Chapter One
Kaiyan
The Seventh Year of the Ikusa Era
War was a brutal thing. No matter how many battles he fought or victories he led, the acrid scent of blood still lingered in Kaiyan's mind. The rituals meant to cleanse the spirit left him empty--incense, wine, prayers--none of it could soothe the tension coiled deep in his bones. War was not triumph. It was a ledger of debts, lives traded for the barest of gains. Yet it was his life. One he lived well.
And soon, he would live it again.
Tonight was a brief reprieve--one of the last few nights of quiet before steel met flesh, before rivers ran red and the land reeked of burning wood and blood. He had come here, as he often did, to find some small peace before the chaos began anew.
He lifted his gaze to the horizon, painted now in the dull hues of dusk, the sky bleeding into the restless waters below. Waves crashed relentlessly against the rocks, their roar echoing in the silence of his thoughts, the salty spray cold against his skin despite the summer's night. His boots crunched over loose pebbles, sending stones plummeting into the churning waters, their impact swallowed unheard by the distance.
Renji would have his hide if he knew Kaiyan was out here alone, so close to the edge without even a sword to fend off would-be attackers. But there was a reason he'd ordered his lieutenant to remain behind--his presence would only sully the moment.
This was Kaiyan's place of solitude, a rare escape from the hollow praises of courtiers and the blank stares of the dead in his dreams.
In any case, a skilled warrior need not rely on a blade to defend himself. And if a simple misplaced step could do what hundreds of battles never had...so be it.
Wind whipped at his cloak, tangling his hair around his neck like a noose. He looked out over the waters, the moonlight glittering on the waves.
A flicker of movement caught his eye.
At first, it was nothing--no more than a pale blur against the night's backdrop. But as he rounded the bend, a figure came into focus--a woman in a tattered kosode, her long black hair streaming behind her like a banner. She stood barefoot at the cliff's edge, hands clasped in front of her as if in prayer. The thin fabric fluttered around her ankles like the wings of some creature poised to take flight.
Kaiyan stopped in his tracks, the loose rocks underfoot shifting precariously. No one came to the cliffs--not unless they were guards from the prison barracks disposing of the corpses denied the honor of burial. But even they didn't venture out at this hour. The air was too harsh, the winds too wild, and the drop--the sheer, unforgiving plummet of a thousand meters--was enough to deter even the boldest soul.
And yet, there she stood, her figure swaying faintly as if caught in the sea's trance.
For a fleeting moment, Kaiyan's blood ran cold, his thoughts returning to a childhood whisper--the Ghost in White
.
A pale woman who lured men to their doom with a single beckoning gesture. They said her hair flowed like silk, and her moonlit eyes could root a man in place while her blood-red lips curved into a breathtaking smile.
One kiss, and they would never fear the death that awaited.
His hand twitched at his side, instinctively seeking a sword that wasn't there. The rational part of him scoffed. Superstition was for weaker men--he had faced steel and death, and there were no ghosts in that. And yet, as he stood there watching her, unease hooked its fingers into his stomach.
It wasn't just her stillness that bothered him. It was the absence of fear. Most people would have recoiled at the wind howling around them, at the endless drop yawning at their feet. But she stood unshaken, her presence bleeding into the night--as if nothing in this world could touch her.
She looked wrong out here--too fragile for a place as brutal as this--like a figure torn from one world and dropped into another.
Kaiyan's gaze lingered on her profile, curiosity taking root where disquiet had been. She was not like the women he was accustomed to--the painted lips, rouged cheeks and kohl-lined eyes of the court. Her face was bare, untouched by powder or artifice, and at first glance, there was nothing extraordinary about her.
Yet there was a beauty in her simplicity, in the sharp line of her jaw, the soft curve of her lips, the delicate slope of her nose. Even in the dim light, he could see the solemnity in her features, the way her dark lashes framed her downcast eyes. And those eyes--though they weren't turned in his direction--held a weight that went beyond tears.
As she took a slow step forward, realization crept in, as gradual as the first droplets of rain before a storm. She intended to step over the ledge.
Kaiyan's heart tightened, his focus sharpening. He started toward her--then stopped. Too sudden, and he might startle her into doing what her body was already committed to. Too slow, and he might not reach her in time.
He eased forward, his footsteps lost beneath the waves' roar, his gaze fixed on her form. Who was she?
She couldn't be a servant--they were miles from the palace, and no errand would bring one this far. Yet her garb marked her as no noblewoman either.
There were no homes nearby, no inns, no shrines--nothing but rocks, sprawling sea, and the prison barracks tucked into the hills beyond the cliffs.
Even still, what would drive a woman toward such a desperate act? Disgrace? A debt too heavy to repay? Grief that had hollowed her out until nothing remained?
His jaw tightened, irritation flickering through his thoughts. He was not the kind of man to be distracted by ghosts--nor the women who played at being them. He should turn back, leave her to her fate, let her make this terrible choice if that's what she desired.
And yet...
"You shouldn't be here," he said, his voice calm but carrying across the distance.
He expected her to startle, to flinch, to turn, to show any sign that she'd heard him. He was close enough now to catch her if she slipped. But she remained unmoving, her gaze fixed on the waves below.
"The sea will be here in the morning," he continued, his tone gaining an edge of authority. "Perhaps you should, too."
She turned her head then, and his breath caught as her eyes lifted to his face. Even in the moonlight, he could make out their shade--not the warm brown of his people, which varied in richness if not in hue. Hers were light, bright--the color of seafoam on a winter morning.
There were tales of those with bright eyes--said to be cursed, untrustworthy. Another superstition, if you asked him--a story crafted to explain what physicians could not.
"Who are you?" he prompted when she did not speak.
