FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Of Void: Act 3

Storm

Chapter 16: Heat and Heresy

8th Day of Sighing Mountain, 1554

The hackles rose on Sota's neck. It wasn't just the unfamiliar locale, a Casevishian inn as mixed in its architecture as its clientele. They put him on edge, yes, and the old Tongueless instinct lived strong despite no longer being on Samsara, but not like this. Sota's hand clenched an inch from the door handle as he steadied his breath. The twisting bolt mechanism for the door, so far removed from the sliding panels of his home, gave him a welcome distraction. A topic of intrigue, at least for all of two seconds.

Beyond was one akin to a wild beast with an unslakable thirst and an insatiable hunger. Yet as with many challenges in his life, he knew he had to advance. With just a moment more of hesitation for a calming breath, he pulled down on the worn iron grip, the sound of metal components grinding and a tiny squeak of wear resonating through the wood, and the door opened.

“I'm back,” Sota said as he peered within, to a figure that kneeled by the window. The love of his life and the cause of many of his worries, both legitimate and playful. The flame of his heart, now that her own soul had fully rekindled, even if she now consumed him. Again, legitimately and playfully.

Hana's two long, furred brown ears perked up, the tip of the left a perpetual pristine white. They pivoted and twitched at his announcement, then wilted and drooped her head turned, and lustrous brown eyes greeted him, lidded and short of their usual focus. Hana's worn silk kimono flitted as she twisted to look over her shoulder, the material hanging loosely from her body, revealing more than she would have ever dared expose before. She licked her lips, the hare-cleft revealing the pink skin gap as she swallowed down her true intent, and took a few calm, steady breaths.

“Welcome back,” she said. “I was beginning to worry.”

Funny, he thought, he still was. “It wasn't on purpose, I promise. Just a lot of business talk. How are you feeling?”

“Anxious, but better now that you're here,” she said as she stood. With no pause of her movement nor continuance of her words, she turned and all but melted into his arms before he could even shove the door to a close with his foot. Hana kissed him on the cheek once, twice, a third time on the cusp of his mouth before centring in and planting a longer, fiercer show of passion. The hunger plain.

Sota responded in kind. He had to. Wanted to. The spirit was ever-willing, even if the flesh was struggling to keep up with her intensity. He knew what was coming, the inevitable pull and her displays of affection. Hana was wholly possessed of the lustful quirk of her people, the mid-pregnancy heat, but he tried to postpone her indulgence as much as possible.

He leaned back and said, “we'll be joining a canal barge to head further east tomorrow, Bralran bound at last.”

“Oh, excellent,” Hana purred, leaning in to continue her persistent pecks as her clawed fingers slipped into his belt, fiddling with the knot. “That means we have the rest of the day to ourselves.”

“Yep,” Sota answered with a sigh. “That we do.” His delaying tactics were soundly crushed. Where once was only a heart filled with revenge, it had all been supplanted by their love and her passion.

He did want this. Few could say they had equal love and lust in a relationship, even one as fresh and new as theirs, but most didn't have a lover with legs that could make powder of a man's femur with one kick, let alone the pressure of the infamous inousan mating leg-lock. Or stamina honed by over a decade of constant strife and struggle. Or just the the hare-folk heat at large. Or all of the above, all directed at him.

Yet he did as he knew he must. The second he released Hana from their passionate and frantic cuddle, his jacket fell open and her hands flew into her kimono sleeves. They slipped out of the collar, tossing her practical dress to the floor and leaving her gloriously naked. She wasn't even binding her chest any more. Her breasts were becoming fuller, subtle to most but clearly bigger to his increasingly experienced hands. Her puffy pink nipples were already erect and pointed out the marbled sea of cosy brown and pristine white fur. Below, the ever-growing swell of her belly stood with prominence, proud and symbolic of their love. A mix of her original firmness and strength and the developing, womanly form in full display.

Seeing it gave Sota a second wind where his first had been lacking. The endless roads and strife that would drag a man down felt ever-so distant as he felt his heart hammer and his blood quicken. With it, he felt his member press against his undergarments.

Sensing his renewed vigour, Hana helped him out of his haori and, just as smoothly, his hakama. She smirked and glanced down, eyeing his stiffening with a predatory focus and a bite to her own lip that made her long incisors stand out. “Goodness, but that looks uncomfortable... allow me to help.”

He went to pull the humble cloth down, but her hands were faster. Clawed thumbs slipped into the waistband and eased his fundoshi off until they fell by their own, then she dragged her hands up his hips and let the claws scrape on his skin.

Sota shook his head and grabbed her groping digits in his own. “Alright, you, come here.”

Hana giggled and pushed him over to the bed even as he tried to pull her. As one, they stumbled as legs collided and they fell onto the soft down mattress. Any paltry pain from their bodies clashing was just a tax for the pleasure to come. Grains of sand in the desert of their struggles, and now they frolicked in the sea of the new horizon they were forging together. The hateful embers of her heart, having burned one last time, had been washed away and left a seed. A new sprig of life with Hana, in body and soul, as the fertile soil.

Of course with any seedling, great care was needed. Sota was more than happy to provide. Like a new farmer he struggled with the constant need of this new growth, but it mattered not one bit. Hana was more alive than ever, and he had found his place in giving that to her with every scrap of his being. She was consuming him, yes, as a plant drew from the soil. Symbiosis.

Hana was the flame of his heart. It's just that her flame had grown into an inferno. It was just as terrifying and mystifying as the real thing. As their passion ignited again, as Hana mounted him, their hands and fingers intertwined to help keep her balance. As her hips bounced and rocked in unity, all was right in the world as he let himself be consumed by Hana's flame once more.

This was life worth living. Just Hana, himself, Chihiro and soon, a child. Their child. Sota couldn't wait.

* * *

She saw the children before she heard them. Which surprised even Chihiro, because of how loud they usually were. The town's young almost spotted her when her family arrived, and she had to evade notice, but hiding was boring. So she hid, but also talked, and sang, and mystified. Then she sometimes scared, but they would always come back. And in greater numbers.

Children were funny. They talked like yatagha, but then grew up and became boring. Boringer maybe. When they were young they absorbed everything like a sponge but could be wrung by playing. Or shouting. Or just not being constantly immersed by baking in the sun of parental guidance. But when they grew up they stopped letting everything in like a basin they only absorbed a lesson-cup of knowledge-water at a time. It made them better at retention but worse at paying attention to all the weird and wonderful things around them.

This made them perfect for Chihiro's plans. Not nefarious plans, but plans nonetheless.

“You're lying,” said a new voice. “My mum said there's nobody there and you're just 'trying to get attention.'”

A more familiar voice amongst the gaggle chimed up. “No, there's a ghost in there, I'm telling you.”

The sceptic scoffed. “Ghosts don't eat, dumby. It's just another kid, and you're giving them all the good stuff we should be eating.”

“If you don't believe us, why are you still following?”

“And miss out proving you wrong? Nuh uh. She isn't a spirit.”

“So is!”

“Is not!”

Children were also annoying. Not at all like yatagha. Maybe when the fledglings grew up under The Ministry they became boringly bothersome but, until then, there was too much knowledge-water to let go to waste. They had to drink, for one never knew what deserts needed quenching and when. It made the crowfolk a bounty of know-how, hearsay, tid-bits and whatnot.

High above the gaggle of children, Chihiro hopped between the rafters of an old barn as they entered, still bickering and bantering and bothering.

As soon as the door closed, Chihiro then bellowed, “silence! Do you have tribute?”

The believing 'so is' child, a young boy with only half his teeth, gulped and stepped forward, placing a rolled up, woven reed blanket on a conspicuously placed table that bathed in the morning sun. Without the child holding it closed, it unravelled and revealed three sticks skewering small multicoloured rice balls. Dango, a sweet treat of Samsara, spread by others that had fled that broken land.

Like the treat, Chihiro's family had travelled far from the shores of their home, Yet so strong was the cultural identity of Samsara that, outside of the influence of The Ministry, it was fascinating how many people clung to these traits. Even more than things! And humans loved things. Sometimes more than other humans. Meanwhile, Chihiro loved everything interesting, but she especially loved tasty things. Like the delectable, decadent dango dangled below.

“This is acceptable!” She hurled a piece of broken rafter behind the children, causing a sudden clatter. They turned in a panic as she descended, flipping and clambering down the beams and landing on the table. She pinched the bamboo sheet around her dango plunder and scuttled back up before they turned, and the children were startled again by the offering's disappearance. “Now, what is it you desire?”

Chihiro began pecking at the first little red rice ball as the believing-boy gulped and stepped forward and cleared his throat.

“You said you'd tell us more of that story... you know, the one about the woman who told lies?”

Another child hopped beside him. “And had a tree grow in her belly!”

“Yeah, tell us!”

That wasn't what the story was about. Not really. It's just that too many people couldn't put themselves in the big, scaly non-shoes of the big, scaly dragons the characters represented. The great and terrible truth. It was easier to digest with kids. The fancy-free of thoughtless-thinking. They didn't ask the wrong questions that grown ups did, mostly because of just how easily they forgot the harsher details.

“As you wish,” Chihiro replied. “Listen well!”

Telling the secret story of The Ministry was dangerous. Masking it as a fable? Like the seeded belly of the woman in the tale, it was planting dissent. Shedding seeds to cling to the beasts of the public at large through which to spread, or passing fruit to be eaten and that 'passing' to grow into the trees of dissent at a later date.

Chihiro pecked and plucked a green riceball from one stick, poking it between her beak and chopping it into little slices before mulching it and savouring the syrupy-sweetness before it would be tainted with bitterness she would bring up. She swallowed, took a moment for dramatic effect, and then spoke...

* * *

9th Day of Soaring Coin, 1544

“B-but Master Riku,” Sota pleaded. “That can't be. It's just an old wives' tale.”

Riku rebuked, “what is the second tenant of truth?”

Sota bit his lip, then recited, “all that which is created is born of a base source, as a nobleman's garb is woven from worm silk.”

“... except The Dragon's words,” Riku added. “Which simply create. So let us break down this supposed old wives' tale, shall we? The wife, fed platitudes and made ignorant of her husband's infidelity, piece by piece. And once we grasp the truth, you will be ready.”

Sota glanced around the room, an attempt to anchor himself back into reality. The perfectly clean meeting hall, a tatami mat floor and a humble but comfortable rug in the middle, with cushions lining the sides. Hanging scrolls with depictions of the most notable landmarks of each province, like the great ocean of Hantoka's coast or the massive circular city of the inousan's clanless people, away from the great and noble warrior houses. Sota did feel more grounded, but the rising tension in his guts only grew.

Part of being ready to be a Tongueless was to let go of what seemed immutable. After excelling for years at his mental and physical training, Sota's most recent challenges were less about the actual and instead the esoteric. Thought experiments about the actually absurd, as if plucking away the fabric of his mind to be remade into something beyond merely 'mental'. Recognising aspects of the world not as they appeared or were known by every other person, but as concepts that could be transmogrified. That fire burned not as a result of fuel being consumed but a mote of magic springing forth because people expected it to act that way. Faith made into existence.

Question everything and take nothing for granted, and something about that parable and it's message concerning not speaking ill of others was the focus today.

Riku asked, “so, the wife of the tale. Of whom do you believe she refers?”

Sota stammered and tried to force an answer, plucking at his mind for some string that would resonate the correct response. That was always the case with riddles: either the answer became manifest through non-linear thought or it did not, and you started chasing down a maze in your logic. To snag the right thought, or hang oneself as a result.

“I... I don't know, Master Riku.”

“Consider her fate, and the road on which she travelled,” Riku said. He smoothed his eyebrows, pinning them back up from furrowing. “Use your words, while you have them, to refresh your memory and your own path should emerge. As a Tongueless you must attain such wisdom swiftly and without assistance, beyond the gifts The Dragon bestows.”

“A prideful and greedy man fell to infidelity,” Sota replied.

Riku nodded. “Gathering the seed of sin and discord.” Riku beckoned towards Sota. “Go on.”

“And as he found a mistress, the man's wife began suspecting his sinful acts, and started asking and pleading for the truth. He rebuked her. Due to the rule of law, he was in his right to seek a mistress, and yet was fearful of his wife's powerful father. Thus, he sought a way to placate her.”

“And so he ploughed the field upon which these dark seeds would be cast.”

“Having found a mystic, the husband was given an unusual fruit's pit, and instructed to feed it to his wife. He fed her the seed and, from that moment on, she was placated unnaturally by his words.”

“And so nourished, evil feeding evil so that the seeds would sprout.”

The sallow logic began to worm its way into Sota's head. He paused to let it sink in. “The words are seeds?”

“Are they not? Do people not cast out thoughts, like orders and requests, to have others take them to bear fruit? Do you mean to tell me that your instruction here at The Ministry hasn't given rise to your own skills in this manner? Your lessons, watered with your blood and sweat? But what is different with the wife in this story?”

“She had no choice but to accept them. As if commanded?”

Riku nodded. “And in so doing, by having no will to resist, she was satisfied. Pure. But could you have not resisted in learning our ways too?”

“I had a choice.”

Riku chuckled. He never chuckled. “Did you?”

Sota froze, the realisation gripped his heart. He met Riku's stare but couldn't hold it.

The mentor added, “choice is the domain of the sinful. The weak. Indecision or slavery to the base instincts by making no decision. What we strive for is flawless will tempered only by discipline. Knowledge that, at any given moment, we understand the concise and correct choice. We are as The Dragon wills it and, as His vessels, we understand what must be done. And so we master the words. We cast the seed. We demand it grow.”

Sota gulped. “We use His words... and the world obeys.”

“Precisely. While the weak are susceptible to those they see as their betters, able to be misled or seduced by those potentially rife with sin, we know our word is the truth, for they are His words. Absolute purity. It is this purity that causes the seeds we sow to be verdant and strong. Now, go on. Continue the tale.”

“The woman, now containing the seed, could be assuaged by the husband. Her worries soothed by simple words and, in a mirror to the husband seeking companionship, she learned and began seeking praise from any of whom would offer it. She drank deep on the empathy and pity of the people, and supped on those who would take advantage of her placated state. It fed the seed, which grew. It overtook her, sprouting into a foul tree.”

Riku raised his hands skyward, like the flourishing sapling of the tale spreading its canopy. “And from that growth grew the deepest corruption, a fruit that any consumed would fall to debauchery and believe all falsehoods. And just as those which rise to power inevitably become corrupt and let that corruption take hold all around the root, so she poisoned all around her with the same toxic fruit, yet it was decadent and irresistible. Those that fed upon it spread and threatened to become just the same as the wife.”

“And that's how the tale ends,” Sota concluded. “A tale of how false words poison and that truth is pure.”

“Not exactly.” Riku stood and wrung his hands. “Let me show you how it actually ends. I feel you are ready.” He stood and pulled open the sliding door, then gestured Sota to follow.

Outside the meeting room Sota noticed several of The Ministry's inner circle had gathered. They all stared at Riku, who nodded to them. They returned the gesture, then hurried away as he led Sota on through the winding halls of the central temple, then towards the core vestibule of The Dragon's pagoda.

Years of living as a Ministry trainee had taught him to never even look at the passage, forbidden under the strictest tenets of their order. To Sota's knowledge, it was where The Dragon Himself resided. They worshipped Him, borrowed His power, acted on His behalf yet nobody ever described or talked about Him beyond distant, ephemeral reverence.

Sota felt the nervous tension return, only less in his guts and now at his heart. It held its rhythm and didn't control his emotions, but all the preparation he had undergone for most of his life didn't stop the feeling in his chest as if it was about to burst open. Was he truly ready? Was this the final thread of his dream of becoming a hero, binding and sewing the frayed people of Samsara into a peaceful weave? That was the purpose of the Tongueless. He had to trust Master Riku.

The old mentor guided him between the rows of teaching tapestries and hardened guards as if a microcosm of everything that had led to this moment, and so Sota let himself be pulled along, less by his own footsteps by the weight of the moment. The gravity. He walked, stiff and overthinking each step, yet unyielding.

The grand gate, painted deep red and trimmed with gold, sat proudly at the corridor's end. The senior soldiers guarding the grand barricade pulled it apart. Against the flow of Sota's inner disquiet, it pulled apart with a silent, smooth movement despite their size.

If anything, the hush made Sota's nerves fray where they had been tense. The open gate let a waft of air flow through the chamber that was gently sweet. Alluring, but like a predatory flower. The decorations and proximity to the rest of the enclave were the same, but everything felt wrong. It forced the same sense of hyper-awareness needed when entering a new location of which all Tongueless were rigorously drilled. Nonetheless, Riku entered and Sota followed.

It was no ordinary room or chamber but another outdoor space, dwarfed by a central pagoda. Intertwined arches of green-barked wood formed a tangled barrier around the tower, over which was a bridge that they now travelled upon led to the only opening. an open but broken and ruined gate. Smaller vines reached beyond the opening, small leafy buds gently swaying despite the lack of wind. Alive, at rest... or waiting.

Equally curious about the giant plant below and seeking a way to delay entering the bleak and eerie path, Sota cleared his throat. “What manner of tree is that?”

“A drenda,” Riku answered. “An exceedingly rare and incredibly dangerous plant. No matter what happens, do not touch the younger limbs, free of bark. The vines are coated with a sap that is lethally toxic to all but the full blooded Tongueless. Its roots stretch far, all across Samsara, feeding on the blood of the fallen but also protecting it and keeping it verdant. The Ministry acts above ground as the growth does beneath.”

Sota nodded and continued after his mentor, contemplative. Power given by The Dragon, and taken to protect Him in its perpetuity as a great cycle, as all good things should. Symbiosis.

That said, he couldn't help but wonder why a being as powerful as The Dragon needed such potent and varied a defence as men, drake-blooded and not. Not to mention the fortifications of both drenda wood and stone, but perhaps that was Sota being naive. It certainly wasn't a topic he had shared with any of the other acolytes, if only to ensure Hanzo wouldn't catch wind of his doubts.

Realising his mind had began to wander, Sota once more kept within the moment. He had to keep his wits about him. He was going to be tested, it was just a matter of when.

The waning daylight peeking between the living wood gave way swiftly to the gloom inside the broken gate, where braziers either side of the downward slope offered little reprieve. The walls were a lattice of drenda vines and the floor that of uneven stone and worn, conventional wood. The sound of water eased into hearing, followed by the shimmer of liquid from walls. Small rivulets of water emerged from the drenda vines and converged in the middle, into an ancient brick-work channel, where it cascaded deeper.

Its terminus was not unlike Sota's own, he realised, flowing down beyond his power, being hewn by purpose but now carried by the current. Yet he would soon wield power capable of reversing that inextricable flow, and so much more besides. All it would cost is his tongue. The words of mortal men could be corrupted, but The Dragon's own words were beyond such soiled and fetid sin, for they spoke such absolute truth. The world bent to His demand.

Trainees were taught to use Kioku, The Dragon's invocation of memory, and that the world itself bend to a prior state. It was an immeasurably powerful word, yet did nothing without truly understanding what it meant. It demanded inventiveness, to not just treat the world as perceived but what it had been. All conjurations a Tongueless learned afterwards were from this root, because they already understood all that is was and still could be. It was within Sota's grasp if he focused, and so he did.

They reached the bottom, a circular chamber. Another gate greeted them, this one aged but intact, at the far side and the water flowed down into a pool that dominated the middle. Despite the constant stream, the pond was placid and serene. Around it stood several of the existing Tongueless.

Master Riku bowed, and Sota prostrated himself to these true champions of The Ministry.

Riku said, “By His design, I bring before you one strong of will, body and mind. I bring another stitch in our tapestry, a blade for His war, and a burning soul to reach a mote of His true might.”

One of the Tongueless nodded. His mouth opened and, even before the sound struck, the water rippled from the reverberation as he bellowed, “tachiagaru.”

Sota stood, not of his own accord but he didn't resist. The man approached and looked him over as one would grade a fish for purchase. He then moved his hands in the sign language of the Tongueless, 'he still seems somewhat raw, but I trust your judgement.' He turned to his fellows, and gestured some more, although Sota couldn't catch the movements enough to read them.

A female Tongueless approached, holding a small ornate bowl, which she presented to Sota. He eyed the contents, a liquid both dark and viscous. The light was too dim for him to scrutinise it but he smelled iron and something sweet. A third Tongueless, with a matching bowl, dipped it into the pool of water, and he held it to Master Riku.

The old mentor bowed and faced Sota. “Blessed be, Acolyte Nakamura, you hold the blood of a dragon. Just as your powers were awoken by the slow supping of His gift, granting you the power to draw memories from the material and immaterial alike, you stand now ready to imbibe it pure. To take His gift as strong as any have before you, purer than any mortal can survive.” He gestured to the bowl in his hands. “With this trace of the drenda, paired with the blood, you shall undergo the final trial. The absolute proof of your readiness.”

Riku poured the water into the bowl in Sota's hands, the dark blood swirling and diluting. Twice the poisons. One conditioned, the dragon's blood was all too familiar, and one new. He grimaced, and sucked in a breath as he plucked up the courage to drink. Face it logically, he thought, anticipate the sensations.

Sota was aware of the draconic consumption. The first few times acolytes partook of The Dragon's blood, they hadn't been told, and the sickness always claimed few of them, separating the prospective from the weak. Only those that endured the sudden, mysterious illness three times were informed that they were suffering from mana poisoning. Magic was highly toxic to the human body, but an acquired immunity was possible and, for The Dragon Ministry's inner circle, necessary. To invoke The Dragon's power, it had to come from within.

They still needed external help in the form of the paper talismans with an ancient script to invoke a Tongueless' innermost power, drawn to the ofuda they made to truly sculpt the immense powers The Dragon possessed. The power was attracted by the word but was sculpted by the shapes on the paper talismans. Some words, like the Tongueless forcing Sota to stand, were less intrusive in the greater aspect of the world, but true power relied on splitting the demand on a Tongueless' blood. With The Dragon's word, the blood in their veins and a precisely written ofuda, a Tongueless could perform true miracles.

The same blood, though thin in his veins, lay in the cup in Sota's hands. The culmination of his dream. In spite of his fear of the noxious liquid, he brought the bowl to his lips. Strong iron, a bitterness, yet a shade of floral sweetness. Both tastes faded as they gave way to a burning through his veins that numbed every other sense. A similar feeling to those days of sickness but a thousand fold. He gagged as instinct told him to vomit.

“You can do this, Sota,” a voice said. Distant, hazy. Only the humble fact that the only other person with a tongue with him told Sota it was Riku. “Conquer your own instincts. Take hold of His gift.”

All his conditioning, both obeying the command as much as drawing on his strength to resist the base urges, made him clench up and resist the alien sensations flooding his body and psyche. Soon no further voices resonated in his mind, not the warmth of the room, the feeling of the air. Sota didn't know if he was holding his breath or gulping to resist the urge to throw up, and locking his arms around himself to sate the queasiness or stop himself from shivering. Only his thumping heart stood out in the all-consuming and bleak agony.

Sota rasped, “am I ready?”

“Only you can answer that. Do you feel ready?”

He didn't in body, still ailing and struggling, but that was the trick, wasn't it? It was a matter of embodying the spirit of The Dragon. All the toxins, blood and training were to break the body into submission to become powerful in ways far more esoteric. “Yes. I'm ready.”

The other Tongueless turned and approached the large door, and one spoke, “akeru.” The door trembled, then flung itself open as if pushed by many.

An acrid scent billowed forth like a roiling wave, mingling with incense that burned at Sota's nostrils and voided the air from his lungs. It wasn't just the air but a pull. Something immense tugged at him as he staggered through the door. The hall felt like a smoky mask of something deeply warped, unnatural, yet curiosity and duty compelled him onward. Or was it even duty? Something in here was wrenching his insides. Or that's what he thought. After a moment to collect himself, he felt nothing. Even a sense of stability. Wholeness. He belonged here.

He was an outsider that belonged. That made sense. He was welcome.

Loved.

By what, exactly? What type of love?

Familial? Maternal? Romantic?

Sota didn't even understand it. He had never felt love.

Yet he felt it now. Which one? And how much?

The second one? Or the third?

Both?

But why?

And how did he know these feelings?

What was even happening?

Nothing.

Everything.

He felt sick.

Giddy.

Submissive.

Placative.

But this was irrelevant. He had conquered his trials, yet now felt conquered. He felt angry. He could work with angry. Determined. Sota was here now, in this... place of which he had never been before. It gave him a tether through which to apply that determination.

Maybe it was the relief of enduring the toxin that made any change of scenery more appealing, the grass always being greener as it were, but maybe it was a trap. Nothing felt certain here. The only certainty was the floor. It anchored him as though, without it, he was going to float away. Sota truly looked at where he stood, grounding himself as best he could, then looked ahead.

The vastness caught him first, even if he couldn't tell the true scale. It seemed endless. The way the sound carried told him it was a truly massive hall, with the smoke so thick it obscured all detail beyond the phantom-like haze of lights, mere wisps in the distance.

A path.

Definitely a trap.

When in lands unknown, the obvious path was the most dangerous.

Wait, no...

That wasn't right.

The training.

Remember the training.

Follow the obvious path. But observe all others.

He should-

A hand to clasped onto his shoulder. Sota yelped and his heart froze for a moment. It shook Sota from the mental haze and he realised to whom it belonged.

Master Riku said, in a reverent whisper, “welcome to The Dragon's chamber, Sota. Only perhaps a thousand have borne witness to this since The Dragon took residence.”

Sota felt relieved at his master's touch and replied, light as a breeze, “I remember. Only thirty Tongueless may carry The Dragon's speech.”

“And so the twenty nine greet you,” Riku replied, gesturing to around him. From the smoke, the same numbered figures formed a circle around them. “Become our thirtieth, Sota. Protect Samsara from its sins, from threats without and within. Become one with The Dragon.”

The circle of Tongueless opened, revealing a path in the gloom, and Riku gently pushed him to take it. The already ominous atmosphere grew stifling as the presence of the others fell away, and he felt adrift. A silence fell on him, but not just sound but all sensation. The air grew denser, more cloying with incense as he didn't so much walk as stumble onward, as if forced to travel with struck with fever. Destiny was thickening within him, as if his blood was undergoing coagulation, making his steps heavy.

As vast as the room seemed, Sota didn't anticipate something worthy of the space, as if he expected the huge expanse to be some sort of metaphor, but no. Its purpose stood before him. A tree, gnarled and uneven, coiled and... wet? It moved in rhythm, as if pulsing. Sota took another step closer, only to hear and feel something crunch underfoot, akin to snow. He glanced down and every muscle clenched.

A vast pit, a single step away. Where he had stepped, the even stone floor had crumbled and given way to earth and a dark, blackened crust. It lined the entire expanse's edge.

“Beloved,” a feminine voice rasped, stealing Sota's eyes back to the tree. “I need you. To hear your voice.”

Sota took a step back. “W-who's there?” He went to take another, only for several hands to grasp his shoulders and arms and pulled him from the brink. Master Riku then stepped in front of him as they began to walk around the pit.

“The Dragon... the slumbering God, and she, the lover spurned. Enraptured by His voice, as we all are now. Yet as He slumbers, we must placate her in His stead.”

The twisted tree became clearer as they grew closer. Less a tree than a thick and twisting vine with broad leaves and thorns as big as Sota was whole. The immense plant coiled around the source of the voice and slick with fresh blood.

Amidst the fibrous vines, held captive, was a true dragon. Her scales were a patchwork of alabaster white and lurid crimson, stained with a perpetual flow of her own blood. Yet the growth sometimes shifted and slithered across her form, almost 'licking' the scales perfectly clean before returning to their hold.

While the presence of limbs jutted from and back into the plant, he couldn't truly wrap his head around her actual shape, besides her being lithe despite her tremendous size. She could have held a human in one clawed hand. Yet for all that supposed power, she was broken. Her slender maw was held open by tendrils, teeth fractured and many of the plant's fibres stuck inside her gums. Her eyes were laced with vines but, with more pouring lifeblood seeping between the plant's lattice of vegetal threads, Sota had no doubt they had been plucked.

“Please... speak to me,” she pleaded, laboured and becoming desperate. “Where are you?”

“W-what is this?” Sota asked, trying to turn but was held firm by some of the Tongueless. “What's going on?”

“The fable is the truth, but do not fret,” Riku said as he stood beside his student, smiling as if all was well. “All you must do is speak in His voice for her, to put her mind at ease and send her back to her slumber. Picture her as Samsara manifest: it is our eternal task to keep her at peace, in spite of her suffering. And the world gets to live another day.”

Sota stared at the ailing dragon, occasionally glancing at Riku, unable to speak even if his mind was turgid, frantic and near to breaking.

Riku squeezed his shoulder, painfully so. “She is all but dead, yet persisting by the symbiosis of the drenda. Consider her an extension of The Dragon himself, and thus is also a conduit of sorts for His power into us. It is her blood, after all, that all acolytes have ingested and taken unto themselves, becoming more than human. And this?” He beckoned to the vast expanse nearby. “Is a wound in the world, one of a few that have dotted the world since time immemorial. The Dragon himself is at rest deep below, and the continuance of our world relies on... a certain immutable persistence, and any disruption to this may awaken Him. An event that will bring an end to all things as we know them.”

“What does that have to do with this!?” Sota finally forced out, ejecting the words as if he was throwing up. He just as sick. “Why is she being tortured!? This is wrong!”

“Now, now.” Riku said and maintained his grip, but his eyes softened. “You are just the latest in the chain of our order, and we too held such disquiet in our minds, but soon we all came to understand this is a necessary evil. You see, The Dragon rests because the world maitains a form most vivid in His dreams. A time we know was in great strife, as warlords from every corner of Samsara bathed the world in blood, overseen by two dragons; this one and her mate.

“The wrinkle to this matter is she is a songstress drake. Some call them sirens. Wingless, yet with the power to hook into the souls of every living thing around them, and with voices that can enact the very same raw, unstoppable power as The Dragon Himself. Such is our power. The hidden truth; we don't derive our power from Him directly, but her. Our patron and link to Him.”

Sota breathed, “it's monstrous.”

Riku smiled, warmly, serenely. It made the bile rise in Sota's stomach as his mentor looked at the drake with an approving nod.

“It is,” he agreed. “Yet this isn't our sin, but by her mate in desperation to rip himself from her power and control. Regardless, The Dragon Ministry has long since determined that were she to pass away, her pain from the drendas hold over her body made full, her connection to The Dragon would thus be severed. He would then be aware of this ancient treachery. Aware of the failings of his creation, that his kin are so capable of such evil, we believe he would end the world as we know it in his vexation. And so she must persist, and we must keep this state of affairs of Samsara. A land of war, the bloodshed keeping its people from looking inward.”

Sota had no answers to this. He was too young for even his swift mind to truly understand what had been said. Instead, he tried to find something tangible to latch on to, as a falling man would grasp at any strand or ledge. “The wars around Samsara? We cause them? I thought we stopped them.”

Riku stroked his chin and paced around his student. “Both. While we're seen as arbiters of balance, we let the lordlings and fools fight one another and regulate the worst excesses. All whilst ensuring an ongoing enmity to everyone but ourselves in a cycle of warfare. After all, we must remain above suspicion and, if one faction were to have such an idea, we can coerce those with a grudge against them to strike. Yet make no mistake, if any one warlord becomes too cruel, underhanded or despotic, we always seek to overthrow such a tyrant. And so our purpose is clear.”

The captive dragon squirmed, straining against the drenda and causing the thorns to gouge and scrape fresh wounds, and she snarled in pain. “My love!? It hurts! Where!? Where are you!?”

“Quickly now, Sota,” Riku barked before pulling a paper talisman from his robe. “Prepare yourself, and speak the word. Forge your link with her, and your position as the thirtieth Tongueless will be attained. Fail, and risk drawing the ire of The Dragon himself.”

Sota stared at the drake, writhing and thrashing, then the ofuda. The baffling enormity of it all, of the atrocious balance between necessary suffering and endless torment. Of allowing it to continue by forcing her asleep out of the dire self preservation. Every step of his training up to this day had made him feel bigger, beyond just his physical growth as a boy but his spirituality, his ethics and desire to do right for the people of Samsara. Yet now, again, he felt so utterly small and insignificant.

Sota felt it all peel away. All the gloom and carnage a smudge in the background as a pinprick of light sparked in his mind. He knew there was only one path as duty and purpose superseded anything else. He couldn't hold back a dissonant, maddened smirk as he realised that was exactly it: The Dragon Ministry were in a mutual stranglehold of self preservation. Inflicting evil to maintain the semblance of order and peace. Causing pain in the now to subdue the true ailment, like an unskilled doctor would constantly lance the pus from an infected wound to ease the pressure without the ability to cure it.

He was about to act as The Ministry demanded, just as The Ministry acted in light of the risk of The Dragon's awakening. Self preservation. Pure, cruel, sadistic self-interest, yet so profoundly necessary, it was the only way.

Sota felt sick all over again and, either by bravery or that pervasive need, he took the talisman from Riku's hand. He felt a desire to crumple it and toss it away, to do what was right by his own soul, yet he nonetheless steeled himself, and prepared to take the step. The last necessary step. Sota took a deep breath, and spoke, “kioku!”

The female drake gasped, her eyes opened for just a moment. Her eyes hadn't been plucked: they were crystalline silver, but they failed to focus before they closed again and were sealed in by the vines. Her struggle eased, a faintest sliver of a smile formed on the parts of her muzzle not wreathed in vines. “There you are... I was so worried, my beloved... I was just being foolish. I've not slept for so long...” Her body relaxed and her breathing settled, and besides the constant throb of the feeding drenda and her slow, steady breathing, it was over. She rested, blissfully unaware of the horror of her life once more.

“So the cycle begins anew,” Riku proclaimed, his voice seeming distant and muffled as Sota staggered and struggled to remain upright. “You've done well, Sota Nakamura. Tongueless of The Dragon's Ministry.”

Titles meant nothing if Sota couldn't breathe.

The thickness of the air was now beyond Sota's ability to draw into his lungs.

He had done it.

He had achieved his dream.

Now if only he could inhale.

Sota stumbled, his uncertain steps sent him bumping into the other Tongueless, ricocheting from him towards and to the pit's edge. He stared down into the abyss. He shouldn't have. Had he the ability, he would have gasped.

A single, distant and slitted eye in the deepest depths glowered up at him. Stark white. Unblinking. It saw Sota. Everything that he was. All the enormity of the moment, the fulfilment of his dreams, the reinforcement and foundation of his life? The achievement, however grave, in becoming a Tongueless, to try and prevent a great calamity? It broke. Shattered.

That fear, that impossible fear, gave Sota enough strength to fuel his oxygen starved muscles and into a full sprint for the passage out of the sanctum.

* * *

Sota didn't stop until he was back in the enclave gardens, leaning as far as he could over the stream and ejected the contents of his stomach. Lumps and strands of mulched food filled his mouth as it all fought its way from his insides, the acidic burn on his tongue and the way it tried to rush out his nose, clung to his teeth and dripped from his lips. Sota staggered further upstream, reached into the water to both splash his face and wash out his mouth.

He hoped the bile cloud, diffusing and fading along the water, would carry with it the turmoil within. His stomach quaked and roiled, his face was a ghastly pallor, and his hands shook. It was everything. The horror he has just witnessed in his mind, the sickening air of the decay and smoke on his body, the drain of the spirit by speaking The Dragon's own words.

But most of all... that eye. It broke something inside of him. For good or for ill, Sota wasn't sure. He was still reeling from it. Only the violent squall of his stomach stopped him fleeing the entire enclave.

“The price of success is high, it would seem.” A familiar, snide and deeply unwelcome voice behind him.

Sota clenched. As if things could get any worse. “Go away, Hanzo.”

Ignorant of the desperation in Sota's voice or, more likely, in spite of it, Hanzo snickered. “Hardly befitting for the new Tongueless to be so flippant and unassertive. The fact you've been picked over me is a travesty.”

Despite how much he hated to admit it, Sota wondered that himself. They were rivals not just in personal clashes but in most test scores. Hanzo tested better in combat, Sota better in strategy, but even those were negligible. Here, having witnessed what he had, he honestly did wish Hanzo had been selected.

With no answers forthcoming, Sota didn't dignify him with a response. Instead he forced himself to stand and tried to walk away, only to have his arm grabbed.

“Hold on,” Hanzo continued. “Did you fail? Is that it? Usually once an initiate enters the inner sanctum, they either never return or have their tongue cut out.”

Master Riku approached from the living quarters, his gaze firmly on Sota. “Do not press the issue, Hanzo. He passed. He just needed some air before we extract his tongue.”

Hanzo went to speak again, only for Riku to raise a hand and beckon silence.

Riku continued to stare at Sota. “Speak to no-one. It is forbidden as a Tongueless. I granted you these moments as a mercy to recover from your ordeal, but as soon as you are prepared, return to the inner sanctum and your tongue shall be excised. From this day forth, you shall speak only in His words.”

Sota opened his mouth to reply, but caught himself, and simply nodded before gesturing in the Tongueless sign language, 'it shall be, master.'

“Splendid,” Riku replied, and offered a bow. He then bowed back, 'I'm proud of you, my boy.'

Hanzo huffed but held his tongue as Riku headed away, then whispered, “not sure why. You're not ready. In His name, I bet you'd be better suited as a replacement to Riku, and I should be the one- hey!”

Sota had heard, seen... experienced enough of reality, much less dealing with his rival as Hanzo ranted at being ignored. Sota stormed off. Anywhere but the garden, and not even towards the sanctum, nor the living quarters. He'd had enough.

Enough of everything.

* * *

Sota's lungs burned and sweat matted his hair into wild strands. The early summer air was cool, but his pace had been relentless. For a a full twenty four hours he had beat as hasty a trail to the edge of Ministry lands, towards Ryu-mon pass: one of only five gates to and from the rest of Samsara. Each a fortress, manned by a hundred soldiers and a half a day's distance from summoning Tongueless assistance. Even so, these men were far less of a threat than the pursuit no doubt in progress behind him.

Despite the danger, he afforded himself a few minutes to try and make himself presentable. He approached the gate, smoothing back his messy hair and re-tying it, then wiping his brow with his sleeve as he performed a breathing exercise used by all Ministry agents. Inhale deep, wait five seconds, exhale, five more, inhale... repeat.

He had to be calm, in control. A panicked Tongueless drew more attention than anything else in these lands, but keeping his heart rate down was a challenge. Beyond him was a fools hope at freedom. Sota knew he wouldn't truly have evaded his mentor. The blood told him he would always be detectable, but only at close range. If he got far enough, made himself too unimportant, too insignificant to be noticed, he could escape. Or so he hoped.

He had to hope, it was all he had on this wild flight. Until then, as his own training had told him, the trail was still warm.

Before him were a row of torches and both the Ryu-mon checkpoint and the great, metal and stone Divine Wall stretching as far as the next forts, too far to see except on clear days. The fort ahead was a town in its own right, comprised of visiting halls, living quarters for Ministry loyalist civilians almost as numerous as the armed contingent. It also housed a dock, connecting to the northern bound river that lead toward the ocean. As much as Sota would have preferred to board a ship, they didn't sail at night. His path led only beyond the gate and into Samsara proper.

The path narrowed, enclosed within two wooden walls, line with arrow slits and capped with downward facing iron spikes. There were people beyond it, as evidenced by the subtle glow of candlelight within, but they remained silent as Sota steadied both his breathing and his stride.

“Keep moving, slow and steady,” a voice called ahead. One of the Ministry sergeants hopped down from the gatehouse, rolling smoothly to his feet with a deft tumble, and he brandished his sword and peered at Sota, no doubt letting his eyes adjust to the dark.

Sota felt for the jutte tucked into his robe, taking solace in its presence, then gestured, 'I shall comply.' The sergeant didn't respond. Sota assumed he couldn't see the movements. Instead the soldier stood ready.

“Slow, now,” the sergeant said. “No sudden movements. Let me get a look at you.” He was firm but didn't raise his voice as Sota came into clearer view. The guard looked at his robes and frowned. “Acolyte? Why are you here? We've received no missives of any night travel.”

Sota let his arms flow. 'Not acolyte, sergeant. I am a new Tongueless. I am here to serve concerning an emergency. A grievous misdeed has occurred in a village beyond the borders, and they require a vanguard to keep the peace until a full contingent can be sent tomorrow.”

The sergeant stood more upright and lowered his blade. “By The Dragon's grace, my apologies...” He squinted at Sota, eyeing him up and down. “But you're not in Tongueless vestments?”

Sota frowned, then repeated the motions for, 'new Tongueless.' With frantic gesticulation, adding anger to his hands along with a scowl, he snapped his fingers before signing more. 'As of today, in fact. I was to receive my vestments tomorrow, but duty waits not for fabric nor seniority. Now, I demand a horse, two days rations and water, and the gate opened. Immediately.'

The watchman balked at the command. He was split between the clarity of Sota's sign language and the affectation affecting the righteous command of The Ministry against what had to be innumerable signs something was amiss.

Sota clenched his jaw and held his gaze, trying to anticipate further questions. Sota put himself in the guards shoes, asking himself why Sota would be alone, when Tongueless always travelled with a yataghan companion. Or the dubious lack of written orders with which a Tongueless could more easily procure supplies from less experienced Ministry soldiers. Many more holes could be poked in Sota's story.

“As you wish, young master,” the sergeant finally answered. He sheathed his blade and barked up a slew of commands in rapid order: the gate to be opened, a horse padded and saddled, a bundle of dried foodstuffs and a gourd of water arranged.

Sota was handed a wrapped bindle of cloth containing his supplies, which he slung and knotted around his shoulder and back, and watched the reinforced gates open, stepping through the moment he was able. Beyond, another soldier was just finishing attaching a bridle to a saddled, chestnut-coated horse. As the soldier handed the reins to him, Sota offered a quick 'thanks', in sign, lifted his leg into the stirrup and stepped up and over the horse. He was no expert, but as with any Tongueless, knew a little about a great deal. He gently tugged the reins to the side, the horse following with a turn, and he jabbed his heels into its sides with a wordless bark to spur the beast on.

“Yuso!” The voice arrived as the edge of an echo and grew stronger, buffeting Sota with air.

A vertical slit formed in front of him, parting to a darkness deeper even to the dim firelight. Sota tugged the reins to stop the horse as three figures stepped through the passage. Riku, Hanzo and one of the Tongueless.

From behind, the sergeant called out, “Master Riku!? What's going-”

Riku swatted at the air, dismissing the soldier. “Silence and stand down. This is Ministry business! And you, boy, dismount.”

Sota swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, but he complied. He weighed his options, as his training always told him in tense situations, even if this was with almost absolute certainty the end. The Tongueless quickly felt him over, stealing the jutte from Sota's robe and, satisfied he was without other tools, nodded to Riku.

With nothing to use, Sota took stock of everything else. The Tongueless remaining close, his hand upon a sword at his hip and, without doubt, a robe filled with ofuda, ready to cast. Riku remained in front of the horse, unarmed out of confidence in the Tongueless escort. Hanzo remained by Riku's side, sai at the ready, but he grimaced at the sight of Sota's mount, a lingering phobia from a bad fall and trampling during his training. It was the only opportunity Sota could glean.

“I'm disappointed,” Riku said, his voice a low growl. “I granted you leniency for breaking protocol in The Dragon's sanctum, but this!?” He almost said more, but Riku took a long, calming breath. He instead asked, “you know the penalty for this transgression?”

'Death,' Sota answered with his hands.

Riku snarled, “speak, as a traitor should, Sota! Don't waste my time pretending you are what I tried to make you. Tried to uplift you into. Now, what is the penalty!?”

“D-death,” Sota said, shaking.

“Yes.” Riku snapped his fingers and pointed down. “Kneel.”

The Tongueless drew his sword in a smooth stroke as Sota knelt, and grimaced as he felt a sharp stone dig into his shin. Sota shuffled and reached down, only to feel a blade meet his cheek just beneath the eye, a tender touch yet it drew a trickle of blood from the keen tip that flowed into the side of his mouth. A command to remain still, although Sota had taken the stone in his palm.

Riku placed his hand on Hanzo's shoulder. “It's your turn. Succeed this traitor, draw upon his blood, and we shall make you the thirtieth.”

“Yes, master.” Hanzo said, and took a few slow, seemingly smooth breaths. Yet as the gravity of the moment sank in, each draw of air becoming hesitant and forced. He stood beside the site of Sota's pending execution, and the Tongueless presented the sword to the youth.

Sota studied Hanzo's eyes and licked his blood-streaked cheek. There was no smugness. No playful jabs or sneering superiority. Just sweat, clenched teeth and white knuckles on the grip of the katana now in Hanzo's hands. The Tongueless stepped back, his hand deftly drawing an ofuda. Grim insurance in case anything went wrong.

Riku sighed, long and heavy. “Go with The Dragon's blessing, Sota. May He consume you, and spin your soul anew. Hanzo, whenever you're ready.”

Sota heard the horse nicker. He eyed the trained steed, then Hanzo's abdomen, as high as he dared to look whilst keeping his head bowed. By his pose, Hanzo had raised the sword, but was still hesitating.

Sota licked the blood from his cheek again, letting it pool in his mouth. He was now watching for the moment his body tensed for the swing. He played a scenario through his mind. The good thing about ritualised behaviour was the predictability of it and, traitor or not, Sota was one of them. He knew the strategic procedure of the Tongueless. He knew the weakness of his rival. He knew the position Hanzo stood and where the blade would strike, and where it would struggle to cut. He knew Riku, while the sole voice of The Ministry's leadership and possessing decades of training, was an old man. Almost a grandfather to him, Sota mused, but he ignored the heartache.

He also knew if he managed to evade execution try to run, the Tongueless would cast any number of spells with his talisman. Sota tried to spy the blood-ink depictions, but couldn't quite in the dark. No doubt a precisely written ofuda. He had a plan. He just had to execute it. Skill and luck.

Sota fell to the side and flung his legs from beneath him and around. They struck Hanzo's ankles, not tripping him, but forcing him to catch his footing. Hanzo lunged down with the sword. A fast swing, but a long journey from overhead to Sota's floored position. Sota rolled onto his side, keeping low to evade but also flung the stone in his hand at the nearby horse's head.

Hanzo's edge cut only dirt as the horse flinched, whinnied and reared up. His phobia mirrored the stallion in panic as Hanzo sought to bring the blade up, only for Sota to reach up and snag Hanzo's arm. He wrapped his legs around his rival's elbow and twisted his whole body until Hanzo's arm crunched.

Sword plucked. Hanzo yelling in pain. The horse's ongoing and frantic screeching obscuring other sound, but Sota didn't stop. He scrambled to up to his knees again, just as the Tongueless pointed the ofuda at him. Sota spat a spray of bloodied saliva. The Dragon's blood. Specks struck the paper as Sota charged, sword in hand.

“Hieru!” The Tongueless bellowed, but the paper fizzled, corrupted. Only a split second of surprise crossed the senior agent's brow as he drew Sota's own jutte from his sash, and met Sota's frenzied swing.

Weapons clashed, tiny sparks were shed from the impact and locked the sword in place. This wasn't a fat headed samurai that the Tongueless fought, but an equal. Sota twisted his grip up and over to give him leverage, then reversed to a pull and drew the blade down. Ungainly, but it freed the sword enough to slice the blade against the Tongueless' fingers. An index and part of the middle fell away as the seasoned combatant snarled, unfazed, and lashed out with a knee to Sota's wrist. The sword and jutte fell from their grasps, and Sota felt an elbow, a punch. He reeled, then unleashed a roundhouse kick back, high and to the jaw, then rushed at the staggered Tongueless.

A tumble, tangle and twist. Sota thrust a finger into the Tongueless' eye, a squelch a wet pop and an agonised scream his reward. Relentless, Sota slammed his elbow into the Tongueless' temple, then a open-hand thrust to the throat, cutting the scream to a choking gag. Sota used his position to roll the agent over, wrapping one arm around the Tongueless' neck and the other to lock it in place. The momentary stun gave Sota enough time to affect a pinch on his foe's blood and airflow.

Ten seconds. That's all Sota needed, and the Tongueless would be unconscious. Hanzo was reeling from his broken arm. The horse, a trained beast, was beginning to calm enough that Sota could mount the steed and make of into the night. The two immediate threats were the alarm being raised in the gatehouse, and Riku.

He cast his gaze to his mentor, who ran for the dropped sword. Riku's advanced years dulled his pace, giving Sota a few precious moments as he kept his arms around the Tongueless' neck. As Riku lifted the sword and hurried over to the grappling pair, Sota knew he'd run out of time. He had come too close to his freedom to quit now, so close he could taste life beyond the yoke of The Ministry.

So close to escape, it spurred Sota harder. The faint hope now a determined path to victory. Ministry training to oppress now used for escape. Dominance through any means. Supremacy at any cost. Secrecy by a void of supposed presence or by elimination of any notice. Purity through purpose, not by the means. Sota gritted his teeth, glanced at Riku, now three seconds away, and released his foe.

The Tongueless drew a rasping, desperate breath. Sota scrambled to one knee beside him.

Two seconds.

Sota crawled over the Tongueless, pressing his shin down on the prone man's neck again, further damaging his throat. Sota looked to stand to clash with his mentor, whilst Riku lifted the tip of his sword to thrust.

One second. That was long enough.

The withered skin in Riku's forearm flinched from the tensing muscles beneath. A total commitment to stab Sota in the chest. Sota's desperate climb ceased, and he instead dropped low and leapt ahead. Sota's cascade fell beneath the blade's tip as he sent his shoulder into Riku's knee. It bent, straightened, and almost inverted. With the sparking of old, unused reflexes, Riku let his leg push backwards. Not broken, but strained. He wasn't going to fall, and was still a threat.

Sota tumbled and turned as he sought to stand. He risked a look at the gatehouse. A dozen men had mobilised, and were on the approach. Discipline guided his actions, stopped the rising fear and anticipation as he spotted the glint of his jutte nearby. Sota snatched it up, knuckles not even having the chance to turn white before he acted. He ran at Riku, parried a desperate backswing of the sword, and swung the steel cudgel against Riku's forehead.

The steel vibrated in his hand for a second, but nothing could dull the wet pop that he heard and felt. The bludgeon was lodged a good two inches into Riku's skull, the old man's eyes welling with blood and a slow, staggered rasp seeping from his throat.

Reality sunk in as Sota staggered back and watched, eyes wide, as his mentor fell away. Not wide out of shock, but simply because he was still in the throes of his fight-or-flight. He expected to feel horrified, revolted. Something. Instead he watched as Riku, the man that in spite of his nefarious goals, had guided and sculpted Sota into a true Tongueless, nurtured him and cared for him, fell. He was mortally wounded, moments from death, and Sota just observed with... not even satisfaction. Just a matter-of-fact nonchalance.

Sota then snapped his eyes to the Tongueless, but he hadn't realised that when he pressed his leg on the man's throat, he must have crushed the Tongueless' larynx. Sota must have done that 'right'. Not just to momentarily pin the man, but to eliminate him almost incidentally.

He had eliminated two threats. Nothing more, nothing less. Not even a real threat, either. Just trimming the few threads holding him back from leaving. The training persisted, overriding any emotion, just the way it was intended.

“Master!”

The voice startled Sota from his thoughts. It took him a moment to recognise the voice. Hanzo, clutching his broken arm, stared with wide eyes at the twitching form of their mentor. Dead already, just the last struggles. Hanzo's eyes sparkled in the light, filled with furious tears and centred on Sota. Behind Hanzo, the fort's soldiers had mustered and were charging towards him.

Even if he wanted to feel remorse, or apologise, or explain, he didn't have time. He tucked his bloodied weapon into his robe and ran for the horse. The mount nickered and snorted as Sota kicked his heels into the beast, setting it running before the soldiers were in reach. At last, with far more bloodshed than he had ever feared would fall, Sota fled into the night. The horse hammered its hooves through the remains of the brazier lit path until darkness forced it into a slower gait, but still far beyond any pursuit.

Sota, isolated from all but star and moonlight and the gentle trot of hoof on path, had finally began his sojourn from the only life he had ever known and into one he'd only learned about in his studies, and leaving a wound in the world wider with his flight.

* * *

1st Day of Dying Breath, 1552

Sota placed his empty teacup upon the floor. He was tired, but it wasn't normal fatigue. It was draining to think about all this again.

“That's the long and short of it. From there I moved from place to place, worked small jobs to keep myself fed and learned about the world beyond that which we were taught in The Ministry, though always through its lens. It was difficult to shed that mentality, but one of my jobs that helped the most was as a servant at a yukaku. You know, a brothel. That helped me the most. Watching the plight of the women there, protecting them from scum and getting along with the respectful types whilst learning about their lives. But that's beside the point.

“You now know why I do what I do; knowing The Dragon could awaken at any time and it's beyond your control either drives you to despair or just wanting to experience everything you can. It's also why I try and avoid killing. I know you've driven yourself on a bloody swathe in your pursuit of Lord Kou, but knowing how easy it comes to me... I don't want to indulge in that. Nobody should.”

Hana had her head bowed, her eyes narrowed and focused. Not on anything in particular. Inward, Sota supposed. She finally turned her gaze to him and parted her lips enough for her long incisors to glisten in the candlelight. “So to summarise: The Ministry are keeping us from death from this... dragon under the ground? You cannot suggest this one drake can slay every living soul on this island, let alone the world?”

“That and more,” Sota replied. “I know it's hearsay even amongst The Ministry, but The Dragon, and I mean the actual original dragon and not the captive residing by the wound that fuels the Tongueless with her blood, is said to be impossibly powerful. His thoughts can allegedly change the world. He doesn't because he's sleeping, or at least we don't notice if he does. And even if he doesn't have this omnipotence, imagine if all the dragons in the world decided to stop being lazy, gold-nesting hens and decided march in step with His demands? Their individual vanity is what makes them susceptible to the rest of us. Given a common cause?”

Hana wrinkled her nose. “I suppose it's not as easy as slaying this captive then? To stop her from crying out and awakening The Dragon?”

Sota snorted. “Slaying, sure, but have you ever read about dragon hunting? It takes siege weaponry by the dozen, namely those dragon hunting giant crossbows. Arbalests, they're called. Even then it's a war of attrition. Death by a thousand cuts style warfare. Besides, she's stuck in a tower surrounded by a plant that's unlikely to want to give up its everlasting meal. She's also surrounded by trained soldiers and twenty nine potential Tongueless. Simply put, it's a war nobody wants to undertake, even if they knew what was in there, and given a reason to take the risk.”

Hana squinted, then nodded, ears bobbing. “I see your point. And no doubt the constant state of war they enable ensures too much animosity with one another to form any alliances.”

Sota ran his finger around the lip of his empty cup, coaxing it into a gentle spin until it wobbled, teetered and gained speed. “Around and around we all go, guided by The Ministry, so kindly supporting each faction behind the scenes by acting as arbiter.” He released the cup, which spun off, skittering and catching on the tatami mat edge. It flipped over with a hollow rattle before coming to a stop. “Everyone's too invested in keeping things as they are out of fear of something worse. Not unlike The Ministry really. Top to bottom, the country's a set of self-fulfilling scams.”

“Intriguing as this all was, it's all somewhat above my concerns.” Hana rubbed the back of her neck. “All that matters to me is Lord Kou. Samsara can burn afterwards for all I care.”

“Burning's spurned when yearning's earned,” Chihiro called out, invisible in the sombre candlelight. “Like turning worms when rice is firmed!”

Hana pouted. “Do these bird people always speak in nonsense and riddles?”

“Hatch-speak, it's called,” Sota answered. He was happy to change the subject, if only for a short moment. “It's usually hammered out of them as they grow up. Put simply, yatagha have too much knowledge bumping around their heads and only one mouth to unleash it, so they complicate what they say to make it use 'more thought'. Yatagha have to get coached a lot to keep it under control, but I'd rather she speak freely than curtail it.” He squinted into the darkness where he knew Chihiro had been resting. “Hoi, what do you mean? If you actually have a meaning...”

The yatagha poked her beak into the candle's radiance, though the rest of her still blended into the black. “No sense in burning burnable life if the fire's already stokey-smoked. Hare-na gets revenge, this I gist, but there's so much more to do! And if the land is too coarse or sticky to enjoy, then go elsewhere!”

Sota shrugged, yet grinned. “Weird way of putting it, but she's not wrong. We'll succeed in getting Lord Kou, nothing wrong in seeking something more beyond that.”

Hana scoffed. “Going into the heart of my homeland and thus my family's betrayal, dealing with the perpetrator of it all whilst undoubtedly pursued by the Ministry? You're far too nonchalant about all this.”

“If you're expecting me to apologise for caring, forget it. At this point I don't care to argue, because I do care, I'll always care, and that's never going to change. Besides, it's late enough as it is and I tried to make my point. I'm going to try and get some sleep.” Sota shuffled on his knees over to his threadbare bed. “Even you have to admit I've got to keep in Sasaki's good books or we'll be waiting months to get into Jinu province. G'night.”

Hana stared down at the dwindling candlelight as Sota climbed into his bed. The bitterness she felt held her back from wishing him a good sleep, the old bile that still lurked, no matter how often she tried to quell it. Too much rode on her revenge. The closer they got to it, the less the carefree, the flippant and the simpler pleasures Sota insisted mattered... actually mattered. They had been distractions, ways to temper the burning blade she bore for Lord Kou, but they would soon find him and bring it all to an ending, one way or another.

* * *

8th of Sighing Mountain, 1554

“But that's not a good ending!”

The child was right, of course. Chihiro knew that, musing as she licked the sticks still sweet from the sticky dango rice, but the point of a story wasn't the ending.

As celebratory as she was to their wonderment, she realised some aspects might need hammering in. Or out of them? Regardless, Chihiro crowed and said, “kid kidding? Things never truly end. A fire might burn out, but the ashes spread. A puddle might dry up, but it leaves its dusty-detritus behind. Impurities that might nourish weeds, or be swept into mud, turned to clay, and further formed into pottery. Even if it's forgotten, it exists, and will always exist. Kicking and screaming into being, mingling and lingering.”

All that ends, all that breaks, all that is unmade begins, fixes, remade. Transformed? Yes. Imitation of the original was always distrusted. Chihiro had learned all too well that her pretending to be other people spooked, or amused, or annoyed, or enraged. Never taken as is. Never the same, but it still existed if you believed. And sometimes that was enough.

The kids glanced at one another. One finally asked, “so... the story's not over?”

“The story's never-ever over-rover,” Chihiro chirped. “Not while you tell and tell it again, to others!” She rolled off the rafter, wrapping her talons around it and hanging upside down, fluttering and swinging as she continued. “And even if the lady-tree, and the misery-man, and the haunted-humans who ate the fruity-fruit still live, they're just called something else.”

The children blinked again, squinting at the dark, feathery figure in the shadowy beams. They likely couldn't see her, the spears of light pierced the gloom but helped make the black bleaker. The little truth obscuring the bigger picture, yet enough to have them ask and wonder.

The truth would come out, the seed just had to sprout first. The overgrowth would smother those that hid until it had no choice but to escape the burrow. The tongueless, The Ministry, hiding in the vines, supping on the poor drake. The future, freedom, fancy-free would come out, slowly, carefully. An unkillable idea, and if The Ministry tried to stifle the tale, it would only draw attention to it.

The weeds of eventual revolution would choke the tree. That was Chihiro's wish. Sota agreed but wasn't as committed because of Hana. Her love and... _lovey-_love was making him happy, and tired, but happily tired (and hopefully never tired of being happy). Hana didn't care about the spread either. She had cared too much for too long about 'too big' things that was actually too little, and it nearly took everything from her. Now she had a making of her own, after so much breaking.

Chihiro was happy for them. But for her own people, the crows who speak for the speechless, broken and cut before they knew what it was to be broken and cut, she would make her own path to destroy The Ministry. She had freedom, and she was yatagha. Those two things once almost brought Samsara to its knees centuries ago. She would do it again. The tossed pebble that would clack with the rock that would bash into the boulder and let loose the mountain. The start of the cascade was within her.

She flipped back atop the rafters again, casting a topple of dango sticks below. They clicked and clattered along the wooden floor, ensuring a distraction for her vanishing act as she fled through the broken roof. Evidence of her passing, but never the whole truth.

* * *

The pressure. The unassailable warmth. The glorious challenge and the musk. Raw decadence. Everything he wanted was just an inch away.

“Is it too tight?”

Hana's voice drew Sota back to the now. The squeeze of her amazingly thick thighs, the outstanding play of soft fur, the layer of healthy, feminine fat and life-smothering muscle within.

“It's fine,” he said, muffled. He could taste her on the air, let alone feel the heat a scant inch in front of his face. He struggled and tried to make progress, but that was the game, wasn't it? “Gives me something to overcome.”

Hana smirked down, her chin tucked into her velvety soft dewlap. Her eyes crested the pillowy swell of her brown and white fluffy breasts and the firmer, subtly rounded abdomen all the way down to where Sota's head was pinned. His shoulders were hooked by her crossed ankles and his temples pinched between her thighs. She shivered just a tiny bit from the flow of air from his words between her legs, the extra pressure eliciting a low grunt from Sota.

Hana wanted it. He definitely wanted it, but what was the fun in just letting him bury his face into her delicate, eager petals? A game. The silliest, most pointless but exciting of the games they had thought of so far. One Sota was determined to win.

He bunched up his neck and wriggled, the scent of her sex driving his muscles as he used the sleekness of her fur to counteract the bulk of the meat beneath. By The Dragon, was he hungry in a way only a dedicated lover could be. Enough to drive him to a desperate strength he knew he had but only tapped into in times of struggle. Probably too much for the average relationship, bordering abusive, but this wasn't the average relationship and Hana was far from an average girl.

Hana sucked a gentle gasp as Sota raised his arms, restricted by her locked legs, but dug his fingers over her hips and into her waist before loosing a primal growl and hoisting her off the bed. He rotated and dropped her, almost a slam, onto the down mattress. Sota earned scant half an inch of progress as Hana redoubled her effort to clench her thighs around his head, muffling his hearing and ability to speak even further, and going from tantalisingly close to her awaiting lips to agonisingly so. Her armour had been pierced, now he simply had to make the final strike.

He was so close that he had to take a moment to brace himself, not the least of which because of his muffled hearing meant he could only hear one thing, through the fur and flesh and warmth wrapped around his head. Hana's racing heartbeat. The sanguine rivers bursting full of her life-force. They throbbed against his ears. A frantic tempo that matched his own, sometimes overlapping and others, distinct and separate. It was them, together, in a microcosm. So focused on living and the future. The heady thud. So he made it go faster.

Sota stuck out his tongue, forcing it between his bunched lips and pinched cheeks, and finally made contact. Hana's legs thickened as she clenched, cutting off his hearing in full, yet he heard her moan reverberate through her body. Her legs relaxed for a split second. He pounced, his mouth finding her slit. The contact vanquished Hana's last resolve, and her legs draped over his back, ankles still locked but no pressure remained to hold him back as she fell back and let him work.

Free to move, he pressed his tongue deeper, tasting Hana's most intimate flavours. The warmth enveloping both taste and scent, the tang, a little grassy and vegetal, and a potent musk, as intoxicating as any liquor. He licked, she squirmed. He savoured, she simpered. Hana let loose sharp gasps in time with the long, deep laps as he pandered to both their desires, but hers first and foremost.

Sota still felt the fatigue of her endless, oceanic lust, but his spirit was dauntless. The life within her gave him the will. The fact she was to be the mother of his child, for them both to have created after being involved in so much destruction. It drove him deeper. His nose glanced against the dense, marbled brown and white fur over her lips, the tickle earning a muffled, staggered giggle.

Hana's hands clutched and bunched the bedsheets in one moment then caressed and stroked her own form the next, fingers teased and groped as she lost herself to the feeling. The absolute throes of her lust peaking. Her voice rang out and filled the room, with angry hammers of fists on the mattress in response.

Sota licked and supped, burying his face as deeply as he could into her, driven to do nothing but partake in everything she was. Hana herself was an inferno, burning away anything but raw sensation, love and only the final climax could quench her now. Her muscles betrayed her, she acted without thought. Clawed fingers raked and ripped the sheets. She then pressed her head against the mattress and tugged her own ears as even Sota's fierce effort was struggling to keep up with her impossible hunger.

He knew she was close. She huffed, hissed, gasped and panted as he struck against the last plateau, buckling to calls more primal. He stroked her hips and thighs, a final slurp of her flowing juices to run his aching tongue over the clitoral hood. Hana's back arched, a long hiss filling his ears before he kissed and tongue-flicked the nub within.

Hana released a hard sigh and gibbered, the flow of juices splattering and trickling onto the bed as she struggled with even breathing for a moment, her face covered by her palms as her ears flopped, pricked up and twisted, all rounded out with twitching and short hums and haws.

Sota gulped and licked his lips then unravelled himself from Hana's slackened legs. He crawled up beside her as he wiped her nectar from his mouth. He rested a hand on her belly, enjoying the subtle growth as her body prepared itself for motherhood. Sota also couldn't help but then slide his hand over one of her breasts. He smiled at the fullness, the way her chest rose and fell as her breathing drew stronger and slower. Her hand crept up and covered his, their fingers curling and weaving together.

“Wonderful,” she breathed.

Sota leaned in and kissed her neck and dewlap, eliciting a tilt of her head to give him access. He felt the little rumble of almost a purr through his lips before he said, “I am, aren't I?”

She tittered, turning and kissing him on the lips, her whiskers and short muzzle fur giving a familiar, endearing tickle on his face. “Oh hush. Just take the compliment. Not everything needs to be funny.”

“Made you laugh though, didn't I?” Sota returned the kiss, the feel of Hana's long teeth shielding her tongue until after a moments hesitation she returned the gesture, still growing used to expressing her passion. Sota then lifted a leg and hooked it around hers, beginning a slow but obvious climb. “Besides, it's not just the compliment I wanted to take.”

Hana bit her lip as she watched him mount her, her hands running over his slim but well muscled frame, but her eyes trekked lower, catching sight of his stiffened member. Sota knew that just one dance to the peak of her lust wouldn't be enough. She cooed, “I was hoping... wishing...”

“And so I shall fulfil it,” he whispered, an answer he had already been prepared to give.

“... yet I was worried it might be too much. I understand I've been needy as of late.”

“Something I knew all too well even before we grew this close.” Sota said, letting his manhood press against her pubic tuft. She gasped, light and airy, as he leaned closer and growled, “I'm ready. I'll always be ready. If I can't perform in full, I'll still give you everything you desire. Because you deserve it, my love.”

She did. That and so much more.

* * *