“I … apologize, my sovereign.” Raiden’s hesitation offered Ōkami the barest glimpse into the prince’s mind, past all the rage and spite. Something about the emperor’s actions troubled his elder brother. But Raiden’s reluctance flickered once, then vanished with renewed resolve. He relinquished his hold on Ōkami’s neck the same instant the imperial guards tightened theirs. “What would you have me do?” Stepping back, Raiden bowed, again the emperor’s loyal watchdog.

“We must think beyond tradition now. Beyond what is expected.” Roku shifted closer, his nostrils flaring as he studied Ōkami’s face. “I want him to see it, to feel it—to witness his truth—for the rest of his life, however short that may be.” A spark of inspiration lighted his gaze. “Place the mark on the side of his neck.”

Ōkami closed his eyes as the chains around his ankles were yanked from under him. Resentment coursed beneath his skin as he struck the stone floor, bile churning through his throat. It was followed by bitter amusement. Cold irony. Always irony. He had but to choose which feeling to wear tonight. His eyes opening—locking on the willful light beyond his grasp—Ōkami settled on the darkest kind of humor. As a child bereft of his family, Ōkami’s humor had often been the only thing keeping him sane.

The mark was meant for the forehead. Thieves and petty criminals were branded thus. Black symbols inked their crimes onto their brows, making it impossible to shed the stain of their folly. It was just as well. Ōkami was a thief, after all. And if this was to be the first of the new emperor’s forays into torture, it was a decidedly less gruesome one than Ōkami had expected.

The scarred man unlocked his box. In it was a series of small, needled blades. He lifted two jars into the nearby beam of moonlight. The first was filled with the expected black ink. The second? A sinister grin took hold of the man’s features, stretching the spray of burn scars peppering his skin. The second vial contained a thick silver substance that glowed as he swirled it. He dipped one of his needled blades in the luminescent liquid, and the edge of the blade sizzled like fish scales above a fire, distorting the space around it.

Acid. The mark would be fused to Ōkami’s skin with acid.

Twisted and unnecessary. Meant to elicit pain and nothing more.

Pressing his filthy sandal down on Ōkami’s brow, Raiden shoved Ōkami’s face into the straw.

Ōkami inhaled. He’d fought once. It had given the emperor satisfaction to see him struggle. To witness him being beaten into submission. Metering his breaths, Ōkami glanced upward to gaze upon the placid face of the emperor. He refused to give Roku that satisfaction ever again.

The next time Ōkami fought before this weasel of a sovereign, it would end in rivers of royal blood.

“What do you wish for most at this moment, Takeda Ranmaru?” Roku asked, his tone blithe.

Ōkami wished for many things, but he refused to give the emperor any further power over him. He stayed silent, his eyes gleaming like daggers.

“You wish for vengeance, do you not, phoenix?” Raiden said softly, as he increased the pressure of his foot against Ōkami’s face. “To rise from the ashes?”

Roku smiled as he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.

“First you must burn.”

Traps of Spun Silk

Mariko kept her head bowed, her eyes lowered. She followed in the footsteps of the servant Shizuko, each of her split-toed tabi susurrating across the polished wooden hallways of Heian Castle.

It felt strange to once again don the garments of a young woman. Though Mariko had lived as a boy in Jukai forest for only a few weeks, her instincts had changed even in that short time. As she shuffled down these vaunted corridors, Mariko wished to raise her head and take unabashed stock of her surroundings. To commit every detail to memory, for she did not know when even the most insignificant one might be of use.

Instead she forced herself to settle back into the steps of the dance she’d performed most of her life.

Head bowed. Eyes lowered. Voice a whisper not even the wind could catch.

As she and Shizuko turned another corner, two young servants took their places at her flank. Mariko glanced over one shoulder, and the small pieces of silver and jade dangling from her hairpiece tinkled across her forehead in a merry chime. She used the motion to lift her gaze surreptitiously, taking in the silk-covered walls and the elegant screens of the sliding doors—some opened to allow for a breeze and some latched shut, in no particular order—as well as the delicate paper lanterns covered with cranes and roaring tigers and serpentine fish.

As her eyes returned to the floor, Mariko once again focused on the almost rhythmic motion of her footsteps. They glided in a schooled fashion, each heel in line with the other. Her kimono rippled like waves on either side of her split-toed socks. Mariko’s gaze drifted over the gleaming hem of the pale tatsumura silk.

The long sleeves of her furisode were covered with an intricate array of tiny flowers—camellias, violets, orange blossoms, and sakura—each individually sewn onto the garment by hand. Linking all the flowers were painted vines shadowed by veins of liquid gold. Tiny birds flitted from blossom to blossom across the entire expanse of the watered silk. This kimono was Mariko’s armor at court: the most ornate armor she had ever worn in her entire life. It had been brought from the imperial family’s personal store of garments, as a way to honor her status. When the kimono had been unveiled in her chamber earlier this afternoon, the wide eyes and muted gasps of those around Mariko had not escaped her notice.

She was being brought before someone important. That was all Mariko knew.

Perhaps her betrothed. Or perhaps even the emperor himself.

She took a deep breath. Strange how her fortunes could turn so much in the matter of a few short days. Mariko had arrived in Inako two nights ago, in the filthy kosode of a warrior returning from battle. Now she was dressed as an empress and being led through the Golden Castle for an audience with a member of the imperial court.

If Mariko had any desire to find humor in her situation, no doubt her task would be an easy one. The sort Ren would scoff at, and Ranmaru—no, Tsuneoki—would tease her for afterward. But the desire to laugh had been set aflame in Jukai forest, managing to burn to ash on her tongue in less than a week.

Mariko focused instead on preparing herself for what was to come.

Will I be questioned? Doubted? Made to answer for someone else’s crimes?

There was no way to be certain this was not a trap, after all. If she’d learned anything about the imperial court, she’d learned it was a place of secrets and deceit.

And with such things came the possibility of anything at all.

As Mariko’s small assemblage of women made their way into another corridor, the ceilings above them vaulted higher, and the carved screens along either side became even more ornate. Beneath her silken tabi, the floors squeaked loudly as though they were ancient and in need of repair. Mariko had heard tell of these floors. The sounds they made were reminiscent of the uguisu’s cry; thus, they were called nightingale floors. The wooden surfaces had been constructed to prevent anyone—friend or foe—from traversing across them without being heard. The fact that Mariko walked over them now meant she was entering a part of Heian Castle that was undoubtedly under heavy guard.

Beneath the layers of her kimono and its many underrobes, Mariko’s knees began to shake. She curled her toes as she walked, forcing her legs to remain strong. This dance would be a difficult one, and Mariko needed all her emotions in check to perform it well. Despite the efforts of her parents and numerous tutors, she had never been the kind of girl who could enter a room and feel at ease. Mariko had always preferred the company of her own mind to the witless prattle of those in the nobility.

Her thoughts drifted to Yumi. The maiko had been one of the few exceptions to that rule. Asano Tsuneoki’s younger sister possessed a formidable intellect and a gift for understanding what men wanted, besides the obvious. Though Mariko had spent only a few short days in her company, she’d come to believe that Yumi knew what men wanted even before they themselves did.

I would give every gold ryō in my dowry for a chance to learn the art of poised conversation from Asano Yumi.

Mariko was so consumed with her thoughts that she all but stumbled at the next sight that greeted her. Her throat caught on a slew of questions, the loudest ones threatening to barrel forth at any instant: