Consciousness returned like a tide dragging broken glass across the shore—slow, relentless, merciless.
Yue opened his eyes.
Darkness greeted him, broken only by the wavering glow of a single torch burning beyond iron bars. Its light shuddered across damp stone, stretching shadows that seemed to breathe. The air was cold and heavy, thick with the scent of moss, old water, and iron.
Pain followed awareness.
Not the distant, muted ache of divine wounds, but something sharper. Intimate. Bruises blossomed across his ribs with every breath. A dull throb pulsed behind his eyes where his skull had split. His muscles protested even the act of inhaling, as though unfamiliar with movement itself.
Chains clinked softly.
He looked down.
Iron manacles encircled his wrists, links trailing to a ring bolted deep into the wall. Short enough to force him to kneel or sit. Long enough to ensure he never forgot his place.
A cell.
The realization settled over him like frost.
This was no ethereal prison of the Lunar Court—no woven illusions, no starlight restraints shaped by will. This was crude. Mortal. Stone walls slick with moisture, a thin pallet of straw rotting in one corner, a bucket in another. High above, a narrow slit cut into the stone revealed a sliver of night sky—stars distant and indifferent.
Exile, made manifest.
His gaze dropped to his body.
The last remnants of celestial silk were gone. In their place, a coarse yukata of undyed hemp clung stiffly to his skin. He caught his reflection in a shallow puddle on the floor.
Ash-gray hair, cropped short.
Eyes still sharp, but stripped of their luminous depth.
Features once sculpted by moonlight now looked… human.
Fragile.
Grief struck without mercy.
The Lunar Palace collapsing into the void.
Solara's steady voice, apology wrapped in betrayal.
The basin shattering—dreams screaming as they died.
His mother, asleep in her sanctum, now truly beyond reach.
And the fall.
Endless. Burning. Final.
Yue shut his eyes and reached inward.
He searched for the familiar wellspring—the place where illusion had once flowed like rivers of starlight. He found nothing but silence.
Then—
Something.
Deep beneath the seal, buried under layers of enforced absence, a faint warmth stirred. A coal smothered in ash.
Hope surged.
He grasped for it—
And found only resistance.
The effort left him shaking, sweat beading along his spine despite the chill. Mortal exhaustion dragged at his limbs. Another indignity. Another reminder.
Footsteps echoed in the corridor.
Measured. Unhurried.
A key turned.
The door groaned open.
Mizuki stepped inside.
She wore the same dark kimono as before, tailored for movement, ponytail swaying like a banner of night. No mask this time. Her face was sharp and unadorned—scar slicing through one eyebrow, lips set in a line that might have been cruelty or discipline.
Her obsidian eyes fixed on him.
Predatory.
Curious.
Calculating.
She carried a wooden tray: steaming rice, pickled vegetables, a cup of water. Simple fare. The scent made Yue's stomach twist with a hunger he had never known.
"You live," she said.
Not a question. Not praise.
Statement.
She set the tray within his reach and crouched opposite him, balanced effortlessly on the balls of her feet. A predator at rest.
Yue lifted his gaze to meet hers, drawing on centuries of courtly composure even as chains whispered against stone.
"Disappointed?"
One corner of her mouth lifted. "Intrigued. Most would have shattered on impact. Bones to dust. Yet here you sit—pretty as fresh snow."
The word pretty cut sharper than insult.
Once, beauty had been power.
Here, it was exposure.
"What are you?" she asked. "No clan marks. No calluses. Cloth finer than anything worn in the capital. And you fell from the sky during a blood eclipse."
Her eyes narrowed.
"Spy. Sorcerer. Or kami wearing flesh?"
Yue chose his words with care.
Truth would sound like madness. Lies had no magic left to sustain them.
"I remember little," he said quietly. "A high place. A betrayal. Then falling."
He let real exhaustion bleed into his voice.
"The rest is shadow."
Mizuki studied him in silence.
Then she reached forward.
Too suddenly.
Gloved fingers brushed a strand of ash-gray hair from his forehead, testing the healing wound. Clinical. Assessing.
But the touch lingered—just a fraction too long.
"No fever," she murmured. "No madness in your eyes. Yet."
She withdrew her hand.
"Eat. Lord Kuroda will see you soon. If you have value, you live. If not—"
She didn't finish.
She didn't need to.
Yue drank the water slowly, strength returning in thin, precious strands.
"And you?" he asked. "What is your name, captor?"
"Mizuki," she said. "Captain of the Nightblade shadows."
Pride edged her voice.
"We serve Lord Kuroda of the Black Pine Domain. These mountains belong to us. Trespassers do not leave them."
"Why keep me alive?"
Her gaze sharpened.
"Because the heavens marked you. The moon bled for three nights. Then a star fell into our forest." She rose fluidly. "Lord Kuroda collects omens the way others collect blades."
She paused at the door.
"And because I asked him to."
That surprised him.
"Why?"
She looked back once.
"Because broken things," she said, "can sometimes be reforged."
The door closed.
The lock turned.
Yue ate in silence, each bite anchoring him further to this world of iron and hunger.
They came for him hours later.
Time passed by torchlight and distant echoes of the fortress waking. Two guards flanked Mizuki as she unchained him from the wall, leaving wrist manacles linked by a short length of chain.
They searched him.
Found nothing.
Then pushed him forward.
The Nightblade fortress unfolded like a coiled serpent—corridors twisting through the mountain's heart, hidden doors melting into stone, arrow slits overlooking sheer drops swallowed by mist. Shinobi moved like shadows given intent.
At last, they entered the main hall.
A cavern reinforced with timber beams, banners of black pine needles hanging against deep indigo cloth. Weapons lined the walls—katana, yari, bows. Maps sprawled across low tables, territories marked in red and black.
At the far end sat the daimyo.
Lord Kuroda.
Broad-shouldered. Scarred. Forged by war. His katana rested across his lap, gaze iron-hard.
Yue was forced to kneel.
"The sky-fallen one," Kuroda said. "My captain claims you speak politely and forget conveniently."
"I speak truth," Yue replied calmly. "The fall took much from me."
Whispers rippled.
A priestess leaned forward, bells chiming softly. "The blood moon was unnatural. The kami send signs."
Kuroda silenced her with a gesture.
"Enemies gather at the river," he said. "Lord Akahoshi sharpens his knives. Are you one of them?"
"No."
"Then what are you?"
Yue held the silence.
"A man cast low," he said at last. "Seeking survival."
Kuroda studied him.
"Survival is earned. Prove your worth. Fail—"
A finger traced a line across his throat.
"Mizuki will be your warden."
The verdict fell.
Back in the cell, the manacles were removed.
A mercy.
Or a test.
Night deepened.
Alone, Yue sat cross-legged on straw and breathed.
He reached inward again.
Grief. Fear. Resolve.
The seal resisted—
Then cracked.
Just enough.
A thread of silver light bloomed in his palm. He shaped it instinctively: a tiny crescent moon, perfect and luminous.
It held.
Then flickered.
And vanished.
Pain lanced through his skull—but hope followed close behind.
The seal could break.
Outside, war drums echoed through the valley.
Footsteps thundered closer.
The door flew open.
Mizuki stood masked now, urgency burning in her eyes.
"Akahoshi attacks at dawn," she said. "Lord Kuroda summons you."
"Why me?"
She stepped aside.
"Because the heavens sent you for this war," she said. "Prove it—or we all burn."
The drums grew louder as they vanished into the fortress shadows.