Chapter Two
Sayuri
Sayuri sat hunched on the cell floor, her knees drawn to her chest, arms wrapped tight around her legs. Her broken nails, caked with dirt, traced absently along the edge of her thumbs. The stone beneath her feet was cold, scattered with straw that had long since soured with rot. She kept her gaze low, avoiding the other women crammed into the suffocating space. Their low murmurs and stifled sobs blended with the cloying stench of sweat, mold and despair.
Through the tiny barred window, Sayuri watched the sun rise--streaks of pink and orange unfurling across the horizon. Such a cruel thing, that beauty. Warmth that couldn't touch her. Light that didn't belong in a place like this. Still, it reminded her of home. She couldn't look away.
Her sister had loved the sunrise. Makoto would drag her out of bed, grinning as she tugged Sayuri by the arm, pulling her up onto the roof to watch the dawn paint the world in colors brighter than dreams. Her voice echoed now, breathless and full of wonder.
"Look, Sayu! Doesn't it feel like magic?"
Sayuri's throat tightened. The warmth of the memory shifted, seeping into the bitter sting of their final moments together. Makoto's face had been pale then, her smile faint but stubborn as she whispered her last wish--that her child be named after the sun.
Sayuri's hands curled into fists as she felt the phantom weight of the stillborn in her arms again. She'd been silent that night, wrapping his form in a bloodied cloth and placing him beside his mother. She hadn't told Makoto the truth. Hadn't had the heart to break her fragile peace.
She'd buried them together, carving the name
Hikaru
into the crude stone marker beneath her sister's.
A heavy tread echoed down the corridor, dragging Sayuri back to the present. A guard's voice rang out as he paused outside the cell. "Up. Time to go."
The scrape of the iron lock sent cries and whimpers rippling through the women around her. The door swung wide, its hinges groaning a mournful wail. Sayuri didn't flinch. She didn't move--not until the guard stepped inside and barked the order again.
Around her, the women stirred. Some trembled as they got to their feet; others drifted like shadows, their eyes hollow, steps mechanical.
Sayuri rose slowly, her gaze drifting over the man in uniform. He wasn't one of the guards from the night before. His face was hard, impassive--the look of a man who carried the weight of duty without ever feeling it. They always changed shifts here. Gave the prisoners no chance to gain favor, no option to beg for pity or barter desperate promises for mercy.
Her fingers grazed the birthmark on her wrist as she shuffled into line, chains clanking with every step. The ghost of another touch lingered there--firm, warm, steady. A hand that had held her back. Held her together. Her chest tightened, but she shoved the feeling down, scowling as her nails bit into her flesh, as if she could slice the moth's head off.
Who
was
he? What right had he to interfere? She hadn't asked for salvation. She certainly didn't want it.
Sayuri kept her gaze on the ground as they were led through the corridors and out into the open air, her eyes skimming over the uneven dirt and the faint imprints of those who had walked this path before. The shackles at her ankles forced her into step with the other prisoners.
The early morning sun stretched across the courtyard, drenching the gallows in a stark, unforgiving light. The high walls loomed around them, cold and gray, hemming them in like a tomb.
A murmur rose from the gathered crowd as Sayuri's group was led to join the prisoners already standing on the scaffold. Soldiers in battered armor stood in clusters--some casting pitying glances at the newcomers, others watching with cold disdain. A handful of laborers lingered at the edges, gazes darting nervously toward the gallows.
No one laughed. No one jeered. This wasn't a spectacle or celebration; it was routine. Another day's business.
Sayuri kept her gaze low, unwilling to look at the platform ahead, but the sounds clawed their way in. The groan of wood as the scaffold shifted under weight. The muffled sobs of a prisoner being dragged forward. The bark of the executioner's orders as each condemned took their place, nooses tight around their necks.
And then, the snap.
Sayuri flinched, her fingers clenching around the chain binding her wrists. The faint, sickening creak of rope swaying met her ears.
This was the end.
Only Makoto's spirit remained to comfort her now.
The memories came like warmth against the cold. The scent of rice steaming over the fire, her sister humming softly as she stirred the pot. Climbing the apricot tree behind their home, sticky juice sluicing down their chins as they ate the fruit straight from the branches. Whispered voices as they huddled beneath a blanket, the dying fire flickering over Makoto's face while they shared their dreams.
The images flashed and faded as quickly as they came, leaving only an ache behind.
The chain at her wrists jerked. She was at the front of the line now, the scaffold's shadow falling over her like a shroud. Her heart pounded--not with fear, but with a strange, quiet resignation.
If she'd succeeded, it would've been worth it. If she'd killed him, Makoto would've had justice. And Sayuri could have faced the gallows with her head held high.
The executioner's assistant knelt at her feet, the chains clinking softly as he freed her from the shackles. She trudged up the wooden steps and took her place beside a woman chanting mantras beneath her breath, tears darkening the trapdoor beneath her dirt-caked feet.
Sayuri fixed her gaze on a distant leaf caught in the breeze, refusing to look at the bodies piled below.
Soon, she would rest among them--just one more for the guards to haul back up the cliffs. She'd be flung into the sea after all.
He should have let her jump.
The noose bit into her skin as the guard slipped it over her head, the coarse fibers scraping against her throat. The rope tightened, and her eyes closed.
There was no command. Not yet. Only the wind in her ears and the creak of wood beneath her feet.
But all she could feel was the absence of her sister's hand in hers.
She was glad Makoto wasn't here to see this.
Doors creaked open in the distance, then slammed shut, reverberating across the courtyard. Murmurs faltered, and a hush swept through the crowd like an unsettling draught.
Sayuri lifted her head, her bound wrists pressing into her stomach as she glanced toward the disturbance.
A man strode into view, his cloak slithering behind him--deep crimson embroidered with golden threads. The fabric shimmered faintly, draped over broad shoulders, brushing against polished leather boots that made no sound on the stone.
He was striking--beautiful in a way that made her stomach twist. Dark, impossibly sleek hair framed high cheekbones and a jaw of clean angles and hard lines. Beneath the cloak, a finely tailored tunic of charcoal and cream clung to his frame, fastened at the throat with a polished silver clasp. His golden eyes drifted lazily over the courtyard. For an instant, his gaze brushed over her. Then it passed on.
Her breath hitched. It was
him
.
That face--close enough to catch the scent of cedar and steel as he'd hauled her down, her body crashing on top of his, breathless against his chest. The man who had dragged her back from the edge of freedom. Stolen her chance at a peaceful death--one that had been hers to choose.
Behind him, another man followed--his presence quieter but no less dangerous. He wasn't as tall as the first, nor as lavishly dressed, but the way he shadowed the man's steps, hand resting lightly on his sword, marked him as one of the Empire's soldiered guards.
Excited whispers rippled through the crowd, rising and falling in waves as heads turned to follow the man's slow, measured strides. He stopped just short of the line of prisoners, his posture relaxed yet commanding--as if the world bent to his presence without his needing to lift a finger.
The guards near the platform moved in unison, dropping to one knee and bowing their heads, the harsh clink of armor loud in the courtyard's hush.
The head guard, a man with a crooked nose and a patchy beard, rose first. "M-my lord, forgive us. We received no word of your coming."
Sayuri's jaw tightened as her gaze flicked between the kneeling guards and the man before them.
My lord
. The same title the guards had used the night before. She didn't need to know his name to understand what he was--someone powerful enough to still the air in the courtyard, to make soldiers kneel at his mere presence, to pause an execution with nothing but his arrival.
Her nails dug into her palms. It wasn't just his title that unsettled her--it was the way he carried himself, the effortless confidence that teetered on arrogance. It was the beauty that masked the danger beneath--the kind she had learned to despise.
Men like him always got what they wanted, never failing to leave ruin in their wake.
Makoto was proof of that.
The guard's eyes darted to the platform and back. "It's not often we're graced with someone of your stature, Lord Dorei," he said carefully, his tone steeped in awe and trepidation. "These prisoners...they're hardly worth troubling yourself over."
The faintest flicker of a smile ghosted across the nobleman's lips--a polite, calculated expression that offered no real warmth. "Command has seen fit to explore alternative uses for our prisoners. We're recruiting those who might serve as fodder on the frontlines." His gaze swept over the group of condemned as though he were inspecting wares at a market. "I've come to assess the stock."
The guard's brow furrowed. "Fodder...?" he repeated, doubt flickering in his eyes.
It was a reasonable excuse on the surface, but the idea of a man of such rank personally handling the task felt improbable at best. Men like him didn't bother with society's scraps. They didn't waste time on matters beneath them.
So why was he?
Behind Dorei, the soldier shifted slightly. Sayuri noticed it at once--the brief frown, the curious flick of his gaze toward his superior before his face smoothed back into neutrality.
He knew something. But whatever it was, he kept it buried beneath the same quiet composure his master carried.
The nobleman turned from the line of women, his cloak rippling as he strode toward the men's section of prisoners. His eyes roved over the ragged group--some hunched, others standing stiff, clinging to their pride despite the shackles. He paused in front of one--a thickset man with a scar running down the side of his face.
