- “My lord remains at the castle,” Chiyo continued as they began their ascent from the harbor. “He does not often leave its walls. The people revere him—fear him, too, perhaps—but their harvests thrive, their shores are safe. When the Khan’s fleet came, they say the beach itself turned red.” She paused briefly. “Since then, they call him Oni Jitō.”
- “He awaits within the inner hall.”
- “Lady Akari, behold the Jitō of Aoshima — Lord Kagemori.”
The sea was gray that morning, calm yet cold enough to bite. The imperial banners sagged heavy with mist as the convoy approached Aoshima’s coast. Akari stood within her palanquin, peering through the parted blinds. The lead vessel’s bow cut through the surf, flanked by two escort ships bearing her mother’s crest — golden chrysanthemums on crimson silk, dulled by salt and wind.
When they neared the harbor, the drums began. Slow, deep strikes rolled across the water, echoed by the steady thrum of conch shells from the cliffs above. Aoshima’s people had gathered along the shore: fishermen with hands rough from the nets, women carrying infants bound in woven slings, even children bowing low enough to touch their foreheads to sand. None dared speak. The air itself seemed to wait.
Akari descended once the vessel moored against the stone pier. A line of armored samurai — her mother’s chosen guard — formed at her sides, their lacquered plates dulled by salt and travel. Before them stood another small formation: warriors in darker armor, simpler but heavier, the sigil of a coiled dragon upon their sleeves. At their head was a woman of composed strength, her black hair streaked faintly with silver.
“Welcome to Aoshima, Lady Akari,” she said, bowing with the precise grace of old discipline. “I am Chiyo, chief retainer to Lord Kagemori. He bids me receive you in his stead.”
Her voice carried calm authority, the kind that neither bent nor needed to rise. Akari inclined her head politely, the sea breeze pulling at her sleeves.
The road climbed steadily, cutting through cedar groves and terraces bright with rice shoots. Villagers bowed as the procession passed — farmers, monks, even the elderly leaning on staffs. Akari watched them in silence. Their eyes held reverence, not courtly flattery, but something heavier, born of memory.
By midday, the path curved upward to the mountain’s shoulder, where Kagemori Castle awaited. It did not glitter like the palaces of the mainland; it loomed — stone and timber shaped by storms, its walls streaked with years of rain. Yet there was grace in its austerity, strength in its restraint. Water trickled through carved channels, feeding small gardens within the courtyards. The scent of pine and wisteria filled the air.
At the great gate, Chiyo stopped and turned to her.
Inside, the light dimmed. The floorboards gleamed, polished to a mirror by decades of care. Akari’s sandals made no sound as she crossed the threshold. Beyond sliding doors of rice paper, a single figure sat waiting upon the tatami. He was motionless, seated in perfect seiza, the calm of a drawn blade in human form. The light from the garden spilled faintly across his face — what little of it could be seen beneath the black silk blindfold that covered his eyes.
It was not crude cloth, but finely woven, tied with care — not to conceal weakness, but to contain something sharper. The faint gleam of pale eyes showed through the fabric when the light touched them, like moonlight behind clouds.
Chiyo’s voice, soft but steady, broke the silence.
He did not rise. His head inclined just slightly, the motion deliberate, measured — neither submission nor dismissal. Even seated, he seemed to command the air around him. For a heartbeat, Akari forgot her breath — not out of fear, but because she felt the stillness of something immense restrained. There was no mist, no legend, no ghost — only the living weight of a man whom the island had turned into its shadow and its shield.