Dawn broke over Yamashiro like a hesitant lover, painting the sky in strokes of rose and gold. Taro shouldered his pack—provisions, a coiled rope, the short sword sharpened to a whisper—and glanced back at the hut where Hana slept under the watchful eye of old Widow Mei. "Come back with stories, Father," she'd murmured the night before, her hand frail in his. "And a wish for us both."
Sora waited at the village gate, her small bundle tied neatly, the jade comb glinting like a promise. She said nothing as they set out, her steps light on the packed earth of the Nakasendo. The road was a vein of the empire, pulsing with travelers: merchants with laden carts, pilgrims in straw hats, the occasional samurai on horseback whose gaze lingered too long.
Taro kept his eyes sharp, scanning the treeline where bandits lurked like hungry wolves. "Why Horai-ji?" he asked after hours of silence, the sun climbing high and sweat beading on his brow. "A girl like you—shrine maiden, perhaps? What wish burns so fierce?"
She smiled faintly, her fingers tracing the edge of her amulet, hidden beneath her collar. It was jade, carved with symbols that seemed to shift in the light—waves, or perhaps flames. "The temple calls to those who listen, Taro-san. My vow is old, tied to blood and forgotten oaths. But yours... yours is a father's fire. For Hana, yes?"
He stiffened, his stride faltering. "How do you—?"
"The wind carries whispers." Her voice turned grave. "But beware. The path to wishes is paved with trials. Already, eyes watch us."
As if her words were a curse, the air grew thick. From the bamboo grove ahead, shadows stirred—men in ragged ronin garb, blades drawn, grins feral under the midday sun. Five of them, blocking the way like a dam against a river.
The leader, a scar-faced brute with a missing ear, stepped forward. "Toll for the road, travelers. Your gold... and that pretty trinket around the girl's neck."
Taro's hand drifted to his sword, heart pounding not with fear, but the old thrill. Sora stood serene, but her eyes narrowed, a storm brewing.
The fight erupted like thunder—blades clashing, grunts echoing through the trees. Taro moved like water, dodging a swing, his short sword biting deep into the leader's arm. But they were outnumbered, and as a blade grazed his shoulder, drawing blood, a new figure burst from the underbrush: a young samurai, katana flashing, his face twisted in righteous fury.
"Back, you dogs!" he roared, felling one with a precise strike.
The bandits scattered, leaving their wounded behind. Taro panted, wiping blood from his blade, eyeing the stranger—a man in his twenties, armor dented, eyes haunted by some inner demon.
"Who are you?" Taro demanded.
"Kenta," the samurai replied, sheathing his sword with a bow. "Once of the Hayashi clan. Now... a wanderer seeking redemption at Horai-ji." His gaze flicked to Sora's amulet, curiosity flickering. "If you'll have me, I'll guard your path. For a wish of my own."
Taro hesitated, then nodded. The road had claimed its first companion, and as they pressed on, the mist rolling in from the hills, he wondered how many more shadows would join their lantern-lit march—and what prices they'd all pay before the end