had been burning for a good half an hour. Plumes of smoke filled the damaged hut, giving the whole room a haze, and even the already stifling warmth grew even more unbearable.

Mitsuhiro's eyebrows twitched upward in surprise, but he kept his dour facade.

“Whenever you're ready, Sota," Riku said.

“Yes, master."

Sota took out his own memory talisman and draped it across the damaged blade. “Please place your hand atop the spearhead, Lord Kou."

Mitsuhiro's nose wrinkled and he obeyed.

“Remember," Riku said, “the battle took place four years ago. You should be able to feel for the time the weapon was broken."

Sota nodded and took a deep breath as he readied himself. “Kioku!"

The metal quivered. It began to remember, and those memories flowed through both Sota and Mitsuhiro's minds. One sensation repeated over and over. The feel of thin, gnarled fingers. Endless hours being clutched and stared at by Mitsuhiro. Years it remained and saw only the grief and heartbreak of the old lord in a small, secluded room that no-one else dared enter.

Sota pushed on as the blade was suddenly in a different hand clutched the blade. A simple soldier, then a large field strewn with broken weapons and bodies, then a muddy pool of water and blood. Finally, he witnessed the slow tarnish and rust peel back, revealing more of a flawless metal blade. Sota slowed his pursuit.

The blade pulled itself free from the mud. It tumbled and flew through the air. Sunlight glistened off its polished surface, yet sticky with blood on the other.

The scene around them came into view.

Death. So much death.

An army of hundreds, some bearing Lord Kou's emblem, the twin egrets.

A handful of peasant militia fought against them.

In the middle of this battle...

A panicked horse.

A man. A commander.

General Shinji Kou. Master of the sword and bow.

Over three decades of experience.

Nigh untouchable in war.

All squandered as lifeblood gushed from his throat.

An inousan man in full armour, twenty feet in the air above Shinji.

An incredulous move, upside down, weapon in hand.

The snapped haft of a spear.

His armour was red.

A strange crest on the helmet.

It looked like a round, vibrant sun on one half.

A broken crescent on the other.

Paint flecked his long ears.

Four intersecting dashes separated by two circles.

The image faded. Not by choice... a disruption.

_ Rage. Hatred. _

_ Pain. _

Sota gasped and tried to bring his hands to his head, but they were stuck. No. Held. A burning sensation.

“Lord Kou! Release him!"

“Master? What's..."

Sota opened his eyes. Mitsuhiro, his face contorted in fury, was squeezing their hands together, pressing the spear fragment into both their palms. Blood dripped from their wounds and intermingled, and already had begun pooling on the straw mat.

Slowly, Mitsuhiro seemed to come around, growled in pain and released Sota. “I saw him," he said as he inspected the cuts on his hands. “Four branches and two pebbles, and a sun and broken moon emblem."

Riku frowned but said nothing as he stood and retrieved a small travel bag and took out a gourd of water and bandages. He rinsed and dressed Sota's hand.

“Lord Kou, you should see a healer at your earliest convenience. Your wound-"

“To the Dragon's fathomless hells to my wound!" Mitsuhiro roared and hurled the spear piece aside so hard it embedded into the wall, along with a spray of his blood. “Four branches! Two pebbles! Sun and broken moon! Who killed my sons!?"

Riku sighed and closed his eyes. His lips pursed and grimaced. “Vibrant life during the day yet death by eve, the tale of the Morning Glory. A high echelon family. Clan Akikawa."

Mitsuhiro's eye twitched. “Good. You can tell your superiors that I will open my lands to The Ministry. I have some business to deal with."

Riku bowed. “In the name of The Dragon, I give my thanks, but please listen-"

“There's nothing to discuss," Mitsuhiro said with a wave of his hand. “I must gather my men and mount an offensive on Akikawa!"

Mitsuhiro threw open the door, leaving a bloodied handprint, and left without another word into the darkness beyond.

Riku stared at the stain and folded his arms. “I am grateful for his reward, but this will only end with more blood."

Sota felt his slashed hand and asked, “but it's justified, isn't it? He lost all three of his sons in that war, all because of this... inousan man?"

“Yes, in that I cannot fault him," Riku said. “To lose an heir is a natural part of war. To lose three, a tragedy. To lose all of them to one man is unjustified. It's why I took this request on behalf of The Ministry."

“Then why the concern?"

“Two-fold," Riku said and wiped the blood from the door and rubbed it between his fingers. “First, the inousa are not known for taking violence against their homelands well. This could cause the entirety of Jinu province to take up arms in unity. The combined forces of the capital city's army and the individual family samurai are smaller than any other province, but their 'rank-and-file' soldiers are each worth a dozen. Their best are demons. He must know this... even in his grief, he must know this..." Riku fell silent again and bowed his head in thought.

Sota held his tongue. He dared not interrupt his mentor's thoughts as he stared at the staining on his fingertips. Minutes passed.

With a sudden, sharp inhale, Riku continued, “regardless, the second issue is his blood may now be tainted with yours, Sota. Even a minute amount could be used against us."

Sota looked at his injured hand again. “What could happen, master?"

Riku opened his mouth to speak, but he looked aside. “Hmm... perhaps nothing." He once more looked at Sota and smiled warmly as he wiped his hand on his robe. “I'm just being paranoid. That's all. Come. Let us return to the village, rest and return to The Ministry. You've succeeded in your test, and it's time for your final preparation in becoming a Tongueless."

Riku collected their belongings and, with a gentle push on Sota's shoulder, guided the pair of them towards the exit of the hut. He paused as he looked at the door with a pensive expression, then back at the still burning firepit.

“Kioku-shohi-suru!"

The flames grew wild, as if the slow-burning wood housed lamp-oil that had suddenly burst from within. The fire licked the thatched ceiling, then loose, burning straw fell like rain as the building was swiftly consumed.

* * *

20th of High-Scatter, 1552

Hana stared at a nearby coil light, the metal filament glowing an unnatural light.

“I see," she said. “Did he ever speak on his concerns?"

“No, but that was part of how I worked out The Ministry wasn't for me. I found some old scrolls depicting the depths this blood-bound bond could grant someone who knew about our connection. The other reasons I left are... still my own, I'm afraid." Sota looked at his palm. There was barely a trace of a scar from that wound, and only those aware it even happened could see it.

“It's important enough that you must slay him, but clarity would be appreciated."

Sota forced a smile. “You'll be glad to know it means our mutual pact of dealing with him won't be broken by my need to end his life. I don't need to be the one to kill him, but we must burn the body."

Hana tilted her head. “Curious but go on."

“Let's see," Sota said and rubbed his hands together. “Those given The Dragon's blood share a common link. It's how we can summon forth His power. True Tongueless can even be tracked by this link, of which thankfully my blood is too weak and the Tongueless too numerous to give The Ministry that particular advantage. When one of our number dies, however, even a minute trace of this power flows from where we died back to The Ministry, and they will know someone has fallen. Naturally, they will, in turn, send Mitigator's and Tongueless to investigate. Do you follow so far?"

“Yes, as far as my limited understanding of magic allows."

Sota chuckled, but he looked troubled. “I've evaded Ministry attention for some time, but my trail of power is bound to Lord Kou. If he dies, by natural causes or otherwise, The Dragon's Ministry will know, and they will investigate the body... and they will detect the taint of my blood through his corpse. They will then pursue that specific link. I don't mean Lord Kou any personal ill will. I detest killing, but I need to be there when he dies. Obviously, the best way to guarantee that is to kill him, then we turn him to ashes and, at last, I'll be free of the Ministry for good. Free to pursue whatever I desire. Maybe even leave Samsara."

“I never realised you wished to leave this land," Hana said with a flicker of a smirk. “I suppose that's not a terrible idea."

“One that could be arranged."

Sota and Hana flinched and spun toward the voice. A tan and black striped tail flicked from behind a support strut before Varisidra stepped out, inspecting her claws with a knowing grin.

“Hoi!" Sota stood and growled. “How long have you been there!?"

“Long enough," Varisidra said and folded her arms. “And, as I said, I would gladly take you from this country. I don't have many mages in my clan, even escapee apprentices. Once our business concerning Lord Kou is dealt with, I wouldn't mind extending an invitation to you, Mr. Nakamura. Same to you, Akikawa_-hime_."

“Just Hana to you," the inousa said with a huff.

Sota snickered. “That sounds familiar." He then faced Varisidra and turned serious. “I might just take you up on that offer, although it depends on if Hana-"

“I'm not interested," Hana sand and looked away. “Once Lord Kou is slain, there will be no peace for me. Between The Ministry, Kou's allies and his followers, I am under no illusions of escape."

Varisidra cocked an eyebrow. “I'm sure a great and terrible flow of vengeance would befall you, but you're on board a ship that would be bound for Ardentiphe at that juncture. A ship carrying Bralranian dragonslayer arbalests, Vliechoven firebeard fire-spitting cannons and armour thick enough to withstand anything short of the great dragon Jaraesi, Empress of the Vast Oceans' direct attack."

Sota cocked an eyebrow. “I take it that's a self-granted title?"

Varisidra shrugged. “One I can at least respect. Such self-aggrandised titles backed by deed are the only ones worthy of recognition, and that ice-breathing bitch has been a thorn in the side in trying to access Goshev since I took to the waves."

Hana sneered. “The pomposity of dragons beyond the one within the Ministry temple means little. Tradition is important, as does the earned right to rule being passed on, as has been the Samsaran way for generations."

Varisidra tapped her fingertip on the side of her brow. “I believe it was St. Zoeli that once said that 'all things material are as intangible as the Veil if they cannot be held within one's own grasp, possessing power only by those of whom believe them physical.' A long-winded woman, that one, but brilliant. A king or lord is only a cera'an, or a human, or a raothaar or whatever. A knife in the neck will kill them as easy as anyone else, regardless of their past deeds. It's the belief around them that supports them and is their power, just as my respect for Jaraesi extends only as far as the one who kills her. All that separates her to anyone else is the size of the knife needed."

“Hence your desire to keep getting your own paws dirty, right?" Sota mused. “Present yourself as an ambassador and a talker, yet get in the faces of armed and dangerous individuals?" He gave Varisidra a longer study: the woman was a constant performance. A disarming, slim and womanly build, motherly hips and silken fur and a refined tone in flawless southern Samsaran, yet those ever-piercing turquoise eyes and her wilful demeanour when pressed made her captivating. A mature, dangerous beauty. No wonder she was said to be as a queen of her people.

“It's the ripples I radiate upon meeting new people of which I focus the most," Varisidra answered. “If people expect a boulder, I shall splash as a pebble, as they already fear me enough. If people expect a grain of sand adrift in a river, I shall conjure a tidal wave from nothing but my own hand. Misdirection is the name of the game, and keeping people guessing obfuscates those that wish me harm." She grinned at Hana, who refused to meet her gaze. “But enough philosophising for now. My offer of employment still stands. I think we could work well together."

Hana kept silent while Sota looked between the two and scratched his nose. “I'll keep it in mind. One step at a time though, yes? I'm eager to hear what your investigation turns up."

“Indeed. Enjoy your evening, Mr. Nakamura. Hana." Varisidra spun and slunk off, vanishing into the gathering of her people as if she was never there.

“I'm going to bed," Hana said and hopped to her feet.

“Don't let her get to you." Sota did the same and drew nearer to her. “You're playing a game of Seijinejire against a woman with loaded dice. Cool off and act indifferent until her desire to play forces her to restore the stakes."

Hana's eyes narrowed. “You make it sound so simple, Sota. Everything that I am feels like it's being mocked."

“That's not her intent. I- look." Sota rested a hand on her shoulder. “We're stuck here, and we stand to learn about Lord Kou by at least following along for now. Varisidra's just trying to wear you down and think differently. Just accept she has all the power here and we can start fresh, with a new objective. A new outlook. Even mountains break under constant rain. Better to do it whilst the rubble can still be of use as a castle wall rather than a peasant's footpath."

Hana's ears folded back and she stroked between her eyes with a fingertip. “Nobody speaks plainly anymore. It's just vagabondish double-speak."

He watched her storm off. Even the guard at the door almost dived aside at her thunderous approach before he escorted Hana out of the training hall. Sota then sat back down and rubbed his own brow.

* * *

9th Day of Tearful Sky, 1554

“So-Sota? You awakey-wake?"

Sota snorted and snapped awake. Or something in his head felt like it snapped. “It feels like you pecked my brain," Sota groaned and kept his eyes closed.

“Silly-silly sake slurping, now the foggy-fog is lurking." Chihiro's claws clacked upon the wooden floor from her usual prancing. For a dainty little bird, it sounded like- “Thunder, thunder, drink 'til drunker, now stick your head into the bunker!"

“Dragon's mercy, stop." Sota forced himself upright. His hair was stuck over one eye and the other just saw vague shapes. He flailed over for a gourd of water, only to knock it down. Chihiro grabbed it with her foot and pressed it into his hand. He popped the plug and slurped down a few mouthfuls, then cleared his throat. “How's Hana?"

Chihiro hopped on one leg, balling her foot and resting her beak on it. An acrobat in contemplation. “Sleepy, hungry. Ate a lot now sleeping lotter."

Sota mouthed an, 'oh.' She never had a big appetite, and she was a restless sleeper. Illness or not, she would constantly fret and refuse to just relax. Sota couldn't help but feel his stuffy head fade as he managed a smile. “Thank goodness."

He felt himself relax and fall back onto his bed. Their fates were intertwined, and now, with Hana at rest, he felt the constant sting of her bitterness ease off as well. Maybe, at long last, once he had slept off the drink and Hana her ailment, maybe they could start again.

Maybe, like the fast thaw of the passing winter into spring, a new road could form from the ice. They just needed time to let things dry out.

* * *