Chapter 4

Yoshida, Mikawa Province, Spring, 1597

At sixteen, Fujioka Kiku could kill a man in seven different ways before he realized he was dying.

She moved through the training yard with lethal precision, the naginata spinning in her hands like an extension of her body. The bladed polearm carved through the air, each strike perfectly placed, perfectly timed. Her father watched from the engawa, his face revealing nothing, but she knew—she was flawless now.

Nine years of training had transformed her. Her body was lean muscle and controlled power. Her hands, once small and delicate, were scarred and callused. She could hold a position for six hours without trembling. She could strike faster than most men could see.

She had become the weapon her father intended.

But once a week, she was allowed something almost like freedom.

“Take the donkey to the village,” her father said that morning. “Rice, millet, dried fish. The usual.”

It was Thursday. Market day. Her weekly escape.

The village of Yoshida was small but bustling, especially on market days when merchants from neighboring towns set up stalls. Kiku led the donkey through the narrow streets, a hooded cloak hiding most of her face. People knew the Fujioka clan, knew of the strange daughter who trained like a son, but most had the sense to look away.

She made her way to the rice merchant’s shop, the same one she’d been visiting for months.

And there, as always, was Miko.

“Kiku-san!” The girl’s face lit up with genuine pleasure. “I was hoping you’d come today.”

Miko was the merchant’s daughter, sixteen like Kiku, but she seemed to inhabit a completely different world. Her kimono was simple but clean, patterned with cherry blossoms. Her hair was arranged prettily. She smiled easily, laughed often, moved through the world as if it were a welcoming place.

She was everything Kiku was not allowed to be.

“Your father needs rice?” Miko asked, already moving to fill the order.

“Yes. The usual amount.”

Over the past few months, these brief exchanges had evolved into something more. Miko had a way of making conversation feel effortless. She’d ask questions—not about training or duty, but about simple things. What Kiku thought of the spring weather. Whether she’d seen the cherry blossoms blooming on the hillside. What her favorite season was.

Questions no one else ever asked.

“You look tired,” Miko said now, studying her face. “Are you well?”

The concern in her voice was so unexpected that Kiku felt something crack inside her chest. When was the last time someone had asked if she was well? When had anyone cared?

“I’m ... fine,” she managed.

“Liar.” But Miko smiled when she said it, taking the sting away. “Wait here.”

She disappeared into the back of the shop and returned with two rice cakes wrapped in bamboo leaves. “My mother made these this morning. Take them.”