Morning came quieter than usual.
Normally, I'd wake to the sound of steel clashing from the courtyard, but today there was only silence — the kind that feels heavy, like the air itself is holding its breath.
I slipped out of bed, tied my training clothes, and grabbed my wooden sword. The ground was still damp with dew. When I reached the yard, Father wasn't there yet. That almost never happened.
For a while, I practiced alone, cutting through the still air. My strikes echoed softly off the stone walls. Every swing felt off, like the balance of the world was just slightly tilted.
When Father finally appeared, he looked tired. His hair wasn't tied neatly, and his expression carried something I didn't recognize — not anger, but thought.
"You started early," he said.
"You were late," I said before thinking.
He raised an eyebrow, but instead of scolding me, he smiled faintly. "Then let's see what that impatience earned you."
We sparred, but his movements were slower, heavier. I could tell his mind wasn't here. After a few exchanges, he lowered his blade.
"That's enough for today."
I frowned. "Did I do something wrong?"
"No," he said quietly, sheathing his sword. "Some days, even a warrior must stand still."
Before I could ask what that meant, one of the retainers approached — the older one with the scar across his cheek. He whispered something into Father's ear. Father's eyes narrowed slightly. Then, without another word, he turned and walked back toward the main hall.
⸻
At breakfast, Aya sat across from me, slicing her pickled radish with surgical precision.
"Father got called again," she said. "Shogun's envoys are coming."
I looked up. "Why?"
"Inspection," she said, but the way she said it didn't sound normal. "They're saying our clan's been holding back tribute gold. Father says it's a mistake."
"That's stupid. Father's honest."
Aya smirked, but it didn't reach her eyes. "You think the Shogun cares about honesty?"
She looked out the window for a long time, like she was waiting for something to happen. I didn't understand then, but Aya had always been better at reading the room. She could sense when storms were coming — even the ones without clouds.
⸻
By midday, the Shogun's men arrived.
You could feel their Ki before you saw them — sharp and heavy, like metal pressing on your skin. They wore black armor marked with the golden sun of the Shogunate. There were five of them, led by a tall man whose eyes didn't move much. His name was Lord Kenshiro, and even his presence made the air thinner.
Father greeted them with a bow. "Welcome to Ryoma territory. You honor us."
Kenshiro smiled faintly, but his words came out flat. "We'll determine that soon enough."
The meeting was held in the audience chamber. Aya and I stood behind Mother, as was custom for the children of the head family. I remember staring at the way the sunlight cut across the tatami floor, how it fell between everyone like a barrier.
Kenshiro spoke with that kind of voice that didn't rise or fall — just cut.
"There have been reports that your clan's gold tributes are missing. Records show delays in your Ki weapon shipments to the front. Your retainers have been seen conducting unregistered drills."
Father answered calmly, "Our tributes were delivered last moon. You're welcome to examine the ledgers yourself."
The envoy beside Kenshiro stepped forward and dropped a scroll onto the table. "The Shogun's records disagree."
The tension in the room sharpened. I didn't know what all of it meant, but I could feel it. The way Ki pulsed between the adults — it wasn't just energy, it was dominance. Theirs pressed down like gravity, testing Father's will.
But he didn't bend. He looked them straight in the eye, voice still calm. "The Ryoma Clan has served with honor for three generations. If someone means to soil that name, I will uncover the truth myself."
Kenshiro studied him for a moment, then his eyes drifted… to me.
"You have a son," he said. "Strong Ki for one so young. The flow of your bloodline must be powerful indeed."
I didn't like the way he said it. It wasn't a compliment. It was like he was taking note of something for later.
Father stepped slightly in front of me, blocking the man's view. "My son has nothing to do with your inspection."
Kenshiro smirked. "Perhaps not yet."
They exchanged formal bows when it ended, but the air didn't relax until the men left. Even then, I could still feel something lingering — like poison that doesn't kill right away.
⸻
That evening, the clan gathered for dinner. The usual chatter was gone. Even the servants moved quietly.
Aya pushed rice around her bowl without eating. Mother tried to smile for us, but her hands were shaking slightly. Father barely touched his food.
When I asked what was wrong, no one answered.
After dinner, I went outside alone. The wind carried faint thunder from far away — the kind that rolls through the mountains before the storm reaches you.
Aya came out after a while, leaning against a pillar. "You shouldn't worry so much," she said. "It's just politics."
"But Father looked angry."
"He's angry because he knows they're lying."
I looked at her. "Then why doesn't he fight back?"
She stared out into the night. "Because honor doesn't win against power. Not anymore."
She walked off before I could reply.
⸻
Later that night, Mother came to my room. She didn't bring a lamp, only the soft glow of moonlight followed her in. She sat beside my futon, smoothing my hair back like she did when I was little.
"Your father carries many burdens," she said quietly. "Some of them you won't understand until you're older."
"I want to help him," I said.
She smiled — sad, but proud. "You will, one day. But for now, you must remember this: when the world turns against you, truth is the only blade you can still hold."
She took something from her sleeve — a small white cloth band, embroidered with our clan's symbol: a rising blade wrapped in flame. She tied it around my wrist.
"This belonged to your grandfather," she said. "Keep it close. It'll remind you who you are, even if others forget."
Her voice trembled slightly at the end. I didn't understand why.
When she left, I lay there staring at the band around my wrist. The cloth felt warm, like it carried her Ki.
Then I heard it again — the hum from the cliff. Faint, but steady. Like a pulse deep in the earth.
It didn't scare me this time. It felt like something waiting… something calling.
And though I didn't know it yet, that sound was the last whisper of peace before everything fell apart.