Chapter Three: The Ride Through Kyoto

They rode at sunset, when the city turned golden and the merchants were packing their wares for the evening. Hayato led the way on a dappled gray mare, while Arata followed on a chestnut gelding that seemed far too spirited for his mood. The streets of Kyoto were narrow and crowded, full of life—craftsmen calling out their wares, children playing in the dust, women gossiping at the wells.

Arata had forgotten what normalcy looked like.

"Your father loved this city," Hayato said, his voice carrying over the evening bustle. "Not just for its beauty or its importance, but for its people. He used to ride through the merchant district every month, just to remind himself what he was protecting."

"Protecting?" Arata couldn't keep the bitterness from his voice. "He was collecting their taxes and demanding their loyalty."

"Both can be true." Hayato glanced back at him. "Your father wasn't a perfect man, Arata-sama. He was cold, proud, and yes—cruel to you in ways you didn't deserve. But he cared about his domain. About his duty." He turned down a side street, heading toward the more shadowed parts of the city. "He understood that power comes with weight. That every decision he made affected thousands of lives. It consumed him, sometimes. Made him hard."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better? Knowing that I'm doomed to the same fate?"

"No." Hayato's voice was quiet. "It's supposed to help you understand. Your father wasn't born a lord—he was your grandfather's second son, never meant to inherit. But his elder brother died in a skirmish with the Mori clan, and suddenly the weight fell on him." He paused. "Sound familiar?"

Arata said nothing. The city was changing around them—the neat merchant shops giving way to rougher establishments, tea houses with red lanterns hanging outside, narrow alleys where shadows moved with purpose.

"Where are we going?" Arata demanded.

Hayato reined his horse to a stop in front of a large wooden building, three stories tall with elaborately carved eaves and dozens of red lanterns casting everything in a warm, crimson glow. The sound of shamisen music drifted through the open windows, along with laughter and the sweet smoke of incense.

"Here," Hayato said simply.

Arata stared at the building, and cold dread pooled in his stomach. He knew what this place was. Every detail—the music, the lanterns, the women visible through the screens in their silk kimono—screamed brothel.

"No," he said flatly. "Absolutely not."

"Your father came here when the weight became too much," Hayato said, dismounting. "It helped him find balance. Peace."

"My father was a hypocrite." Arata's hands clenched on the reins. "He bedded my mother in a place like this, got her pregnant, then treated her—and me—like filth under his sandals."

Hayato turned, something like understanding flickering in his eyes. "I didn't know you felt—"

"Of course you didn't know!" Arata's voice rose, drawing curious glances from passersby. "Nobody knows! Nobody cares! My mother was a prostitute, Hayato-san. Do you understand? One of these women!" He gestured violently at the brothel. "She spread her legs for coin, got pregnant, and then vanished. Left me to be raised as a shameful reminder of Father's indiscretion. And you think bringing me here will help?"

"I think," Hayato said carefully, "that you're carrying too much hate along with your grief. And that sometimes, the things we hate most are the ones we need to understand."

"I understand perfectly. I don't need—"

"Two hours." Hayato's voice turned hard. "You'll go inside, you'll take a room, and you'll stay for two hours. If you come out before then, I'll assign you night watch duty for a month. Clear?"

"You can't—"

"I can, and I am." Hayato grabbed his arm, his grip gentle but unyielding. "I know this isn't what you want, Arata-sama. But trust me. Sometimes what we need and what we want are different things."

Before Arata could protest further, Hayato had marched him through the entrance. The interior was warm, smoky, and filled with the mingled scents of perfume, incense, and sake. Women in elaborate kimono glided through the corridors like ghosts, their faces painted white, their lips crimson. They smiled at him—the practiced, empty smiles of women who'd learned to hide themselves behind masks.

A matron appeared, her face lined with age but her eyes sharp as she assessed Arata. "My lord," she purred, bowing deeply. "We are honored by your presence. Hayato-sama has arranged one of our finest rooms, and our most exquisite companion awaits you."

"I don't want—"

But Hayato was already pressing coins into the matron's hand, murmuring instructions. The woman nodded, then gestured for Arata to follow. He wanted to refuse, to storm out, but the memory of Hayato's threat kept him moving forward.

The corridor was long and dimly lit, lined with shoji screens behind which he could hear soft voices, laughter, the occasional moan. His skin crawled. This place reeked of his mother—whoever she was—and the life that had created him. A life he'd spent twenty years despising.

The matron stopped before a door at the end of the hall, sliding it open with a practiced flourish. "Your companion awaits, my lord. Take your time."

She disappeared before he could protest, leaving him standing in the doorway of a room draped in shadow. The only light came from the full moon streaming through the open window, casting everything in silver and darkness.

And there, kneeling beside a low table, was a woman.