As the days grew short and the air grew chill, a spirit of grim restlessness descended over the residents of Shurei’s court. More than two years had passed since they’d made the journey east. The feat had been so arduous and costly that for the first year it was fair to say they’d had no

Sitting on the veranda of Shurei’s court, Sumire watched the children play as she smoked her slender pipe. It was a fine clear day, not too cool. In their game of tag, occasionally a child would dart up the steps from the yard and hide among the chatting women, who’d pretend not to notice. Bundled

Hirokin broke the surface of the pool, only feeling slightly more invigorated than when he’d first plunged in. This was his private spring, within his private wing of the Western palace. Beautiful and serene with its glittering blue stalagmites of crystal, its mirrorlike waters and luminescent vining flowers. An oasis all his own. Most importantly,

They buried the body beneath a slab of gold-flecked stone. It felt far too little, yet it was the best that they could do. Though Shurei should not have been standing, she lingered long by the makeshift grave. Leaning against the scratchy bark of a pine, she seemed to Sumire to be etching the glade

The journey east was arduous and long. Despite the size of their party, traveling by the main roads was out of the question. They were three women to a man, with more than a handful of defenseless children between them.  Kouta and his kinsmen were tradesmen, not swordsmen. To this end, the expertise of old

Hirokin’s gaze slid from the door to Kagome. Her jaw was clenched. A fine wrinkle had formed between her knitted brows. “Do not worry, my lady,” Hirokin said with a sigh. “I will handle it.” He’d been on the receiving end of Sesshoumaru’s mercurial moods for the better part of a millenium. This one, admittedly,

“Hirokin.” From the crumbled sill where he’d been resting, Hirokin glanced over, straightening his hair in the red glare of dawn. Across from him on the moss-covered stones, Kou still lay sprawled, half-naked below the waist and frowning heavily. “What is it?” “Something is wrong.” “Wrong?” Hirokin snapped. “What do you mean? What is wrong?”

The house of Inoki was cold and drear. Lamp oil and firewood had become precious commodities, not to be wasted. In the once-lustrous dining room, the family sat assembled about their meager meal in dim silence. The fine hangings and sculptures had long since been pawned for the most basic of necessities. Food and fuel.