Hirokin broke the surface of the pool, only feeling slightly more invigorated than when he’d first plunged in. This was his private spring, within his private wing of the Western palace. Beautiful and serene with its glittering blue stalagmites of crystal, its mirrorlike waters and luminescent vining flowers. An oasis all his own. Most importantly,

They buried the body beneath a slab of gold-flecked stone. It felt far too little, yet it was the best that they could do. Though Shurei should not have been standing, she lingered long by the makeshift grave. Leaning against the scratchy bark of a pine, she seemed to Sumire to be etching the glade

The journey east was arduous and long. Despite the size of their party, traveling by the main roads was out of the question. They were three women to a man, with more than a handful of defenseless children between them.  Kouta and his kinsmen were tradesmen, not swordsmen. To this end, the expertise of old

Hirokin’s gaze slid from the door to Kagome. Her jaw was clenched. A fine wrinkle had formed between her knitted brows. “Do not worry, my lady,” Hirokin said with a sigh. “I will handle it.” He’d been on the receiving end of Sesshoumaru’s mercurial moods for the better part of a millenium. This one, admittedly,

“Hirokin.” From the crumbled sill where he’d been resting, Hirokin glanced over, straightening his hair in the red glare of dawn. Across from him on the moss-covered stones, Kou still lay sprawled, half-naked below the waist and frowning heavily. “What is it?” “Something is wrong.” “Wrong?” Hirokin snapped. “What do you mean? What is wrong?”

The house of Inoki was cold and drear. Lamp oil and firewood had become precious commodities, not to be wasted. In the once-lustrous dining room, the family sat assembled about their meager meal in dim silence. The fine hangings and sculptures had long since been pawned for the most basic of necessities. Food and fuel.

The autumn breeze brought with it the winds of change. Sumire could no longer ignore the deepening chill within her heart. Like icy tendrils, her misgivings threaded through her, breaking at last into cold and outright dread. It had begun with the death of her long-ailing daimyo. Too many concubines, too many sons. Luckily, her

Long after Saitou had left, Hirokin remained ensconced in the quiet darkness of his study. It felt a close darkness to him now as he glared about. Yet he languished in it still. The bottle was empty. There was not a drop left. He cast it aside to the stones where it shattered and brooded