Chapter 1: The Dripping Candle
He woke to cold air and the sound of something wet sliding down wax.
Drip.
He didn't open his eyes right away. Just lay there, still, listening. It wasn't the hum of overhead lights. Not the beep of a hospital monitor. No city noise outside the window. No buzz of streetlamps or vending machines or engines rumbling in the distance.
It was quiet.
Wood creaked softly beneath him. Tatami, his brain offered, sluggishly.
He opened his eyes.
The ceiling above him was timbered. Old. Hand-carved beams running east to west, smoke-darkened with age. Paper walls glowed faintly with morning light, the kind that barely pierced mountain mist. Somewhere nearby, someone coughed.
He sat up too fast. Didn't mean to. The muscles just... moved.
Like they weren't asking him.
They moved too easily—no resistance in the joints, no pain in the ribs. No bruises.
The blanket that slid off his chest was thin, rough, and smelled like ash and camphor.
His hands were wrong.
Smaller than they should be. Smoother. Calloused in places he didn't recognize. He turned them over. Stared at his fingers like they were someone else's. Because they were.
He was breathing like he'd just run a sprint, but his chest didn't hurt. His heart pounded anyway.
Drip.
His head snapped toward the sound.
A candle sat near the far wall. Iron holder. Thick wax stem. The flame danced, barely touched by the breeze leaking through the wood. Wax slid down one side in a lazy curl, catching the edge of a scorch mark beneath it.
Another drop formed.
Kazuki blinked.
He knew that sound.
And not just from waking.
He'd heard it while dying, too.
Maybe.
The thought came uninvited. And left nothing behind but cold.
He tried to stand. His legs worked. Balance was strange, but functional. He reached for the nearest support beam and pulled himself upright.
He was in a small room. Sparse. Sleeping mat. One folded robe on a wooden stand. A short, curved blade on the wall—sheath polished, untouched. No photos. No screens. No mirror. Only the candle.
Only the drip.
The door slid open.
Kazuki turned fast, instinct biting through the haze.
The man who entered paused, brow lifted, then smiled.
"You're up early, Hideyoshi-sama."
Kazuki said nothing.
He studied the man's face. It didn't spark anything. Not even a ghost of familiarity.
And that made no sense—because something in his posture did.
Like a voice half-remembered from a dream.
The man—mid-twenties maybe, black hair tied in a short tail, armor light but practical—stepped in and placed a small tray on the floor. Rice, pickled roots, tea. Steam curled into the air.
"You didn't touch dinner last night either. Mayu said to make sure you ate something before inspection."
Kazuki's throat was dry.
"Who…?"
The man looked up, confused.
"I'm Tadakatsu, sir. Your vassal. You feeling alright?" He tilted his head slightly, concern slipping into his tone. "You had a fever yesterday. If you're still foggy, I can call Mayu. She's good with herbs."
Foggy didn't begin to cover it.
Kazuki stared at him. Noticed the sword at Tadakatsu's hip. The careful way he moved—like someone trained to guard, not just serve. Military. Loyal. But not relaxed. The kind of man who'd watched people die and kept moving.
The kind Kazuki had sparred with before. Wrestled. Trained. Fought beside. Or against.
But he didn't know this face.
And this face did know him.
"Yeah," Kazuki said finally. "Maybe a little foggy."
Tadakatsu smiled again—relieved this time. "You sound more like yourself than yesterday. Good sign."
Kazuki knelt slowly beside the tray. He didn't know how to sit like this. But his body did. It adjusted without asking him.
He picked up the tea. Smelled like pine and bitterness. Sipped. Hot. Sharp.
Tadakatsu moved to the window. Slid the paper panel open slightly. A draft rolled in, cool and fresh.
"The pass was quiet last night. No horns, no signal fires. Maybe the rebels are stalling."
Kazuki tensed. "Rebels?"
Tadakatsu nodded. "Rikuya-dono still expects movement before the week's end. Our scouts reported new tents beyond the ridge, near the Yamazaki outcrop. Mayu's tracking it."
Kazuki tried not to show the way his pulse jumped.
War.
He looked down at his hands again. Still not his.
But holding the cup steady now.
He looked back at the candle.
Still dripping.
Still here.
And for the first time, he wondered—
How many times had he woken up in this room?
The room carried the kind of silence that lived in mountain wood—old, settled, used to blood. Outside, birds trilled once, then stopped. Even nature seemed to wait.
Tadakatsu turned from the window. "Mayu'll want to speak with you before midday. She said something about reallocating archers."
Kazuki stood. Slowly. "Where is she?"
"She took the eastern wall watch. Didn't want you disturbed until you felt steady." Tadakatsu stepped aside, respectful. "She's been restless."
Kazuki didn't answer. He crossed the room and paused at the blade mounted on the wall. Its sheath was clean, but the edge beneath it carried nicks. Not ceremonial. Used.
He slid it free halfway. Steel gleamed. Light. Balanced.
Like he'd used it before.
Like it remembered him even if he didn't remember it.
He let it fall back into place.
Tadakatsu watched. "Want me to walk you to her?"
"No." The word came out too sharp. Kazuki adjusted. Softer, slower. "I'll find her."
He stepped through the door and into the corridor.
The fortress breathed like a beast—timbers groaning under their own weight, ropes shifting where they hung between beams, banners whispering low things in the drafts. His bare feet knew the boards even though he didn't.
He passed two soldiers in gray sashes. They bowed and called him "Hideyoshi-sama." He nodded back, said nothing.
They kept moving. So did he.
He climbed a narrow stair, fingers brushing the worn stone as he rose. The window at the landing opened to a wind that cut through his robe. Sharp, clean, real.
Beyond it, the valley stretched wide and steep, a broken bowl of green and granite. The morning mist was lifting. And there—just past the trees—he saw them.
Tents.
Too many to count. Specks of color like rust on the forest edge. The rebels, Tadakatsu had said. Encamped. Waiting.
Kazuki's chest tightened.
It looked like something out of a film. But the smoke rising from their fires was real. The smell of iron and oil on the wind. Real.
He stepped back. Let the paper screen slide shut behind him.
When he reached the outer parapet, she was already there.
Mayu stood with her arms crossed, armor clipped, one knife strapped across her back and another at her hip. Her hair was tied high. Her posture was that of someone waiting to be disappointed.
"You're late," she said without turning.
Kazuki paused. "Didn't realize I was expected."
"You always are." She glanced over her shoulder. "You look better. Less like a ghost."
He didn't know what to say to that.
Mayu turned fully now. Her eyes sharp. Tired. Searching. "Do you remember what we talked about yesterday?"
Kazuki hesitated. Then: "Some of it."
"Which part?"
"The… archers?" It came out like a question. It was one.
She narrowed her eyes, stepped closer. "Your fever really cooked you, huh?"
Kazuki shrugged, trying to fake the version of himself she knew. "Only a little. You talk a lot. Hard to keep up."
That drew a faint snort. Almost a laugh.
Almost.
"I'll take it as a compliment," she said. Then her gaze turned back to the valley. "They moved again. Shifted their formation overnight. Rikuya thinks they're posturing. I think they're daring us."
Kazuki looked past her.
The campfires were dying now. The valley awake. The air sharp with the kind of silence that came before a scream.
"How long," he asked, "until they attack?"
"Two days, maybe three. Unless they get bold." She looked at him again. "Why? You planning something?"
He didn't answer.
Because he didn't know yet.
But something in the candlelight. The way it dripped. The rhythm of this place. The too-familiar steps. The way Mayu's voice hit his ear like memory, not sound—
Something was off.
Something was waiting.
And Kazuki felt, deep in the gut of this body he still didn't trust, that when the fire came—
He wouldn't survive it.