Narrator POV

  The road to Shisaki unfolded like a painted scroll, revealing terraced hillsides cloaked in mist and rivers that glittered like spilled mercury under the midday sun. Finvir reined his horse to a halt at the crest of the final hill, his eyes narrowing as the capital sprawled before him. Aster gasped beside him, their journal slipping from their hands into the dirt.

  “Gods… it’s like a dream,” Aster breathed.

  And it was.

  Shisaki rose in seven concentric terraces, each tier carved into the mountainside like steps to heaven. Timber-framed palaces with sweeping pagoda roofs dominated the upper levels, their gold-leafed eaves piercing the clouds. Below, the city cascaded in waves of slate-tiled homes, threaded by canals where flat-bottomed boats drifted lazily. Bridges arched like cats’ spines over the waterways, their railings adorned with lanterns shaped like crescent moons. The air hummed with distant temple bells and the faint melody of a biwa lute.

  But it was the rivers that stole the breath. They flowed not just through Shisaki but into it—veins of liquid crystal that pooled in ceremonial basins before tumbling down aqueducts to the lower districts. Waterfalls spilled from terrace to terrace, their mist painting rainbows over markets and teahouses. Everywhere, cherry blossoms swirled on the breeze, their petals catching in the hair of passersby like living confetti.

  “Stay sharp,” Finvir muttered, nudging his horse forward. “Pretty cities hide ugly secrets.”

  The main gate was a marvel of ancient engineering—a towering torii of crimson wood, its crossbeam inscribed with Windshire’s creed: “By Grace of the Ten, We Rise.” Guards in lacquered armor bearing the emperor’s chrysanthemum sigil stood sentry, their spears tipped with silver.

  “Papers,” one barked.

  Finvir slid their Adventure Guild cards. The guard squinted “Purpose of visit?”

  “Pilgrimage,” Finvir lied smoothly. “To pay respects at the Temple of Grym.”

  The guard’s stern face softened. “May the Lady of Thresholds guide you.” He stamped their papers, and the gates swung open.

  Inside, Shisaki unfolded in layers of sound and scent. The first terrace buzzed with artisans’ workshops, their open fronts spilling color into the streets. Potters shaped clay into celadon vases, their hands spinning wheels as fluid as the rivers outside. Weavers threaded silk into kimonos dyed with indigo and safflower, while blacksmiths hammered tamahagane steel into katana blades that sang with every strike.

  Aster darted to a calligrapher’s stall, mesmerized by a scroll depicting the Ten Gods. Inanis, the Void Father, loomed at the center, his form bleeding ink into the margins.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  “Don’t wander,” Finvir growled, yanking them back. His eyes flicked to a cloaked figure across the street—a man pretending to haggle over tea bowls, his posture too rigid, his gaze lingering too long on Aster’s journal.

  Owl spy. Third one since the gate.

  Acceding to the second terrace, they followed a canal lined with willow trees, their branches trailing in the water like green hair. Tea houses floated on barges, their paper lanterns casting dappled light on couples sharing saké and skewers of yakitori. A geisha glided past, her face a porcelain mask, her obi embroidered with cranes in flight.

  “Look!” Aster pointed to a shrine wedged between a sake brewery and a tofu shop. A priestess in white robes shook a gohei wand over a sobbing merchant, scattering purifying salt. “She’s cleansing his shop of akuma spirits!”

  Finvir grunted. “Bet he just needs to clean his drains.”

  But even he paused at the Temple of Lulreus. Scholars crowded its steps, offering scrolls to the God of Knowledge’s stone effigy. A young acolyte chanted from the Tome of Infinite Questions, his voice blending with the rustle of prayer strips tied to cedar branches.

  By the fourth terrace, the crowds thickened. Merchants hawked pickled plums and grilled eel, their cries punctuated by the clatter of wooden geta sandals. A puppeteer danced a bunraku samurai on strings, children squealing as it “slew” a silk dragon.

  Finvir’s hand drifted to his dagger.

  There. A woman selling fans—her fingers bore the calluses of a sword grip, not a paintbrush. There. A “beggar” with boots too fine for his rags. The Owl Soldiers hid in plain sight, their masks replaced by the anonymity of the crowd.

  Aster stiffened. “Do you feel that?”

  The air prickled—a static charge, like the moment before lightning. Finvir followed their gaze to a narrow alley, where a stray dog gnawed a bone. No, not a bone—a finger, still clad in a gold ring etched with an owl’s eye.

  “Keep moving,” Finvir muttered.

  At the city’s heart, the Temple of Grym loomed—a mountain unto itself. Twin staircases of moon-white marble spiraled upward, flanked by statues of the goddess’s dual aspects: a maiden cradling a newborn, her face serene; and a crone clutching a scythe, her mouth twisted in a scream.

  Pilgrims crawled the steps on bloodied knees, whispering prayers for the dead. Incense coiled from bronze censers, the smoke forming ephemeral faces that wept and vanished.

  Aster touched the temple’s blackwood doors, then recoiled. “It’s… warm.”

  “Life and death,” Finvir said flatly. “Two sides of the same coin.”

  But his mark throbbed in agreement.

  Elsewhere in the city

  Brown watched the city through a stained-glass window. His Nordic-carved armor gleamed dully, the dragon motifs snarling across his chestplate. On his back hung an ebony greatsword, its blade etched with glowing runes that pulsed like embers.

  A spy knelt behind him, trembling. “The outsiders have entered Shisaki. The Bosmer and the… albino.”

  Brown’s laughter rumbled deep, a sound like boulders grinding. “Good. Let them scurry toward the Obelisk. They’ll save me the trouble of digging it up.”

  He traced a rune on his sword. It ignited, flames licking the steel without consuming it. “Ready the Talons. When the void-touched fool takes the bait, we’ll carve the truth from his bones.”

  Finvir rented a room in the Floating District, where teahouses perched on stilts above the canals. Aster leaned over the balcony, watching lanterns drift downstream like fireflies.

  “It’s beautiful,” they whispered.

  “It’s a trap,” Finvir said, sharpening his blade. “Every pretty thing here’s got teeth.”

  But even he paused as night fell. The temples lit their braziers, painting Shisaki in gold and shadow. Somewhere, a samurai’s ghost wailed for honor. Somewhere, the Obelisk waited.

  And somewhere, Brown’s sword hungered.