The air smelled of wet earth and boiled millet. Horses stamped in the mud, their snorts rising in pale clouds against the morning chill. Banners flapped lazily in the mist—crimson and black with the crest of the Kurogawa—while soldiers moved between tents, sharpening blades, muttering prayers, or staring blankly toward the north.
Sayomi stood apart from them, her armor half-fastened, lacquered greaves splashed with dried blood from the last skirmish. Her naginata leaned against a wooden post beside her, cleaned and rewrapped in fresh silk.
Another delay. Another dawn wasted in stillness. The Iwakari will not wait forever.
Beyond the treeline, a narrow path wound toward the mountains—the borderlands. The enemy. Her fingers flexed restlessly. Behind her, a captain finished issuing orders to the lower officers. Sayomi heard none of it. Her eyes were fixed northward.
They treat this war like a ceremony. Every move must be sanctioned, measured, written down. Meanwhile the Iwakari stonewalls grow thicker, their soldiers more brazen.
She turned slightly, watching a group of fresh recruits clumsily sparring with wooden staves near a firepit. One stumbled, taking a clumsy blow to the ribs. The others laughed.
That one will be dead by dusk if they throw him into the next march. And they'll bury him with incense and say he died with honor. As if a broken rib in the mud is glorious.
Sayomi crossed the camp slowly, her presence parting the air. Some bowed. Others looked away. A few, the smarter ones, saluted with stiff backs and tight jaws. She reached the edge of the camp where a quiet tree stood, roots swallowed by rain-slick moss. Leaning against it, she let her gaze drift upward. The clouds were gathering again.
Father would have called this a good omen. Storms before a charge. As if the skies gave us permission to bleed.
She rolled her eyes at the thought, remaining against the tree as she waited for orders. For anything.
