Kenshin bowed, ever the ideal samurai honoring the wishes of his sovereign.

“You may return to your rooms now, Kenshin-sama,” the emperor finished.

Though Mariko knew something had broken between her and Kenshin, her heart lurched in her chest at the thought of her brother leaving, as though his presence had provided her with a last bastion. A final buffer between Mariko and imminent doom. After passing to one side of Prince Raiden, Kenshin paused to glance back at her, and the torchlight flashed across his eyes. Their darkened centers delivered Mariko a final reminder:

Show them nothing.

In silence, her brother took his leave. Once his steps had faded into the murkiness beyond, the emperor shifted her way. “Lady Mariko.” He canted his head as he regarded her. “The adage must be true. Even in war, flowers will bloom.”

Despite the disgust rising in her throat, Mariko bowed even lower than her brother had. “It is an honor to be in your presence, my sovereign.”

Another choice made. Another part of myself lost.

But honor would not gain her a footing in the imperial court. Nor would it spare those she held dear.

“It is unfortunate that it had to be under such circumstances.” Minamoto Roku smiled at her. As with his mother, the young emperor’s expression almost surprised her with its show of kindness. Had she not spent most of the afternoon in the presence of the dowager empress, Mariko might have been fooled.

But no member of this family would ever fool her again, even for a moment.

Mariko bit down hard on nothing before standing taller. She struggled to keep her voice even. “I, too, am deeply saddened about the circumstances surrounding my arrival in the imperial city. But my sadness has been eclipsed by gratitude. I am thankful to be here now, my sovereign, and doubly thankful to have been rescued by my brother and my betrothed.”

The emperor stepped closer. Too close. He stood barely taller than she, his gaze nearly level with hers. Roku’s eyes drifted across her face, as though he were taking note of every feature, every flaw. “I’m sure you are wondering why I asked to meet you here, in the bowels of the Golden Castle. It is because I wished for you to witness how we punish those who dare to challenge us. And especially how we punish foolish young men who dare to touch another man’s bride.” He glanced toward the cell at his back, his expression imbued with meaning.

Heat flared across Mariko’s cheeks as he spoke. Knowing she owed it to Ōkami—and to herself—Mariko followed the emperor’s gaze and took in the dreaded sight of the boy who’d become a source of strength for her, even in a short time. The boy who carried her heart with him, wherever he went.

This boy, who was her magic.

Covered in blood and grime, the son of the last shōgun lay in a pile of filthy straw. His chest rose and fell with each of his heavy breaths. A faint wheeze whistled from the back of his throat. One side of his face had swelled to the point of being unrecognizable. He remained silent and still as they spoke around him, causing Mariko’s heart to ache with worry.

Nevertheless, she kept her features locked. Immobile.

“Are you gratified to see the sight?” Roku asked. Again he tilted his head to one side, and the gesture reminded Mariko so much of his mother.

She forced herself not to wince. “Gratified, my sovereign?”

He continued studying her, searching for chinks in her armor. “Did this traitor not steal you from your rightful place and force you to work like a beast of burden for him?”

As with the dowager empress, Mariko suspected that Roku did not simply wish to hear the correct reply. He wished to unravel his own truths, concealed beneath the things people said—the things they felt in the darkest reaches of their hearts. Because of this, Mariko realized it was possible to err by agreeing with him immediately and offering the right response. True ladies of the nobility did not condone violence, at least not outwardly. She remembered the day she’d first laid eyes on Ōkami, when they were children. The day his father died. She’d seen the blood on the stones. The pain in his eyes. Her nursemaid scolded her for looking upon it all without batting an eye.

Ladies were supposed to look away, and Mariko refused to do so, even as a child. But if she channeled outrage now, it would come across as disingenuous. A strong affirmation often masks a denial. It was something her father used to say.

Mariko weighed the words on her tongue before speaking them. “I am never gratified to see the suffering of any creature, my sovereign. Even thieving cowards.” Still refusing to look away from the evidence of Ōkami’s silent suffering, she threaded her fingers and pinched at the meat of her palm. With utmost focus, she latched on to the pain. Let it radiate through her, so it reached her face from a place of truth.

So it masked the rising fury.

Roku stood tall, his eyes unflinchingly upon hers. She envied the emperor’s ability to hold his features in complete control, without the use of any diversions. It was a skill she lacked.

I would rather be as I am. Because this boy lacks any evidence of a soul.

Her nails dug into her palm even farther. She swallowed in an attempt to look unnerved. “But I am gratified to see my future family best our enemy,” Mariko finished in a clear tone.

At this, the chains binding Ōkami jangled. Her eyes going wide, Mariko watched him struggle to sit upright, strangely grateful to know he still retained some of his faculties. To know that a part of him still lived. As his face shifted into a pool of torchlight, her nails nearly drew blood.

Please let my sorrow be masked by my pain.

The beating had been worse than she first thought. Now Mariko could make out a terrible, glistening wound on his neck, just below the right side of his jaw.

Ōkami stared straight at her, even through an eye swollen shut.

Then—to the surprise of all present, save Mariko—he began laughing. He coughed around the sound as he leaned closer to the torchlight. The flickering flames rendered his broken face into a mass of moving shadows. “You brought the useless girl with you. I hope it was worth getting her dressed like an empress to see this,” he rasped with amusement.

Ōkami had said something similar to Mariko before. Called her useless when she’d felt most vulnerable. It had stung then, laden as it was with truth. But Mariko knew he said it now for a reason. She could see the glint of something in his gaze—a strength of will the sons of Minamoto Masaru had not even begun to break. And Mariko knew Ōkami was trying—even as he lay broken and bleeding against a filthy mound of straw—to offer her comfort by hearkening back to their time together.

To spare her from his suffering, even in the smallest of measures.

Mariko swallowed slowly, letting her vision blur. Shoring up her reserve.

At Raiden’s behest, the lock of the cell was unlatched by a waiting soldier. Ōkami raised himself on an elbow, and the emperor’s brother stepped inside to level a vicious kick at his midsection. Mariko bit her tongue to keep from crying out at the muffled thud.

“You dare to address a lady in such a manner?” Raiden spat on Ōkami before kicking him again.

Mariko’s teeth ground together. It took every bit of her remaining willpower to stay motionless. Down to the marrow of her bones, she despised Raiden. Briefly she considered the satisfaction she would feel at shoving a blade through his stomach.

One day, I will make sure he pays for every wound he inflicts.

But she could not contemplate these thoughts now. The darkness needed to invade her. A cool wash of ice needed to flow through her veins. She needed this detachment. Needed to make sure she felt everything in a single instant and then nothing at all in the next breath.

As he watched her inhale, Roku stepped closer. Close enough to touch. The smell of fine silk and the hint of camellia oil radiated from his skin as he placed a sympathetic hand on her shoulder, startling her. Roku smiled. “Don’t worry, Hattori Mariko. We’ve made certain the son of Takeda Shingen won’t forget his place, not even for an instant. For the remainder of his short life, he will not be able to escape the tarnish of his treachery.” With a wave of his hand, he beckoned toward his brother.

Raiden moved the torch closer to Ōkami’s face.

In the dim reaches of the firelight, Mariko saw the wound below his jaw, etched into his skin in jagged strokes.