✧ Across bodies, across time—Akiko
The Emperor nodded.
It was a subtle thing—barely a dip of the chin—but in the great hush of the audience hall, it carried like a command. A stillness followed, like the breath of the room had caught itself. Every figure, every official, every servant froze in place. Not a single head remained raised above his.
Emperor Ichijō.
Akiko had never seen him before—not in person. His presence had always lived in paintings, in stories, in ceremonial records copied by court scribes. A distant force. A name behind a seal.
She never thought her first meeting with the Emperor would be like this.
He was younger than she expected—his face composed but not cold, framed by the layered silks of his imperial robes. He sat high on the carved platform, spine straight, hands resting on his knees in perfect symmetry. His eyes were unreadable—still and dark, like a pool untouched by wind—but something behind them stirred. Thought? Curiosity? She couldn't tell.
But he had looked at her.
Her. Not the Fujiwara lords who whispered from behind their sleeves. Not the scribes who waited to record his words. Not even the guards.
Her.
Behind the Emperor, seated on a slightly lower platform, were two noblemen in court dress. Their robes were impeccable, their faces faintly powdered, their expressions blank with practiced civility. They sat still, watching, though the weight of their attention didn't match the weight of their influence. Akiko could feel it without being told—Fujiwara men. Whether by blood or alliance, they lived within that vast political net. They didn't speak. They didn't need to.
This was all already decided.
And yet—
Yasuhiro and Tsukasa still hadn't looked at her. They remained kneeling to either side, heads lowered, eyes fixed on the tatami. Their silence wasn't cowardice. It was shame. She could feel it in the tension of Tsukasa's shoulders, in the way Yasuhiro's fingers curled slightly against the cords at his wrist. They weren't thinking of themselves.
A figure stepped forward from the left of the hall. Clad in layered indigo robes marked with a subtle Fujiwara crest, he carried a scroll tied with red silk. His voice, when it came, was calm and clear—not loud, but sharpened by ceremony, every syllable etched into the silence.
"The matter brought before His Imperial Majesty," the official intoned, "concerns the crime of high treason—committed not by a single hand, but by an entire house."
Akiko's chest tightened.
No one moved.
The man continued, voice steady, unreadable.
"House Yamashina, long granted the privilege of noble rank and entrusted with lands under the Emperor's reign, is hereby accused of conspiring to overthrow His Majesty, in collusion with disloyal factions, with the aim of seizing authority from the Imperial line and installing a puppet heir of their own choosing."
A cold murmur ran along the edge of the room—small, sharp breaths. Not loud enough to interrupt, but real.
Akiko felt Yasuhiro shift slightly beside her. Tsukasa's head dropped lower.
The official unraveled the scroll a little further.
"Testimony has been submitted. Letters intercepted. Records seized. The claim is not merely suspicion—it is attested. The Ministry of Justice has verified the documents' authenticity. The household retainers of Yamashina have already been taken into custody. Several, it is reported, have confessed under interrogation."
Lies.
Every word a lie.
Akiko did not speak. She did not move. But inside, something crackled like dry wood catching flame.
No trial. No appeal. Just a presentation.
That was how treason looked when the Fujiwara had already decided the outcome.
The scroll was rolled again, slow and deliberate. The official gave a final bow.
"For this reason, Akiko of House Yamashina stands before the court, accused as the last remaining voice of a seditious bloodline. In accordance with imperial law and the weight of tradition, the judgment now falls to the Emperor's will."
The hall fell into breathless silence.
And all eyes turned to the dais.
To him.
To the Emperor.
From behind the Emperor, the two Fujiwara men leaned inward.
Their sleeves lifted—graceful, practiced—shielding their mouths as they whispered into the hush.
No words reached her ears. But the message didn't need repeating.
They were guiding him.
As they always did.
How do I get out of this?
Akiko's thoughts twisted sharp and fast, panic slipping through the cracks in her composure. They have full control over the Emperor.
She looked at him—young, distant, too perfect to read—and saw nothing in his face. No doubt. No warmth. Only the stillness of someone raised inside ritual.
I'm already gone.
And then—
The words returned.
Not from the court. Not from the scroll.
But from memory.
Kami ni ukagai.
A whisper, low enough to hide under breath. A prayer disguised as a phrase. Masaru hadn't looked at her. Hadn't broken formation or drawn attention. But he had said it. To her.
"Ask the gods."
It wasn't a plea for mercy. It was something older. Something dangerous.
A ritual she had only ever heard in passing. Outdated. Obscure.
But not meaningless.
A divine appeal.
A call to have judgment suspended—so that the gods themselves could speak first. A rare, desperate invocation. Not used in centuries. Not in court. Not by nobles. Not unless—
Unless they had nothing else.
She felt her heartbeat surge beneath her ribs.
Not yet.
Not while the hall still stirred with murmurs. Not while the Emperor's silence hadn't broken.
She would wait.
She would claim it at the right moment.
Let them speak first. Let the performance of justice reach its peak.
The scroll had been read.
The silence thickened.
Then, at last, the Emperor moved.
His head lifted—not high, but enough to send a ripple through the hall. No one else stirred. The Fujiwara men behind him stilled their whispers.
The silence he created was total.
When he spoke, his voice was clear but soft—measured, formal. Every word had been written for him in advance.
"In accordance with the charges presented and the counsel received," he said, "the House of Yamashina is declared guilty of high treason against the Chrysanthemum Throne."
The words struck with surgical precision.
Akiko's mouth was dry. But her face remained composed.
"It is the will of the court," he continued, "that House Yamashina be dissolved. Its lands and titles revoked. Its ancestral rites and records struck from the official rolls."
A sharp edge crept into his pause.
"And as for Akiko of House Yamashina—"
A breath. A shift.
"—and the retainers Yasuhiro and Tsukasa, who did knowingly and willingly aid the movements of a seditious clan—"
There it was.
Unfinished.
Unfinished, because it didn't need to be.
Execution.
That was the shape of the silence that followed.
The death of not just a life, but a name. A legacy. A bloodline.
The formal court did not announce execution in plain language. But everyone in the room knew the sentence. The ritual phrasing was enough.
Akiko did not flinch.
Instead, she moved.
Not to stand—no. That would have shattered the illusion of humility and stirred outrage before she could speak.
She bowed low. Deep.
Then lifted her voice—not loud, but piercing in its clarity.
"Your Majesty."
The words broke like water over still stone.
Every gaze shifted. The air thinned.
"I humbly beg that judgment be delayed," Akiko said, her forehead brushing the floor. "That I be granted leave to perform kami ni ukagai—to offer myself before the gods, that they may render judgment first, if they so will it."
The silence was instant.
Stunned. Absolute.
Kami ni ukagai. A rite not uttered in court for generations—some said centuries. A last resort. A spiritual invocation older than most of the men present. A loophole in ritual law, meant for matters too sacred—or too uncertain—for mortal authority.
A ripple of movement stirred the Fujiwara behind the throne.
One leaned forward, sleeves rising, mouth parting to object—
But the Emperor raised a hand.
Just two fingers.
The noble fell silent.
The Emperor looked down at Akiko again.
For the first time, the script had ended.
And his eyes—those unreadable, beautiful eyes—showed something else:
Thought.
For a breathless moment, the court held still.
Then—
The Emperor leaned forward.
Only slightly. Just enough to signal intent. His silk sleeves rustled faintly against his lap.
The Fujiwara men behind him began to move. Not abruptly—but Akiko caught it. The way one turned his head a fraction too quickly. The way another's hand clenched in his sleeve. She saw the shift of weight, the glance exchanged. An unspoken motion to speak. To stop this.
But they didn't speak.
Because the Emperor was already speaking.
His voice was calm. Composed.
But under the formality, there was something else.
A thrill.
"Your request is rare," Emperor Ichijō said, his words slow, deliberate. "And no longer common in this court."
Akiko didn't raise her head. She remained bowed low, barely breathing.
"But," the Emperor continued, "its roots lie in ancient custom. And though the gods rarely answer plainly… it is not our place to deny them the question."
A pause. Longer now.
Then:
"You will be permitted to perform kami ni ukagai."
A stir ran through the gathered witnesses. Not loud. Just the faint inhale of a room caught off balance.
The Emperor wasn't finished.
"Tomorrow," he said, his gaze narrowing slightly. "At nightfall. When the veil between worlds is thinnest."
Akiko felt the ground shift beneath her palms.
He was granting it.
And not because protocol allowed it.
But because he wanted to.
She risked a glance upward.
And saw it in his eyes.
He was enjoying this.
Not cruelly. Not mockingly. But genuinely. Like a man reading a story who'd finally found a page he hadn't read before. A spark of something ungoverned burned quietly behind his noble posture.
The Fujiwara men behind him were still.
Too still.
Akiko saw it now—the flicker of tension in their jaws, the way their fans no longer moved in idle elegance. They didn't like this. Not the ritual. Not the delay. Not the Emperor deciding without being told.
But they couldn't stop him.
Not here.
Not yet.
And Akiko—
She bowed again. Deeper this time.
"Thank you, Your Majesty."
And in the space between breath and silence, she felt something new take root:
A chance.
✧ Across bodies, across time—Sora.
He didn't move for a long time.
The cold water ran down his face, dripped from his chin, soaked the collar of his shirt. Still, he gripped the edge of the sink like it was the only solid thing left.
Then—
Bzzt.
The vibration echoed off porcelain. His phone lit up again on the counter.
Kazuki: Be there in 20. Be ready!.
Right. School.
It was Saturday. But that didn't mean anything here—just another uniform day, another schedule. Class started at eight, like always. In another life, he might've skipped. Pretended to be sick. Stayed curled under blankets in the dark.
But now?
That would be worse.
He shut off the tap.
For a second, he stared into the mirror—into eyes that were finally his. Pale skin. Slight stubble. The tired shape of someone who'd been through… something.
He turned away.
Uniform. Bag. Phone. He pulled everything together on muscle memory alone. Each layer of clothing felt a size too tight, even though it fit exactly right. His own skin still didn't sit comfortably on him—not after what he'd felt. What he'd worn.
He sat at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, backpack hanging off one shoulder.
Then—
Three enthusiastic knocks.
Exactly spaced. Exactly like always.
Sora opened the door.
Kazuki stood there, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, grinning like a puppy who'd spotted his leash.
"Took you long enough," he said, swinging his bag onto one shoulder. "I was about to kick it down."
Sora stepped out wordlessly, locking the door behind him.
"You good?" Kazuki asked as they fell into step.
"No."
Kazuki's smile didn't falter. "Nice. At least you're not pretending."
They walked down the concrete stairwell, side by side. Kazuki took them two at a time, barely containing himself. His energy crackled in the space between them—untamed, loud, but never cruel.
"So guess what," he said, already overflowing. "First practice yesterday? Coach didn't bench me."
Sora blinked, still slow to catch up. "You played?"
"Hell yeah I did, told you yesterday man... I actually got to hit—like, real pitching, not the half-assed stuff we did during try-outs. Dude threw a fastball, and I cracked it. Felt it in my whole spine."
Sora gave a faint nod. "Nice."
Kazuki beamed. "Coach even said—actual words—that I've got potential. Said if I keep it up, I might bat cleanup before midterms. Cleanup! Can you imagine? Me?"
He threw his arms wide in mock disbelief, nearly whacking a mailbox as they turned the corner.
Sora managed half a smile. "Just don't let it go to your head."
"No promises," Kazuki said. "But I'll try to not forget you once I am famous."
They passed a small bakery, the warm smell of anpan and fresh dough wafting into the morning air. A salaryman rushed by with a half-tied tie. Somewhere, a dog barked from a second-floor balcony.
Sora stayed quiet. The world felt distant. Too clean. Too intact.
Kazuki slowed for a moment, glancing over.
"You really okay, though?"
Sora hesitated.
"I don't know."
Kazuki nodded once. No teasing this time. No questions.
They crossed the street toward the station.
And for now, Kazuki kept talking—about batting stances and blisters and the guy who forgot his cleats—filling the silence in the way only someone who knew you would.
School passed like fog.
The train ride. The turnstile beep. The slope of the hill leading to campus. Homeroom. Chalk on the blackboard. The hum of fluorescent lights overhead.
It all bled together.
Faces moved. Voices spoke. Teachers explained something—science, maybe, or ethics, or how to convert fractions into decimals. He didn't catch much of it. Didn't try. His pen scratched when it was supposed to. His body moved on cue. Nod. Bow. Sit. Flip the page.
He drifted.
The classroom, the uniforms, the rows of desks—none of it felt real. Not compared to what he'd left behind. His body felt too light. His backpack too empty. His eyes flickered over the clock again and again, never remembering the time after he looked.
He caught glimpses. Bits and pieces.
Kazuki laughing about something two desks away.
Asuka glancing his direction once, but not saying anything.
A handout passed across his desk that he didn't read.
The world didn't stop, and he couldn't quite catch up.
Lunch came and went—he couldn't remember eating. If someone spoke to him, the words didn't stick. He didn't even try to fake interest.
And then—
Ding-ding-ding-ding.
The final bell.
Like a needle through cotton, it cut through the blur.
Sora blinked, sitting up straighter without meaning to. Students around him were already moving—bags rustling, chairs scraping, someone calling out plans for arcade or bubble tea.
He stayed seated for a few seconds longer.
Blinking. Breathing.
Like someone waking up after a very long dream.
The final bell still echoed in the corners of the classroom when Kazuki turned around in his seat, grinning like a kid who just aced a test he didn't study for.
"Practice time," he said, slinging his bag over one shoulder. "Coach's probably already barking at cones. But hey—first official weekend slot. Not benched. Watch out, cleanup spot, here I come."
Sora blinked up at him.
Kazuki caught the look—vacant, half-there—but didn't comment on it. Just grinned wider.
"Wish me luck," he said, tossing him a casual salute. "I'll hit one for you."
And then he was gone—swept into the current of other students flooding out the door, a blur of voices and shoes and unfinished sentences.
The classroom thinned. Two girls lingered at the windows, laughing about something on a phone. Someone knocked over a chair. A group argued playfully in the hallway. Gradually, the noise faded.
And then there was just—
Silence.
Almost.
Sora hadn't moved.
He sat with his bag still at his feet, eyes fixed somewhere past the edge of the desk.
A shadow moved beside him.
"Sora?"
He flinched, barely—like a dream had been broken.
Asuka stood beside his desk, her bag hugged loosely to her chest, her brow creased with concern. She tilted her head slightly, studying his face.
"You're… a million miles away."
Sora straightened slowly. "Sorry. Just… tired."
She hesitated for a beat. "You seemed different yesterday. Like you were really… present."
His chest tightened, though he didn't know why. Something about the way she said it—earnest, tentative—felt like a thread tugging at a memory he couldn't reach.
"I was?"
She gave a faint smile. "Yeah. It's like something happened yesterday, after I left."
He looked down at his hands. His real hands. They felt foreign.
"Something did," he said softly, not knowing what else to say.
Asuka shifted her weight, the silence thick between them for a moment. Then—
"I know school days can feel endless, especially when your head's somewhere else. But…" she trailed off, then met his eyes. "If you ever want to talk like I did yesterday—I'll listen too. You don't always have to be the strong one."
The offer hit him harder than he expected. Maybe because he didn't feel strong. Maybe because some part of him remembered being there for her, even if he couldn't recall it.
He gave a small nod. "Thanks."
A pause.
"Want to walk to the station?" she asked, voice quiet but hopeful.
He hesitated. Then: "Yeah. I'd like that."