✧ Across bodies, across time—Akiko.
The court dissolved slowly.
No one dared speak above a whisper. Some officials bowed and stepped back, others simply turned with the silent precision of practiced ceremony. The guards at the door remained still, their hands on polished hilts, but even they seemed uncertain now—held in a breath that no one had yet exhaled.
Akiko remained bowed. So did the two figures to either side of her.
Yasuhiro and Tsukasa.
They had not moved during the entire pronouncement—not when the charges were read, not even when the words high treason passed the Emperor's lips, and not even when the delay was granted. But now… now Tsukasa exhaled slowly, his spine sagging just slightly. His hands, still bound with ceremonial cord, trembled.
Yasuhiro, the elder of the two, straightened his spine.
When a court official gestured for them to rise, he obeyed—but not before turning his head just enough to meet her eyes.
"Lady Akiko," he said, voice low, barely above breath. "We are so sorry. Please stay strong."
She didn't answer aloud.
She only met his gaze and nodded once—small, sharp, deliberate.
It was enough.
Two guards stepped forward, escorting the men away with quiet efficiency. They did not resist. They did not look back.
Akiko remained kneeling.
Until the same official gestured.
Her turn.
She stood.
The cords around her wrists had been removed, yet the weight remained. Not in her limbs, but behind her ribs.
The guards who flanked her were different now—quiet, polished, deliberate. One moved to her left, another to her right. Not as jailers, but as ritual escorts.
No chains. No words.
They led her out of the hall, into the deepening corridors beyond.
And the last she saw of the court was a glint of gold and purple silk—the Fujiwara woman turning in silence, blackened teeth gleaming faintly in the half-light, as if to remind Akiko that this delay was only borrowed time.
Her eyes lifted—just briefly—to the dais.
Emperor Ichijō was still seated, unmoving. His gaze had returned to its mask of serenity. If not for the words he had just spoken, Akiko might've believed the whole scene a dream.
But what drew her attention now… was not the throne.
It was behind it.
Two of the Fujiwara men remained seated in their elevated tier—still, composed, unreadable. But a third figure had stepped closer.
She was older than Akiko had expected—not aged, exactly, but past her prime in a way that Heian beauty standards did not forgive. Yet her bearing was pristine. Every fold of her purple and gold robes glimmered with authority. Her face was painted white with rice powder, her eyebrows plucked and painted high, and her teeth—blackened lacquer, ohaguro—gleamed faintly as she spoke with quiet precision to the Emperor.
To anyone else, the exchange might have seemed like a whisper between respected court figures.
But Akiko saw more.
The Emperor didn't move. Not visibly. But something about the tension in his shoulder—a faint tightening, then loosening—betrayed the pressure of that voice. She watched his lashes dip, his mouth purse subtly as if in acknowledgment… or reluctance.
The lady didn't bow. She didn't need to.
Purple and gold. The imperial colours reserved for those with absolute standing.
That had to be her.
The Fujiwara matriarch.
Akiko didn't know her name.
But she didn't need it.
In this world, power introduced itself.
And power watched her now.
Only for a moment. The lady's gaze did not meet Akiko's—not directly—but it flicked toward her, measured and effortless, like an artisan inspecting the fault in a porcelain bowl.
Then the purple sleeves turned. The woman glided away behind the dais, swallowed by shadow and incense.
The moment passed.
But its weight did not.
A quiet step approached behind her. One of the court guards.
He didn't speak, only gestured.
Time to go.
Akiko followed.
Not back to the cell. Not yet. The path they took wound through quieter corridors—less ornate, but no less sacred. She recognized the faint scent of camellia oil and dried rice straw, the way the footsteps softened once they left the central hall. The Emperor had given her a delay.
But he had not given her safety.
Not yet.
Still, she walked with calm, her gaze steady ahead.
If this was to be her final day, then she would meet it on her feet.
And she would remember the look behind the Emperor's eyes.
And the woman cloaked in purple flame.
They didn't blindfold her.
But for a time, it wouldn't have mattered. Her vision tunnelled. Her body moved on habit alone, every step tracing itself between instinct and exhaustion.
Two guards flanked her. Not the same ones who had brought her to court. These men wore different colours—stone-grey and black, with lacquered crests she didn't recognize. Their sleeves were tight to the wrist, their gait quiet, their presence weightless but constant. They said nothing. Neither did she.
They didn't take her through the main corridors. No gold-inlaid ceilings. No polished cedar beams. This was a side route—servants' paths and cloistered walks that curved behind the audience chamber, like veins beneath skin. The noise of court life faded behind them: no whispers, no sandals clacking on lacquer floors, no ceremonial voices.
Just wind.
Just footsteps.
They exited through a narrow gate, past a garden overrun with camellia leaves. Then out into the city.
Akiko's breath caught faintly.
The outer walls of the palace compound stood tall behind them now, framed in orange dusk. A pair of guards watched from a distance but didn't stop them. Her path—her body—had been spoken for. Official. Uncontested.
They were really taking her through the capital.
She walked, head high. Even now.
People didn't recognize her.
Of course they didn't—her robe was dirtied, not washed in a long time. She wasn't Lady Yamashina anymore. Not a noble. Not even a prisoner.
She was something else. Something between.
Still, some glanced. A few paused in doorways or under awnings, caught mid-sentence as she passed. They didn't bow. But they watched.
And she could feel it.
Am I a curiosity to them? A rumour in motion?
Or just another condemned woman walking toward the gods?
The guards said nothing.
Eventually, the homes grew sparser. The ground changed—from pressed dirt to clean paving stones. The air cooled as shadows lengthened, and small shrines began to appear in clusters: stone lanterns, folded offerings, copper bells that no longer rang.
Then came the gate.
Not the grand arch of a temple, but a simple red torii. Faded. Humble. It stood between two groves of wind-bent pine, and beyond it—tucked behind worn walls and a curtain of bamboo—stood a quiet, low-roofed structure. Cypress wood. Paper windows. A courtyard swept clean.
The shrine.
Her destination.
One of the guards stepped forward, rapped twice on the gate frame with the butt of his hand.
Then stepped back.
The wind answered first—shaking leaves and the edge of a wind chime. Then silence.
And then—
Footsteps.
Soft. Bare.
And the door slid open.
A single miko stood in the threshold.
She was young—perhaps no older than Akiko herself—but she held her body like someone carved from stillness. Her hair fell straight and dark, bound with red cord. Her white robe and vermilion hakama were pristine. Not a wrinkle in sight. Not a word on her lips.
She bowed, deep and exact.
Then stepped aside.
Akiko crossed into the shrine with bare feet and a dry mouth. The guards remained behind. The door slid shut with a quiet click. The moment it did, it felt as though the world outside vanished entirely.
She had entered a sealed space. Sacred. And suddenly, very small.
Inside, three other miko waited. They stood like shadows at the edges of the tatami-lined floor. Oil lamps glowed low in recessed alcoves, throwing soft gold onto pale wooden beams. The room smelled faintly of pine, rice straw, and cooled incense.
None of the miko spoke.
They circled her.
Slow. Precise. No rustle of fabric, no shuffle of feet. Only the subtle creak of old floorboards beneath them. Akiko remained still, arms at her sides, spine straight.
What are they looking for?
Injury? Curse? Filth?
One of them stepped closer. Bent slightly at the waist. Her gaze swept across Akiko's sleeves, then her neck, then lower—briefly, not indecently. Her hands did not move. Only her eyes.
Another miko knelt without a word and inspected her feet. Dirt, caked thick around the nails. Bruises forming around the ankles. She didn't flinch, but Akiko could feel the woman's breath brush across her skin.
Then came the third.
She stepped close—close enough that their sleeves nearly touched—and slowly, deliberately, leaned in to sniff.
A pause.
The miko straightened. Blinked.
Then blinked again.
Her face didn't change—her mouth stayed politely expressionless—but her nostrils flared faintly. Just once.
Akiko felt heat crawl up her neck.
Yes. I stink. I reek. Like blood, and sweat, and dirt. I haven't bathed in a week. Is that the part that breaks your composure?
The miko turned toward the others. She gave no signal. No word. Only a single glance.
And that was enough.
The three moved in unison, gliding toward a door at the rear of the chamber. Their sleeves whispered against their robes as they vanished behind it.
A faint clatter of buckets. A low murmur. The squeak of wooden tubs being moved.
Akiko stood alone in the quiet again.
Then—soft footsteps returned. The same three miko, now carrying a folded bundle of white linen, and a shallow basin of warm, fragrant water. Steam rose faintly.
One stepped forward.
She did not speak.
But she reached out—and with the reverent touch of ritual, began to untie Akiko's robe.
The linen sash slid loose. Her outer layer fell, revealing the inner robe, stained and torn from the road. The miko undid it next, then the last under-layer. Her skin prickled with the cold.
They moved with care. Efficiency. Respect, not intimacy. There was no hesitation, no suggestion of cruelty or modesty. Only duty.
The last robe fell.
Akiko stood in silence, bare beneath the lamplight.
So this is how it begins.
Not with a knife. Not with a scream. But with hands that touch you like you're a sacrifice to the gods.
The miko gathered her garments without a word.
The door to the bath opened.
Steam poured in like a second breath.
The bathing chamber was warmer than she expected.
Wooden slats lined the floor. A small square pool of water, just deep enough to kneel in, steamed quietly beneath the soft light of an oil lamp. Buckets sat nearby—one filled with clear water, one with fine white powder, and another with fresh towels folded so perfectly they looked untouched by human hands.
The miko gestured.
Akiko stepped in.
The water embraced her with slow warmth. Not scalding, not tepid. Just hot enough to soften muscle and blur pain. It soaked into her skin, into her joints, into her ribs. She hissed as her legs bent under her, the bruises along her thighs blooming under the heat.
She lowered herself fully, hair floating weightless behind her.
And for a brief moment… she closed her eyes.
This feels good.
Too good.
Three miko knelt at the edge of the bath. They dipped cloths into water, soaked them, wrung them out, and began.
Still no words.
Just rhythm.
The first cloth swept down her neck. The second wiped the dust from her arms. The third moved in long, practiced strokes across her back. They didn't press too hard—just enough to lift the grime, the dried sweat, the evidence of a week she wished she could forget.
Her body sagged under their hands. Slowly. Unwillingly.
I should be angry.
I should be preparing to die.
Not enjoying the warmth. Not relaxing like some pampered noble wife.
But her muscles betrayed her. Her shoulders eased. Her breath slowed.
One miko gently lifted her foot from the water and began to scrub between her toes. Another untangled strands of hair, working the knots loose with fingers and comb. The third rinsed her legs, pouring water from a carved ladle like she was an offering.
Akiko stared at the wooden wall.
I might die tomorrow.
I might not even be allowed to speak again.
And here I am. Sitting in hot water like a child who's been forgiven.
The cloth moved up her spine.
She flinched slightly.
A sharp pain bloomed just beneath her shoulder blade. A bruise she hadn't noticed.
The miko paused.
Then resumed.
No pity. No judgment.
Just motion.
Just care.
A small part of Akiko began to cry—not in tears, but in surrender. The kind that leaks from your bones when you stop bracing for pain, and realize how tired you are.
I bought some time, but it is Sora who has to face tomorrow.
Will he be able to talk to the gods?
Will he be able to enter the spirit realm?
The water rippled as one miko poured another ladleful over her shoulders.
The warmth slid down her chest, over her hips, back into the pool.
And yet…
This is the first time I've felt clean since it all began.
Not dressed-up. Not made presentable. Just… clean.
For the first time in days, the smell of her own body didn't rise to meet her.
The sweat was gone. The dirt. The blood. Even her hair, soaked and combed, felt lighter.
The miko moved in silence.
Their cloths had gone from grey to clean again, swapped out in a quiet rotation she didn't see.
They didn't rush. They didn't linger.
Eventually, they stepped back.
Akiko remained still, her body wrapped in heat, her skin flushed, her chest aching with something she couldn't name.
The water cooled slowly around her.
Then—
A soft splash. Movement.
The miko returned, one by one, with fresh towels folded over their arms. They helped her rise without touching skin—only guiding with the gentle offer of cloth. She stepped out of the pool, legs unsteady, skin prickling in the open air. Steam clung to her like a final veil.
They dried her in silence.
Every motion was precise.
Like they had done this before.
Like they would do it again.
One knelt to pat her legs dry, another lifted her hair to rub beneath it. The towel fabric was coarse but clean. She didn't speak. Neither did they.
Then came the robes.
White linen, folded with ritual care. A clean underlayer, a sash, and a soft outer wrap embroidered faintly with a pattern of pine and wave. Nothing rich. Nothing noble. Just enough to clothe a body meant for prayer.
The final sash cinched around her waist.
And with that, she was whole again.
Not beautiful. Not reborn.
But prepared.
The miko bowed. Then turned, one at a time, and filed out of the chamber. Akiko followed.
The halls were different now—dimly lit, colder, but no longer sterile. There was a weight to the air. Like smoke that had forgotten its fire. They moved in a line down a narrow corridor, then out into an open courtyard beneath the evening sky.
Stone paths.
A wide-roofed pavilion.
And just ahead, the prayer site.
It wasn't grand. Not like the shrines she'd visited as a child. No gold, no lanterns, no sacred tree tied with paper wishes. Just a raised wooden platform with a single bell and a small altar—rice, salt, a dried sakaki branch laid reverently in a bowl of water.
The miko knelt as one.
Akiko followed.
Her knees met the wood with a soft thump. Her hands folded in her lap.
The wind stirred her damp hair.
And for the first time that day… she breathed deeply.
This is where he will ask the gods.
Not tonight. But soon. Tomorrow.
And maybe—maybe—they'll answer.
They stayed like that a while—praying, or at least appearing to. The miko never moved, never fidgeted. Akiko's mind, by contrast, drifted. Her limbs ached. Her ribs throbbed faintly with each breath. Her skin still buzzed faintly from the bath.
She wanted to stay there.
But eventually, one of the miko rose, bowed again, and gestured softly for her to follow.
They guided her to a side room.
And there, in a corner bathed in flickering candlelight—
A futon.
Freshly laid. White. Simple. But thick. Soft. Clean.
Akiko stopped in the doorway, staring at it like a ghost.
When was the last time I slept in a proper futon—in my own body.
Gods… I thought I'd never see one again.
She stepped inside.
The miko set down a tray near the edge of the futon. A simple meal: grilled fish, browned at the edges. A small bowl of brown rice. Pickled greens. Water. And—
A tiny ceramic cup of cloudy white liquid.
Kuchi-sake.
She picked it up. Sniffed. Faintly sweet. Fermented.
A preparation for communion. A cleansing of the inner breath.
She drank.
The warmth spread down her throat like a thread of silk unwinding from the gods themselves.
Then another sip.
And another.
She hadn't eaten in nearly two days. The sake struck fast.
The candlelight blurred at the edges. The futon swayed in place. Her limbs turned to wax.
She lay down without thinking.
The miko remained in the doorway, kneeling in silence. Watching. Not with pity—but with purpose.
Akiko didn't speak.
She curled onto her side.
The rice forgotten. The fish untouched.
Tomorrow…
Tomorrow... Sora will have to face whatever comes.
But tonight…
The world spun gently.
The futon held her like a long-lost sister.
And sleep claimed her before her next thought could form.