✧ Across bodies, across time—Sora.
The hardwood floor of the carriage did not become more forgiving with time. It creaked, it shifted, it bit. The planks beneath him bowed slightly with every turn of the wheels, and the dried sweat on his—Akiko's—back acted like glue, sticking robes and skin to splinters. There was no softness, no angle of rest that didn't punish the bones.
Still, Sora tried.
He leaned sideways at first, pressing a shoulder into the slats, knees drawn toward his chest. That lasted fifteen minutes before the tingling started in his hips. Next he laid flat, hands folded over the stomach, staring up at the low ceiling where nails protruded just slightly too far. Then tried kneeling—bad idea. Every position ached in its own particular way.
And yet…
And yet.
God, this was incredible.
This was real.
He lay still now, not out of surrender but fascination, his breath slow, shallow. His eyes traced the seams in the wood above him. Crude joints. No finishing layer. Just raw construction, hammered together with purpose, not pride.
He was inside a real prisoner's carriage. A thousand years old. Authentic. Every sound—the squeal of the axles, the rhythm of hooves on packed dirt, the curt barks of command from the mounted guards outside—wasn't a simulation. No reenactment. No film set. This was history.
I'm in it, he thought. Actually in it. No plastic museum glass, no VR approximation. Just dust, wood, and the slow, awful realization that this box isn't going to open again until we reach the capital.
He shifted again, just enough to catch the light through one of the narrow gaps in the walls. The sun had risen higher. Morning now. The shafts of brightness cast diagonal lines across the floor like shoji patterns made of pure gold.
Even the way the light moved was different. Less diffuse than modern daylight, more raw. Unfiltered by pollution or concrete. He could almost taste it on the air—a crispness edged with earth and the faint musk of old pine.
His thoughts flicked to the men outside. The Fujiwara guards. Not actors, not statues behind museum glass. Actual armed men, wearing the crested armour he had once written an entire term paper on. The kind with layered leather lamellae, dark-lacquered and bound together with pale silk cords. He knew from the glimpses he'd caught last night that they wore jingasa helmets—bowl-shaped, unadorned, the utilitarian headgear of middle-ranking foot soldiers.
There were moments—tiny, fragile moments—where he felt he might float right out of his own body. Out of hers. As if the sheer historical magnitude of it would dislodge his soul like a splinter from the floorboards. And yet the weight of the body kept him tethered. The weight of being Akiko. The soreness in her muscles. The faint bruises on her side. The shackles of hunger.
His stomach growled.
Loudly.
It echoed slightly in the wooden box, almost comically loud against the silence.
Sora exhaled through his nose, rubbing at his cheek with a stiff palm. His lips felt dry. Crackling. The kind of dryness that pulled at the skin every time he swallowed. He moved his tongue across the inside of his mouth—no moisture. Just the taste of stale breath and bitterness.
No food. No water.
And yet, he didn't panic. Not yet. He shifted toward the light again, eyeing the angle. Based on the warmth, the height, the clarity—late morning. Maybe around the Hour of the Dragon, somewhere near 8:00 to 9:00 AM. The ancient Japanese time system didn't run on hours as precisely as his world did, but he had studied it enough to guess. The sun's zenith wouldn't come for a few hours yet.
They've been moving nonstop. No rest stations. No processions or banners, just speed. They're not escorting a noblewoman—they're delivering a sentence. Fast. Quiet. Efficient.
That gave him time. Not much, but time.
He licked his lips, but it only made things worse.
Still, he smiled—just faintly. Even in this. Even here. A bruised noblewoman's body in a wooden cage, escorted by warlords through the mountains to what history had already deemed her execution.
He was inside history. Not just reading about it, not imagining it.
Living it.
And if I'm going to die in the past… he thought, pressing the side of his head to the wall, at least I'll die knowing exactly what decade it was. God, that's such a terrible silver lining.
He chuckled once under his breath.
Then he winced—because even laughing hurt a little now.
He tried to shake himself.
No. No, this isn't the time to throw in the towel. Get a grip.
He sat up straighter—well, as much as the cramped space allowed—and pressed both palms against the wooden floor. The grain was rough beneath his fingers, his arms trembling slightly from hunger, but he forced the thought aside.
I have to find a way to save her. Save Akiko. Save her family. Save Tsuka and Yasu.
His breath hitched on the last names.
Tsuka…? Yasu?
Where were they?
The museum plaque—the cursed thing etched into his brain—had only mentioned Akiko. No details about the others. No execution records for Tsukasa or Yasuhiro. No mention of their transportation, imprisonment, or fate.
Did they escape? Were they killed on the spot? Maybe they were arrested later… maybe they weren't deemed important enough to record—
He shook his head, biting the inside of his cheek.
Stop. That kind of guessing won't help.
Still, the silence around them—outside and within—was deafening. In this body, in this moment, he was more alone than he'd ever felt in his life. And yet, the weight of all their lives was in his hands.
I hope they're okay…
A sudden shift beneath him jolted Sora out of his thoughts.
The carriage slowed.
Not sharply, but definitely. The rhythmic roll of the wheels dulled into a crunchier texture, gravel perhaps, or looser dirt. He adjusted his legs quickly, then rose onto the balls of his feet, pressing his hands against the wall for balance. His knees ached from the stiffness, but he ignored it.
The floor tilted slightly. Not steep—but perceptible. They were climbing. A change in elevation. The last few miles had been flat, but now the road was starting to rise. That meant hills. That meant choices.
He moved quickly—quietly—toward the narrowest slit near the top of the wall. Standing on his toes, he tilted his head just enough to peer through it.
An intersection.
A wide one.
The path ahead split into three directions: one road veered left, another right, and the central path stretched forward into what looked like a steep, climbing road that disappeared into thick, shadowy forest clinging to the side of a mountain. The incline was sharp, and even from this angle, Sora could tell it would be a gruelling ascent.
To the left, the terrain opened into a gentle, rolling slope framed by a bamboo forest. Tall stalks swayed faintly in the breeze, filtering sunlight into strips of gold and green. It looked less guarded—almost serene.
The road to the right, by contrast, was darker and more enclosed. The canopy of pine trees was thicker there, their branches pressing in close, casting a heavy shadow over the dirt path. It felt narrower. Less forgiving.
I… I don't recognize this place, Sora thought. He frowned slightly. This must've been part of the journey Akiko did on her own, in her own body.
That idea unsettled him more than he expected.
He swallowed, then looked again at the guards.
They weren't tense. Just deliberate.
Two of them—still in that black-lacquered lamellar armour, disembarked from horseback and walked to a pair of barrels hoisted on the rear cart. With efficient precision, they rolled one forward and placed it in front of the lead horse. A wooden ladle was passed, and the animal began to drink.
Water.
They were watering the horses.
Sora's hands clenched unconsciously.
The horses get better treatment than I do. Than she does.
He lowered himself back down, careful not to make noise.
No food. No water. No dignity. And yet here I am, being handled like a scroll they don't want to tear—only deliver.
He bit down the rising heat in his throat.
But this is good, he thought suddenly, the clarity of it cutting through the discomfort. If they're stopping now, it means they're pacing the horses. This is a long haul. They're planning for a full day's ride at least.
He crawled back toward the centre of the carriage, sitting cross-legged. His legs were shaky, and the soles of Akiko's feet ached from nothing more than lack of movement.
They're smart about it, he admitted. Methodical. That's how the Fujiwara kept power so long. Not with chaos. With control.
He rested his hands on his knees, breathing slowly.
Every moment counted.
Every clue mattered.
If I want to change this… I have to see what they don't. I have to think the way they don't expect. I'm not just some noble girl in chains. I'm Sora Ishikawa. I've spent my life studying these bastards.
He cracked his neck once, then winced. Still sore.
But more alert now.
The carriage hadn't moved again yet. The air outside remained hushed, save for the low groan of wood and the gentle snort of horses. He heard one of the guards say something—too far to catch the words—but there was no urgency. Just process.
The world outside kept turning.
But so did his mind.
They think I'm passive cargo. That's their mistake.
His eyes drifted to the sliver of light crawling across the floor again.
The sun was rising.
Time was running.
And he needed a plan.
✧ Across bodies, across time—Akiko
The school day passed like water through fingers—quick, fleeting, impossible to hold. Akiko struggled to keep up, the rhythm of modern classes slipping through the gaps of her unfamiliarity. Even the simple act of opening a math book or understanding the way students raised their hands in chorus felt like watching a play without a script.
She got confused more than once. Sometimes it was the subtle things—how to hand in an assignment, when to stand, how to line up during passing periods. Other times it was more obvious—blanking out when asked to calculate something, or freezing when someone cracked a joke everyone else understood.
Each time, Asuka was there.
With a soft whisper. A nudge. A notebook angled just enough to be read without drawing attention. A gentle smile that asked for nothing in return.
Akiko—wearing Sora's skin, Sora's uniform, Sora's voice—felt like a poorly cast understudy. But Asuka never treated her like one.
When the final bell rang, the classroom filled with scraping chairs, muted yawns, and excited chatter about clubs and convenience store snacks. Kazuki was already halfway out of his seat, slinging his bag over one shoulder with that same boundless energy he always seemed to carry.
"Yo," he said, twisting his baseball cap onto his head with exaggerated flair. "Guess who finally made the team?"
Akiko blinked, startled. "The… team?"
Kazuki grinned like a child who'd just been handed fireworks. "Yup. Official practice today. I'm not just a benchwarmer anymore—coach said I might even bat cleanup if I don't totally suck."
He gave her a thumbs up, all pride and optimism.
"That's… wonderful," Akiko said, trying her best to smile naturally. It came out stiff.
He didn't notice. "Wish me luck. I gotta go before Coach screams. Later!"
And with that, he jogged off, waving once before disappearing out the door with a trail of other boys in identical caps.
The second he was gone, her smile dropped.
What do I do now? she thought, panic sliding into her chest like cold water. I don't know the way home. I have never done this alone before—
"Hey."
She turned. Asuka stood nearby, backpack hugged loosely against her chest.
"Do you have time this afternoon?" she asked, tone gentle, but deliberate.
Akiko hesitated. "Ah… ehm, I—"
Asuka's gaze softened, but didn't falter. "Could you still come with me? I just… kind of need someone to talk to."
Akiko blinked. The words weren't desperate, but they carried weight. And that was when she saw it—the tightness around Asuka's eyes. The way she shifted her grip on her bag, the slight catch in her voice. She hadn't asked for company out of convenience.
She needed comfort.
Akiko's answer came with no delay this time. "Of course."
They left the building together, steps in sync but silent at first. The streets beyond the school buzzed with students, salarymen, mothers with grocery bags, and couples weaving their way through narrow walkways.
Soon, the crowd thinned.
The two of them walked side by side along a sloping canal, where grass pushed up between cracked tiles. On one side, a low concrete barrier overlooked the narrow waterway, the sunlight shimmering across its shallow surface. Trees arched overhead—broad-leafed and just beginning to bloom—casting shifting shadows over the curved pedestrian path.
The canal meandered like a sleepy serpent, bordered by fences, footbridges, and distant sounds of traffic where the main road crossed further ahead. Crows strutted along the railings. A woman jogged past them. The wind moved gently through the branches, carrying the soft rustle of leaves and the faint scent of sakura.
Akiko kept glancing sideways at Asuka, waiting. She didn't push, didn't prod.
She knew enough to let silence open the door.
They walked in silence for some time, the sounds of Tokyo softening into the background—the distant hum of traffic, the occasional chime of a bicycle bell, the low murmur of wind through branches.
Akiko's shoes made a dull scuffing sound against the pavement with every step.
The sloped canal path curved gently ahead, tracing the quiet waterway like a brushstroke through the city. Trees lined either side, casting shifting shadows as the sun dipped lower, gold beginning to lean into amber.
Asuka walked beside her, gaze cast ahead, but not seeing. Her arms stayed tucked close to her chest, hands gripping the straps of her backpack just a little too tightly. Her jaw was set. Her eyes—still soft, but distant—reflected a quiet turbulence Akiko recognized all too well.
It reminded her of nights at court, when her mother had stayed silent even as the walls echoed with the words of scheming men. The way a person carried tension not on the outside, but inside—where it frayed quietly at the edges, waiting for a safe place to unravel.
Akiko slowed her pace just slightly.
"You wanted to talk," she said gently, "didn't you?"
Asuka blinked. Her head turned, then lowered a little as if she were ashamed of having asked.
"I didn't mean to trap you," she said. "You can still say no."
Akiko shook her head. "No. I want to listen."
That finally made Asuka pause.
For a moment, the only sound between them was the soft rush of the canal below, and the quiet rustling of leaves overhead.
Then, quietly:
"My mom used to tell me that people don't notice when you're sad if you smile hard enough."
Asuka gave a short, humourless laugh, her fingers twisting the edge of her bag strap.
"I think I got really good at that."
Akiko didn't interrupt. She just kept walking, letting the space between them narrow by an inch.
"My parents are… good people," Asuka said after a moment. "They work really hard. Always have. But when they're home, they're not really… there. My mom's a nurse. My dad does something with logistics. I don't even know exactly what."
She sniffed. "They drink a lot. Not in a dangerous way. Not… violent or anything. Just… gone."
Her voice grew smaller, as if ashamed of its own honesty.
"Most nights I get home and they're already passed out. Beer cans everywhere. The house smells like a bar. And no one really talks. Not unless I start it. And even then, it feels like I'm talking to ghosts."
Akiko felt a dull ache in her chest—an ache that belonged to someone else's story, but rang far too familiar.
"They don't mean to make me feel like I'm alone," Asuka said, blinking up at the sky. "They're just tired. I get that. I really do. But… I think sometimes I wish they'd just ask me how my day was. Or notice when I'm not okay."
She fell quiet, the last few words like a breath finally exhaled after holding it in too long.
They reached a footbridge crossing over the canal, the water beneath rippling in gentle spirals. Asuka leaned against the railing, both arms resting across it, watching the reflections drift and distort with every gust of wind.
Akiko stopped beside her.
"Thank you for telling me," she said, voice low, steady. "I know that's not easy."
Asuka didn't answer right away. But then she said, very softly, "You're easy to talk to, Sora."
The name stung—not because she said it, but because of what it meant.
Akiko wasn't him.
And yet… she had to be. For now. For Asuka. For everyone.
"I'm glad I could be here," she replied, watching the water with her.
A bird flitted past overhead, its shadow crossing the stone under their feet.
And for a brief, fragile moment, Akiko felt something that almost resembled peace.
Not because things were fixed.
But because someone had chosen to trust her with what was broken.
✧ Across bodies, across time—Sora.
The guards had finished packing the barrels, their wooden lids secured tight with rope and tucked into the rear of the supply cart. Sora had watched it all through the thin slats, a sliver of hope tightening in his chest with every movement.
Maybe they'll give me some water, he thought, hands dry, mouth aching with thirst. Just a ladle. Just a sip.
But no one came.
The hope dissolved like ash on his tongue.
The Fujiwara men barked clipped orders, mounted up, and resumed their practiced pace. The entire stop hadn't lasted more than half an hour. Enough time for the soldiers to eat, drink, relieve themselves, and laugh quietly among each other.
But not for him.
Not for her.
Not a single glance toward the prisoner's cart.
Still, Sora found a strange sort of solace—not in comfort, but in stability. The stillness of that half hour had numbed his back to the bruises, and for once, the floor hadn't shifted beneath him. Even a temporary absence of jostling felt like mercy.
But just as quickly as the break began, it ended.
The horses were strapped back on.
And the moment the first hoof struck gravel, Sora felt it: the incline.
Not a gentle hill. Not a rolling countryside path.
This was a climb.
He had hoped—prayed—that they would take one of the flanking routes. The left, with its golden bamboo and wide open spaces. Or the right, through the cool shadowed pine, cloaked in green.
But no.
They had chosen straight ahead.
The mountain road.
And it was worse than he feared.
The wheels jolted over uneven stone, and the carriage groaned with every sudden pitch. Sora slammed against the wall once—then again—his shoulder catching the full weight of a turn. His cheek scraped the floor. The next bump sent him forward, elbows instinctively bracing. His knees hit wood. He bit his lip to stop from crying out.
The body he was in—Akiko's body—wasn't built for this.
She was light. Small. Delicate.
Every bruise echoed sharper. Every tumble reverberated deeper.
His own body would've fared better, with broader shoulders and stronger legs. But inside this frame, every jolt felt exaggerated, the damage amplified by the narrowness of her bones, the softness of her skin.
And there were other differences too—differences he tried not to focus on, but couldn't ignore.
The way her hips shifted when he tried to brace against the floor. The way her hair stuck to her neck with sweat. The subtle but constant pressure of her chest against the floorboards whenever the cart threw him forward.
He was aware of her body in a way he wished he wasn't.
Not because he felt ashamed.
But because he didn't want to disrespect it.
This body has suffered enough.
He closed his eyes, trying to center himself, breathing through the nausea and aches. Time blurred. The sunlight changed angles. Shadows stretched through the gaps in the cart like prison bars.
And then—finally—the ascent eased.
The wheels stopped straining.
The clatter softened.
Sora shifted upright, his spine aching, and crawled slowly toward the slats. His fingers trembled slightly as he reached for the edge, eyes peering through.
What he saw stopped his breath.
A wide, flat clearing lay ahead, nestled on the mountain's shoulder. The forest peeled back here, revealing a cluster of weathered buildings surrounded by low stone walls. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys. The central structure bore a familiar shape—long, low, with painted screens and a curved thatched roof. A red torii gate stood guard at the far end, casting a crooked shadow in the afternoon sun.
Sora's heart kicked hard in his chest.
I know this place.
It hit him all at once—the memory not just visual, but physical. The weight of exhaustion in Akiko's limbs. The smell of roasted venison. The sting of arrows whistling past.
This was the inn.
The inn.
The one Tsukasa had carried him to. The one Yasuhiro had paid for with real coin. The one where, after the chaos and blood, they had let him collapse into their arms.
He'd been here.
She had been here.
Only then, he had been her.
And now…
Now he was her again.
But alone.
The carriage began to slow, the wheels easing over stone instead of dirt, the horses' hooves clicking like distant drums against the path.
Then came a noise—shing—sharp and distinct.
A blade being drawn.
Sora flinched, pressing his eye closer to the gap. It wasn't a violent sound. Not battle. Not danger. It was rhythmic.
Training?
From his limited view, he could just make out a figure near the treeline, separate from the rest of the escort, standing alone beneath a cedar where the shadow met the clearing. The man moved with precise, practiced steps—wide stances, fluid turns, a two-handed grip guiding his blade through the air like a calligraphy brush on invisible paper.
That form… it's not just sparring, Sora realized. He's drilling. Kata.
The man's hakama swayed with each motion, dark fabric slashing against the wind. His upper robes were stripped away, revealing a tightly wrapped torso—bandages just barely visible beneath a sweat-damp underlayer. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with dark, dishevelled hair tied in a short knot. Every movement was focused, each strike clean despite the tremble that followed.
He was injured. Still healing.
Sora squinted, brow furrowed.
Have I… seen him before?
There was something about the way he looked, his hair, his posture—the scars.
Something pulled at the edge of his memory—not sharp, not urgent, just a faint echo. Like a name he should remember. Like a moment he had forgotten to carry.
The man paused mid-swing, blade held overhead, eyes fixed on something only he could see.
And then he moved again—faster now, the wind catching his motion like it remembered him too.
Sora watched, silent.
He didn't speak. Didn't blink.
He didn't know who the man was.
Not fully.
But something in him did.