The Nakasendō wound through the hills like a weary traveler's sigh, its path softened by morning mist that clung to the cedars and blurred the horizon. Taro led the group, his boots heavy with mud, the paper crane in his sleeve a quiet tether to Hana's fading smile. The tatarigami's wail still echoed in his mind, a reminder that this road was no mere trail but a living thing, testing them with every step. Sora walked beside him, her indigo kimono catching the faint light, her amulet hidden but its presence a weight they all felt. Kenta's armor clinked softly, his eyes sharp, scanning for threats. Mika kept pace, her dagger tucked close, her usual smirk replaced by a tight-lipped caution. Jiro trailed, his sake gourd swinging, but his gaze darted to the trees, as if he saw something the others missed.
The shrine encounter had left them rattled, but Taro pushed forward, driven by the image of Hana folding cranes in the dark, her small hands trembling but stubborn. He'd promised her a miracle, and that promise burned brighter than the fear creeping up his spine. The Flame Bearers were out there, their red cords a silent threat, and now yōkai were stirring, drawn by Sora's amulet like moths to a flame. He glanced at her, her calm unshaken, and wondered again what she carried—shrine maiden or something older, something the road itself seemed to recognize.
By midday, the hills parted to reveal the post town of Magome, its rooftops peeking through the fog like the backs of sleeping turtles. Lanterns lined the streets, their paper shades painted with chrysanthemums, swaying in the breeze. The air buzzed with the hum of a festival—drums thumping, voices laughing, the scent of grilled fish and sweet mochi drifting from stalls. Taro's stomach growled, but his guard stayed up. Festivals meant crowds, and crowds meant eyes—some curious, some dangerous.
"Stick together," he said, voice low as they entered the town. "We eat, restock, and move before nightfall. No wandering."
Mika raised an eyebrow, her old spark flickering. "What, no fun? I could swipe us some mochi before anyone blinks."
Kenta shot her a look, his hand on his katana. "Steal, and you'll answer to me. We don't need more trouble."
Jiro chuckled, sipping his sake. "Trouble finds us anyway. Might as well enjoy the festival. Could be our last dance."
Sora said nothing, her eyes scanning the crowd, her fingers grazing her collar where the amulet lay. Taro noticed, his frustration simmering. Her secrets were piling up, each one a stone on his chest, but he held his tongue. Hana's hope was all that mattered.
The festival was in full swing—children darting through the streets with paper masks, a taiko drum pounding a rhythm that pulsed in Taro's bones. Stalls offered rice cakes, talismans, and wooden flutes, while a group of dancers in fox masks twirled under a canopy of lanterns. The crowd was a mix of locals and travelers, their chatter weaving tales of the road: bandits in the hills, a missing merchant, whispers of a priestess in black rallying men with red cords.
Taro led them to a stall selling skewers of grilled eel, tossing a few ryo to the vendor, a wiry man with a crooked smile. As they ate, Taro kept one eye on the crowd, catching glimpses of masks that seemed to linger too long—fox faces, painted eyes following them. He leaned close to Jiro, voice barely above the drums. "Those masks. Normal, or something else?"
Jiro squinted, his sake gourd stilled. "Festival masks, sure. But foxes? Could be kitsune playing tricks. They love a crowd—hides their mischief."
Mika snorted, licking eel sauce from her fingers. "You see spirits everywhere, monk. Maybe they're just kids having fun."
Kenta's jaw tightened, his gaze fixed on a figure across the square—a woman in a dark kimono, her hair pinned with a red cord, watching them from beside a lantern stall. "Or maybe not," he said, nodding toward her.
Taro's hand drifted to his sword, his pulse quickening. The woman's stare was cold, deliberate, like a hunter sizing up prey. Before he could move, Sora stepped forward, her voice soft but carrying over the festival's din. "She's one of theirs. A Flame Bearer. But she won't act here—not with so many eyes."
Taro's eyes narrowed. "You sure about that?"
Sora nodded, her gaze meeting the woman's, unflinching. "She tests us, nothing more. The kami protect where mortals gather."
The woman turned away, slipping into the crowd like smoke, but Taro's unease didn't fade. He felt Hana's crane against his wrist, its folds a quiet reminder of why he couldn't falter. "We're not staying," he said, tossing the skewer aside. "Grab what we need and head out."
As they moved through the market, buying rice and dried fish, the festival's joy felt hollow, the masks more sinister than playful. Mika pocketed an apple when a vendor wasn't looking, earning a glare from Kenta but no words. Jiro lingered at a talisman stall, chatting with an old woman who pressed a paper charm into his hand, her eyes wary. "For the road," she whispered. "The kami are restless."
Near the town's edge, the drums stopped, and a hush fell over the crowd. A group of dancers parted to reveal a small stage, where a Noh performer in a white mask stepped forward, her movements slow, ghostly. The mask was a fox, its painted eyes glinting, and as she danced, the air grew heavy, the lanterns flickering without a breeze. Taro's skin prickled, the same sour smell from the inn creeping in—decay, earth, something wrong.
Jiro grabbed his arm, voice low. "That's no performer. Look at her shadow."
Taro followed his gaze. The dancer's shadow on the ground wasn't human—it stretched too long, its edges jagged, with two tails curling like smoke. A kitsune. The crowd didn't notice, entranced by her dance, but Taro's hand found his sword, his heart pounding with a mix of anger and protectiveness—not just for himself, but for the group, for Hana's dream.
Sora stepped forward, her amulet glowing faintly, and raised a hand. The dancer froze, her mask tilting toward Sora, as if drawn by the light. The crowd gasped, sensing the shift, and Taro hissed, "Move. Now."
They slipped through the crowd, the kitsune's eyes following, her shadow twitching. As they reached the Nakasendō's edge, the drums started again, but the air felt charged, like the moment before lightning strikes. Taro glanced back, catching the red-corded woman watching from the shadows, her smile sharp as a blade.
Hana's crane pressed against his wrist, a small, fierce hope. The road ahead was dark, the hills alive with whispers, but Taro kept moving, the group tight behind him, bound by a fragile trust and a wish none of them could name.