The rain fell in silver sheets, turning the Nakasendō into a river of mud that clung to Taro's sandals and weighed his steps. The post town of Okabe lay ahead, its lanterns glowing like fireflies through the mist, promising shelter but also scrutiny. Taro's shoulder ached where the bandit's blade had kissed it, but his eyes were sharp, scanning the path for shadows that moved too purposefully. Sora walked beside him, her indigo kimono darkened by the rain, her jade amulet hidden but pulsing faintly, as if whispering to the storm. Kenta followed, his samurai armor clinking softly, while Mika trailed at the rear, her dagger sheathed but her gaze darting like a cornered fox.
The bamboo grove's ambush lingered in Taro's mind, not for the blades but for Sora's words: The road itself will curse you. She spoke like a shrine maiden, yet her calm held a weight that unsettled him, as if she carried the kami's voice in her throat. Mika's attempt to steal the amulet had only deepened the mystery—what was it about that jade that drew thieves like moths to a flame?
"Okabe's a busy stop," Taro said, his voice low to cut through the rain's patter. "Merchants, pilgrims, shogunate spies. Keep your head down, Sora, and that amulet out of sight."
She nodded, her face serene despite the downpour. "The kami veil what must be hidden," she murmured, her fingers brushing her collar where the jade lay. "But eyes still seek."
Kenta grunted, wiping rain from his brow. "Eyes and blades. Those bandits weren't common cutthroats. Someone's paying for that amulet."
Mika, silent until now, spoke up, her voice sharp as her dagger. "Don't look at me. I'm here now, aren't I? Bound to your fool's errand to Horai-ji." She kicked a stone into the mud, her eyes flickering with defiance. "But I'll say this—whispers in Edo's alleys spoke of a cult. They call themselves the Flame Bearers. They want what she's got."
Taro's stride faltered, his hand tightening on his sword. "Flame Bearers? What do they seek?"
Mika shrugged, rain streaking her tangled hair. "Power. Wishes. The usual. They say the temple's kami grants more than one wish if you control its heart. That amulet's part of it, I'd wager."
Sora's eyes darkened, but she said nothing, her silence louder than the storm. Taro's gut twisted—Hana's life depended on this journey, yet every step seemed to unravel new dangers. He thought of her, curled under Widow Mei's quilts, her breath shallow but her spirit fierce. Hold on, little one, he thought. The road's long, but I'm coming.
Okabe's gates loomed ahead, flanked by lanterns that swayed in the wind, their light casting eerie patterns on the wooden walls. The post town bustled despite the rain—merchants haggling over sake barrels, pilgrims chanting prayers, a geisha's shamisen drifting from an inn. Taro led the group to a modest teahouse, its paper screens glowing warmly, and secured a corner table with a view of the door.
The owner, a wiry woman with eyes like a hawk, served them steaming bowls of soba, her gaze lingering on Sora. "Travelers to Horai-ji, eh?" she said, setting down a tray of pickled radish. "Not many take that road these days. They say the kami's grown restless, and the path's haunted by more than spirits."
Kenta leaned forward, his voice low. "What do you mean, old mother?"
She smirked, wiping her hands on her apron. "Bandits are the least of it. Yokai stir in the hills—kappa, kitsune, worse. And there's talk of a priestess, cloaked in black, gathering men to her cause. They seek the temple's secret, same as you."
Taro's hand paused over his chopsticks. "This priestess—who is she?"
The woman shrugged, already turning away. "No one knows her face. But her followers wear red cords round their wrists. Watch for them."
As she shuffled off, Mika leaned in, her voice a hiss. "Red cords. Saw one on a merchant in the market yesterday. We're being watched."
Sora sipped her tea, unperturbed. "The road tests those who walk it," she said softly. "The priestess seeks what she cannot claim. But we must press on."
Taro's jaw tightened. He wanted to shake answers from her, to know why this amulet drew blood and whispers, but the memory of Hana's frail hand stayed him. "Eat," he said gruffly. "We rest tonight, move at dawn. No more surprises."
But as the rain drummed on the roof and the teahouse's lanterns flickered, a shadow moved outside the screen—a figure in a hooded cloak, a red cord glinting at its wrist. Taro's hand found his sword, and in the dim light, Sora's amulet pulsed once, sharp and bright, like a heartbeat calling to the dark