The Nakasendō gave way to the hills like a river splitting into hidden streams, the path Goro marked on the map narrowing into a trail choked with brambles and loose stone. Taro led the way, his steps measured, the map folded tight in his fist. The mist from Magome had lifted, leaving the air crisp and sharp, laced with the tang of pine and earth turned over by recent rain. His short sword hung loose at his hip, ready but not drawn, a habit from years dodging checkpoints with nothing but shadow and nerve. The group followed close—Sora's footsteps light as falling leaves, Kenta's armor a faint clink against the silence, Mika's boots scuffing the gravel with impatient energy, Jiro's gourd sloshing softly as he brought up the rear.
Taro's mind ticked over Goro's easy grin, the way his eyes had lingered on Sora like a man weighing gold. Shortcuts like this were old tricks in his hashiriya days—promises of speed that ended in dead ends or worse. But the road ahead felt different, the hills pressing in with a weight that made his skin itch. He glanced back at the group, their faces set against the climb, and felt that fragile thread of trust pull taut. They weren't just cargo anymore; they were in this mess together, and that meant watching each other's backs.
"Stinks of a setup," Kenta muttered, wiping sweat from his brow as the path steepened. His katana swayed with his stride, his eyes flicking to the treeline where shadows pooled deeper than they should.
Mika laughed, short and bitter, dodging a low branch. "You think? That merchant had the face of a fox in a henhouse. Bet he's laughing now, counting our ryo."
Jiro hummed a low tune, his voice rough from sake, but his gaze was sharp, scanning the underbrush. "Foxes aren't the only ones laughing. These hills have ears—old ones. Feel that? Air's too still."
Sora said nothing, her eyes on the path ahead, but her hand rested lightly on her collar, as if steadying something restless beneath. Taro caught the motion, his frustration flickering—her secrets were like fog, always just out of reach. But he bit back the question, focusing on the map. The trail should've widened by now, opening to a ridge Goro had sketched with a quick line. Instead, it twisted sharper, the trees crowding closer, their branches tangling overhead like fingers laced in warning.
Then it happened—a snap, faint but deliberate, from the undergrowth to their left. Taro froze, hand on his sword. "Down," he hissed, dropping low as a rope whipped from the foliage, taut and humming with tension. It caught Kenta's ankle, yanking him off balance with a curse. He hit the ground hard, his katana clattering, but rolled free, slicing the rope with a single swing.
Mika spun, dagger out, her eyes wide but steady. "Ambush! From the right—watch the pit!"
She was right—a patch of earth ahead gave way under Taro's boot, the ground crumbling to reveal a shallow trench lined with sharpened stakes, half-hidden by leaves. He leaped back, heart slamming, the map crumpling in his grip. Goro's shortcut wasn't just a lie; it was a noose, drawn tight.
Jiro scrambled to his feet, gourd forgotten, pulling a handful of salt from his pouch. "Not men—something's twisting the land. Fog's rolling in, thick as lies."
He wasn't wrong. The air grew hazy, a sudden fog coiling up from the path like breath from a hidden mouth, swallowing the trail ahead. Sounds muffled—the rustle of leaves, Kenta's labored breaths—until the world narrowed to gray and echo. Taro's pulse thrummed, his old instincts kicking in: breathe steady, listen close, find the way out. But this wasn't a samurai patrol; it felt alive, the fog pressing against his skin like a hand testing his nerve.
Kenta hauled himself up, blade ready, his face flushed with anger. "That merchant's dead when I find him. This is no random trap."
Mika crouched beside him, her dagger tracing the air, her voice tight but quick. "Save the grudge—look, the rope's knotted fresh, but the pit's old. Someone's been tinkering, making the road bite."
Sora knelt in the fog, her fingers brushing the earth, her voice calm but edged with something deeper, like a current under still water. "The hills remember grudges. This isn't just Goro's doing—the path fights back."
Taro's mind raced, piecing it together. Goro's map had led them true enough, but the traps felt layered, like the land itself was turning on them. He thought of his courier runs, slipping through guarded passes, always one step ahead of the snare. But here, with the fog closing in and the group bunched tight, doubt crept in—not fear, but a sharp pang of responsibility. They'd trusted his call on the map, and now the hills were closing the trap.
"Form up," Taro said, voice cutting through the haze. "Mika, scout left—find the rope's end. Kenta, cover right. Jiro, if you've got a trick for this fog, now's the time."
Jiro nodded, scattering salt in a rough circle, muttering words that hung heavy in the air. The fog recoiled slightly, thinning just enough to reveal the path's twist—a wall of bramble ahead, impenetrable, humming faintly like a held breath. Mika darted forward, her knife flashing, severing vines that snapped back like living things. Kenta slashed at shadows on the right, his blade meeting nothing but air, his frustration boiling over in a low growl.
Sora rose, her eyes distant, and placed a hand on the bramble wall. The humming stopped, the vines parting just enough for a narrow gap. "It yields," she said simply, stepping through.
Taro followed, the group squeezing after, the fog nipping at their heels. On the other side, the path opened to a ridge, the hills rolling out below in waves of green and shadow. But as the mist cleared, Taro spotted movement—a silhouette in the trees below, cloaked and still, a red cord glinting like a drop of blood. Goro's trap hadn't just slowed them; it had herded them, straight into watching eyes.
Taro's grip tightened on his sword, a mix of anger and grim resolve settling in his chest. The road was playing games, but so could he. He tucked the torn map away, nodding to the group. "We keep moving. And next town, we find that merchant—before he finds us."
The hills stretched on, silent but alive, and as they descended, the fog lingered behind like a promise of more deceptions to come.