The air in the Crane's Rest grew taut, like a bowstring pulled to its limit. Taro stood at the top of the inn's narrow staircase, his hand resting on the hilt of his short sword, its weight a steady anchor against the pulse of dread in his chest. The footsteps from below were slow, deliberate, each one a heartbeat echoing up the creaking wood. Sora stood beside him, her breath even, her eyes fixed on the shadows pooling at the base of the stairs. Kenta flanked her, katana half-drawn, his jaw set with a fire that hadn't burned since the bandit fight. Mika crouched low, dagger glinting in the lantern's flicker, her lips curled in a mix of fear and defiance. Jiro, swaying slightly from sake, leaned against the wall, his gourd dangling but his gaze sharp, as if the night had sobered him.
Taro's mind churned, not with the old thrill of a hashiriya dodging samurai patrols, but with a quieter, heavier fear—Hana's face, pale under quilts, her paper crane tucked in his sleeve like a fragile vow. The note from the Flame Bearers, with its smudged ink and crude flame sketch, lay crumpled in his memory: Surrender it at dawn, or the road claims all. Dawn was hours away, but the footsteps below suggested they weren't waiting.
"Who's there?" Taro called, his voice steady despite the knot in his gut. No answer came, only the slow scrape of boots on wood, closer now.
Sora's hand brushed her collar, where the amulet's faint glow pulsed like a distant star. "They come for what they cannot have," she murmured, her words carrying a strange calm, like a breeze before a storm. "But the kami see truth."
Mika hissed, her dagger twitching. "Truth won't stop a blade. We should've bolted when we had the chance."
Kenta shot her a glance, his eyes hard. "Running's for cowards. We face them."
Jiro chuckled, low and rough, raising his gourd. "Face them, sure. But blades don't cut shadows. Something's off—smell the air."
Taro caught it then—a faint whiff, not of rain or woodsmoke, but something sour, like damp earth and decay. His skin prickled, memories of old road tales surfacing: yōkai that trailed travelers, drawn by greed or blood. He tightened his grip, stepping forward. "Stay close," he said, leading the way down the stairs, each creak underfoot a warning.
The common room was empty, the lanterns dim, their light barely touching the corners where shadows seemed to writhe. The innkeeper was gone, the bowls of rice and miso left abandoned on tables. At the far end, near the door, stood a single figure—the cloaked man from earlier, his red cord stark against the dark fabric. But he wasn't alone. Two others flanked him, their faces hidden under wide hats, hands gripping short blades. The sour smell grew stronger, and Taro's stomach twisted. These weren't just men.
"Give us the jade," the cloaked man said, his voice flat, like wind over a grave. "No blood needs spill tonight."
Taro stepped forward, sword drawn now, its edge catching the lantern's glow. "You'll get nothing but steel if you try."
The man tilted his head, as if amused, and raised a hand. The air shifted, heavy and cold, and the shadows behind him stirred—not men, not anymore. Their forms blurred, eyes glinting red in the dark, like foxes caught in torchlight. Jiro sucked in a breath, muttering, "Kitsune-bi. Fox fire. These aren't Flame Bearers—they're pawns."
Sora's voice cut through, calm but firm. "Your masters seek what they cannot wield. Leave, or the road will judge you."
The man laughed, a sound like breaking glass, and lunged. The fight erupted in a heartbeat—Taro parried a blade, his movements sharp from years on the road, while Kenta's katana flashed, cutting down one of the shadowed figures. It fell with a hiss, its form dissolving into smoke, leaving only a faint shimmer of light. Mika darted low, her dagger slicing at the cloaked man's leg, but he twisted away, unnaturally fast.
Jiro, for all his drunken swagger, moved with purpose, tossing a handful of salt from his pouch and chanting words Taro didn't know. The air crackled, and the second shadow-figure recoiled, its red eyes dimming. Sora stood still, her amulet glowing brighter now, casting a soft green light that seemed to push back the dark.
The cloaked man snarled, retreating to the door. "This isn't over," he spat. "The Flame Bearers will have the jade, and Horai-ji will bow." He vanished into the night, the sour smell fading with him.
Taro lowered his sword, chest heaving, the adrenaline fading into a dull ache. The inn was silent again, but the emptiness felt wrong, like a stage cleared for the next act. He turned to Jiro, his voice rough. "What were those things?"
Jiro wiped his brow, his grin gone. "Kitsune-bi—fox spirits, bound by someone's will. Not natural. Someone's weaving old magic, and that amulet's the lure."
Mika sheathed her dagger, her hands shaking slightly. "Great. So we're fighting ghosts now? This wish better be worth it."
Kenta cleaned his blade, his face grim but steady. "It's worth it. For me, it's a new start. What's yours, thief?"
Mika hesitated, her usual sharpness softened by the fight. "A life where I don't have to look over my shoulder," she said quietly. "You wouldn't get it."
Taro didn't press her. He understood running from a past—his own was littered with deals and debts he'd never outrun. But Hana's crane, still tucked in his sleeve, pulled him forward. He looked at Sora, her face serene despite the chaos. "You knew they weren't human," he said, not a question.
She nodded, her eyes distant. "The amulet calls many things. Not all are kind."
He wanted to shake her, to demand the whole truth, but the weight of the night stopped him. Instead, he turned to the group. "We rest till dawn, then move. No more waiting for trouble to find us."
As they returned to their rooms, the lanterns flickered, casting long shadows that seemed to linger a moment too long. Taro lay down, the crane's soft edges against his wrist, and thought of Hana—not her illness, but her smile, bright as a summer dawn. The road was turning darker, but for her, he'd walk through any shadow, even ones with red eyes and fox fire.
Outside, the rain picked up again, and somewhere in the night, a low hum rose—the amulet, or something older, watching from the dark.