The rain began long after they left Namiyo. It wasn't heavy—just a mist that blurred the trees and soaked the earth until every step whispered. The forest here grew differently, roots knotted over one another as if afraid of being washed away. Ren walked ahead, bow slung across his back, its dark curve slick with droplets that refused to fall.
Each sound echoed strangely. The air carried the weight of something unsaid, and even the wind hesitated between the trunks. The Maiden followed behind, silent except for the soft brush of fabric and the faint chime of the small bells tied to her sash. Those bells had replaced the ones that drowned in Namiyo, their sound thinner, fragile—as if mourning their kin beneath the river.
Ren's shoulders ached. He had not spoken since dawn. The stillness between them felt almost sacred, but it carried unease too—like the breath before a prayer. When he finally stopped beneath a cedar tree, the sound of the rain seemed to swell around them, pressing close.
"We'll rest here," he said.
The Maiden nodded and knelt by the roots. Her hands traced lines in the mud, small sigils to ward off unseen things. "The rain here never ends," she murmured. "It's said the trees drink the tears of those who drowned before their names were remembered."
Ren looked at her, unsure if she meant the villagers or the monks—or them. "Do you believe that?"
"I've stopped deciding what I believe," she said softly. "Now I only listen."
He set down his pack, unslinging Hoshikage. The bow seemed to hum faintly in the wet air, droplets sliding across its surface without leaving marks. It had not made a sound since Namiyo. Yet sometimes, when he held it, he thought he could feel a pulse beneath the lacquer, like a heart sleeping under black water.
He crouched near the fire she coaxed from damp twigs. Its light reflected in her eyes, making them look almost gold. The Mirror Fire within him stirred at the sight, a faint glow threading his veins before dimming again.
The Maiden noticed but said nothing. She sat across from him, warming her hands. Between them, the flame flickered blue for a heartbeat—spirit fire answering something unseen—then returned to its normal color.
"You're quiet," she said.
"I keep hearing them."
"The bells?"
"No." He looked into the forest, where the mist shifted like slow breath. "Voices. From before."
The wind bent through the branches, carrying a faint murmur. For an instant, it sounded like laughter. Then it became words—his name, whispered low and almost tender.
The Maiden's head snapped toward the sound. "She's following."
Ren didn't move. "I know."
The voice came again, clearer this time. You took the river's silence, Ren. Now carry its weight.
He rose, scanning the dark. The forest pressed close, the mist shimmering faintly with motes of light. For a moment he thought he saw a figure—tall, pale, hair floating like streamers of silk. Then it dissolved into rain.
"She's not attacking," he said.
"She doesn't need to." The Maiden stood slowly. "She's reminding you."
"Of what?"
"That every gift has an echo."
He frowned. "Then tell me—what echo did the river leave in you?"
Her gaze faltered, the firelight catching the fine tremor in her hands. "You don't want to know."
Silence filled the space between them. The rain thickened, pattering against the leaves above. The fire hissed, guttering low.
Ren sat again, resting his elbows on his knees. "I've seen spirits that kill for less than what we've done. But she—she speaks as if she knew me."
The Maiden lowered her voice. "Perhaps she does. The marks you bear aren't only Yomi's—they're pieces of something older, something the Gate reawakened. If she was born of that, then she's bound to you as much as I am."
Her words landed heavy. Bound. The same word the yokai woman had used.
He looked down at his hands. The faint gold sigils shimmered under the skin, visible when the fire flared. "Then maybe I'm not the one who survived. Maybe I'm just what was left behind."
The Maiden didn't answer. Her silence was not dismissal but grief.
After a while she said, "Sleep. I'll keep watch."
He shook his head. "No. You need rest."
"I can't," she said. "Dreams don't belong to me anymore."
The fire dimmed to embers. Ren leaned back against the cedar, eyes half-closed. The sound of the rain steadied, rhythmic. Beneath it, faint and almost kind, came the tone of bells again—distant, underwater.
He thought of Kaito's laughter, the village that forgot, the woman in the river. All of them threads in the same fabric tightening around him.
Sleep came slow, heavy, filled with light that moved like water.
In the dream, he stood at the edge of a lake. The surface was smooth, reflecting a sky without stars. Beneath it, shapes moved—faces, pale and serene, mouths open in song. At the lake's center floated a single lantern, its flame blue-white. When he stepped closer, the reflection changed. The Maiden stood on the opposite shore, holding the lantern.
"Ren," she said. "Do you know what the river remembers?"
He tried to answer, but the words turned to mist.
Behind her, another figure rose from the water. The yokai woman—her eyes gleaming green and gold, her hand resting on the Maiden's shoulder.
"She remembers you," she whispered. "And so do I."
The lantern's light flared, blinding him.
He woke with a gasp.
The rain had stopped. Only the smell of wet cedar and smoke remained. The Maiden was still awake, sitting cross-legged by the cold ashes of the fire. She didn't look at him when he stirred. Dawn hadn't come yet, but the forest had changed shade—the color between night and something that wanted to be morning.
"You spoke in your sleep," she said. "Her name."
Ren wiped the moisture from his face. "I don't remember saying anything."
"You said it like a promise."
He looked away. The branches dripped above them, each fall of water loud in the quiet. Hoshikage rested beside him, its string faintly luminous, the light pulsing once every few heartbeats. "The relic reacts to dreams," he said. "It shouldn't."
"The relic reacts to what you carry," she answered. "Everything you touched in Yomi clings to you still. Maybe it hears what I can't."
Ren rose. The ground sucked at his boots, soft from the rain. Mist drifted between the trees, veiling distance. Somewhere deeper in the forest something moved—a slow, heavy sound, too deliberate for wind. The Maiden's head turned toward it, hand already closing around a charm.
From the fog came a flicker of light, orange then blue. The shape of a man appeared, shoulders bent, carrying a lantern that should have drowned long ago. Its glow threw circles across the trunks, revealing water pooled where no river should be.
The Maiden whispered, "Spirit of the drowned."
Ren unsheathed his sword. "Namiyo's?"
"Maybe what's left of one."
The figure stopped ten paces away. Its face was featureless, the skin gray as rain-soaked paper. The lantern's flame swayed, casting shadows that twisted like vines. When it spoke, the voice was layered—many voices, men and women together.
You took our silence. Give it back.
The air thickened, pressing against their skin. The fire ashes at their feet hissed and glowed as if breathing again. Ren stepped forward, Hoshikage across his back thrumming softly. "We didn't steal it," he said. "The river gave it."
Nothing is given, the voices replied. Only remembered.
The ground rippled, water rising from the soil, forming hands that reached toward them. The Maiden flung her charms into the air; each burst into lines of gold that spiraled outward, freezing the hands mid-motion. They quivered like glass. Ren moved through them, his blade cutting arcs of clean air. The light of the sword caught on the water, scattering reflections like shards of a broken mirror.
He reached the spirit and struck. The blade passed through without resistance. The figure staggered, the lantern falling into the mud where it guttered but didn't die. For an instant Ren saw faces in the flame—men he had fought beside, villagers from the nameless place, his brother laughing. Then the image collapsed inward and the light went out.
The forest fell utterly still. The water hands sank back into earth. Rain began again, gentle and slow.
The Maiden lowered her arms, the golden sigils fading from the air. "They weren't angry," she said. "They were lost."
Ren sheathed his sword. "Lost things always find me."
He bent and picked up the lantern. It was cold now, heavy as stone. Inside, instead of fire, a smear of dark residue swirled like ink. He thought he saw movement within it—a faint glimmer like an eye half-open—but when he blinked it was gone.
"We can't stay here," she said.
He nodded. "North, then. Toward the high ridge."
They walked in silence. The forest thinned, giving way to low wetlands where pools reflected the gray sky. Each step sent ripples across the surface, and for a heartbeat those ripples showed other scenes: the drowned pagoda, the bridge at Namiyo, Kaito standing beneath a burning tree. The reflections vanished when the next drop of rain fell.
By the time the light broke fully, they reached higher ground. The air smelled of pine again. Ren stopped at a cliff's edge where the valley spread below them like a map painted in silver and green. The river wound through it, calm now, the memory of its storm hidden beneath the calm surface. He felt the ache of distance, as though part of him still stood down there beneath the water.
The Maiden joined him. "You should sleep," she said. "Even ghosts need rest."
"I dreamed enough for both of us."
She smiled faintly, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Then let me borrow one of yours. Just a small dream. The kind that doesn't end in fire."
He turned to her. For a moment he almost reached out, then stopped. Between them the wind carried the scent of wet earth and cedar, the same scent that always came before the world changed.
Below, the river shimmered—and in that shimmer he thought he saw her again, the yokai woman, standing on the water's surface as if it were glass. Her reflection looked up, meeting his gaze across distance and silence. She lifted a hand, not in threat but in greeting. The sound of a single bell rolled through the valley, deep and low.
The Maiden heard it too. Her shoulders tightened. "She's calling you."
"She's reminding me," he said.
"Of what?"
"That the past never stays drowned."
The bell faded. The reflection vanished. The valley returned to stillness.
The Maiden's voice broke the quiet. "If she comes again, I'll stop her."
Ren shook his head. "No. If she comes again, I'll listen. Maybe the dead are only dangerous because we keep pretending they have nothing left to say."
The Maiden studied him a long moment. "You sound like someone who's already halfway across the river."
"Maybe I never left it."
Wind stirred the treetops. Far below, thunder murmured though no storm showed. He adjusted the bow on his shoulder, feeling its weight settle. The Mirror Fire within him beat once, a steady pulse like the toll of a distant bell.
They turned from the cliff and started toward the ridge, their figures small against the gray light. Behind them, the valley exhaled a thin mist that rose and twisted into shapes before dispersing. Somewhere unseen, another bell answered, softer, further away—like a promise deferred.
The Maiden glanced back once. "The world keeps ringing," she said quietly. "But I can't tell if it's mourning or calling."
Ren didn't look back. "Maybe both."
They walked until the fog swallowed them, two shadows moving through a world that refused to stay silent, carrying the ashes of what was and the weight of what waited beneath the water.