The fog hung low over Magome, wrapping the post town's lanterns in a gauzy veil that muffled the festival's fading echoes. Taro stood at the edge of the market square, his boots scuffed from the road, his short sword a familiar weight at his hip. The air smelled of charred eel and wet straw, but beneath it lingered a sharper edge—something watchful, like the glint of eyes in the dark. Sora stood nearby, her indigo kimono blending with the mist, her calm a quiet anchor in the group's unease. Kenta's armor caught the lantern light, his hand restless on his katana, while Mika prowled the stalls, her fingers twitching as if itching to swipe something. Jiro leaned against a post, his sake gourd half-raised, his eyes scanning the crowd with a sharpness that belied his drunken sway.
The kitsune dancer's shadow still haunted Taro, its twin tails curling in his memory like a warning. The Flame Bearer woman with her red cord had vanished into the festival, but her presence clung to him, a reminder that the road to Horai-ji was no simple path. He pushed the thought aside, focusing on the task—resupply, move out, stay ahead of whatever hunted them. His old hashiriya instincts, honed from years slipping through samurai traps, told him to keep moving, to trust no one. But the group was his now, for better or worse, and that weight settled on him like a worn cloak.
A voice broke through the market's hum—a merchant, broad-shouldered and cloaked in fine silk, his smile too wide for the early hour. "Travelers, eh?" he called, stepping from a stall piled with dried fish and rice sacks. "You look like folk bound for far roads. Need a guide? I know paths the Nakasendō hides from most."
Taro's eyes narrowed, his hand brushing his sword. "We know the road," he said, voice low, testing the man's intent.
The merchant chuckled, undeterred, his hands spreading like a performer's. "Name's Goro. Not talking about the main drag, friend. There's a shortcut through the hills—cuts a day off your trek to Horai-ji. Less bandits, less trouble." His gaze flicked to Sora, lingering a heartbeat too long.
Kenta stepped closer, his voice sharp. "Shortcuts come with a price. What's yours?"
Goro's smile didn't falter, but his eyes glinted, sharp as a blade's edge. "Just a few ryo. And maybe a favor down the line. Good folk like you, heading to the temple—bet you've got stories worth hearing."
Mika snorted, slipping an apple from a nearby stall into her sleeve, her movements smooth as water. "Stories? You're fishing for more than coin, merchant."
Jiro tilted his head, sipping his sake, his grin sly. "Man's got the look of someone who knows too much. Bet he's heard whispers about shiny things." He nodded toward Sora, who stood still, her fingers grazing her collar where the amulet lay hidden.
Taro's gut twisted, his old instincts flaring. Goro's offer smelled like a trap, the kind he'd dodged in his hashiriya days—deals too sweet, promises that led to ambushes. But a day shaved off the journey meant less time for the Flame Bearers to close in, less time for yōkai to stir. He glanced at Sora, her eyes meeting his, steady but unreadable, like a river hiding its depths.
"What's the catch?" Taro asked, stepping closer to Goro, his voice low but firm. "No one gives shortcuts for free."
Goro shrugged, his smile thinning. "Catch is the hills aren't kind to strangers. Narrow paths, steep drops. But I've walked them. I'll mark your map, point you right—for a price."
Mika leaned in, her voice a hiss. "He's got eyes like a rat. Bet he's selling us to those red-corded creeps."
Sora spoke then, her words soft but cutting through the chatter. "The road tests those who choose it. This path may lead us faster—or to what waits in shadow."
Taro's jaw tightened. He didn't trust Goro, but the road was already a gamble, and every day spent dodging threats was a day he wasn't moving toward the temple's promise. He thought of his duty—not just to himself, but to the group he'd somehow bound himself to. Kenta's quiet honor, Mika's sharp edges, Jiro's cryptic wisdom—they were his now, as much as the road.
"Mark the map," Taro said finally, tossing a small pouch of ryo to Goro. "But if this is a trick, you'll answer to more than steel."
Goro caught the pouch, his grin returning, though it didn't reach his eyes. He pulled a worn map from his sleeve, sketching a winding path through the hills with quick, precise strokes. "Follow this, and you'll see the temple's shadow sooner than you think. Safe travels, friends."
As the group moved away, the festival's drums picked up again, a low thrum that felt like a warning. Taro tucked the map into his haori, his mind racing. Goro's smile was too easy, his words too smooth, but the shortcut was a chance they couldn't ignore. He glanced at his companions—Sora's calm certainty, Kenta's wary readiness, Mika's restless energy, Jiro's knowing squint—and felt a flicker of something new: not just duty, but a fragile trust, hard-won on this unforgiving road.
The mist thickened as they left Magome behind, the lanterns fading into the fog. Somewhere in the hills, the path Goro promised waited—along with whatever shadows he'd sold them to. Taro's hand stayed close to his sword, his heart steady with a fire he hadn't felt in years, ready to face whatever the road would throw at them next.