Archive of Our Own

68 A.E.

Two Years Before The Coronation of the Crown Prince

Ash was seventeen when his father passed on.

His father, the great Lord Fumero Hinokiri, had been a staple of the Empire’s elementals from far before Ash was born. Their family had, after all, been staunch in their loyalties to the crown from the very beginning of His Majesty’s rule. Ash had grown up hearing the same stories over and over about how his grandfather had been made to help build the very palace of Shadowspire brick by brick. His nursemaid had read him the stories of his own father’s exploits after he had taken up the mantle of Master of Smoke, Ash’s grandfather killed by the cruel-hearted rebel elementals. His father, one of the Emperor’s most dependable allies. His father, the Twilight Warden of the Realm, protector of the city’s borders with undeniable control.

And with such a prestigious family name to uphold, Ash’s education did not begin a day late. Which, he suspected with disappointment, was why he seemed to fall short of every expectation that was placed before him.

His tutors attempted to teach him the arts of war at all of five years old. His father tried to see if martial training would stick with him at the much more mature age of eight. His mother had suggested that perhaps he’d have a thumb for politics by the time he was eleven. And no matter the desperation Ash felt and poured into every task set before him, with every time he was ordered to jump, he could never surpass the hurdles that had been so confidently placed high above his head.

As such, Ash did not know what his father looked like when he was pleased. For whenever his talentless son was in the room, his face was drawn with annoyance or bitter disappointment. The older he got, the less he saw of his father, shut into his office. He suspected he’d given up Ash.

It was not any warmer to be in a room with his mother. Then, it was the blank expression that should have only met with people she did not know. Or, on the most horrible occasions, outright disdain that not even his father would face him with. Like he had ruined her life. As a child, he’d grown to believe it.

Unfortunately for them all, the worthless son of House Hinokiri was the only choice they had. Ash was sure they had wished over and over that he was a second-born or had another sibling who could surpass his weak heart, but Ash would be their only heir.

His mother, the Lady Misora, was one of the most beautiful women in all of Ninjago. All knew that, her elegance second only to the Lady Carnia Kurogane herself. It was a very private secret, found only after the marriage of her and Lord Fumero, that she was also near-sterile. This was something that could have been the ruin of the respected military family. After all, an elemental master’s most important duty was to produce an heir in the case of their untimely death, to ensure that the qi of their bloodline would carry on being loyal to the Empire. And Lord Fumero could not simply wed another.

Their marriage in the first place had been an arranged one of politics and alliances, rather than a product of love. To break it would be to break those promises.

It was a miracle in itself when Ash was conceived and, as his parents had grown older, not likely to be repeated. If it had been, then he would have been replaced by another when he’d failed to understand the strategies of resource destruction in his childhood. Sometimes, he wondered if that would have been better. An accident would have been staged, he was sure, and perhaps he would have passed quietly in his sleep from an unknown illness that no doctor could save him from. Then, his second sibling could have inherited his father’s abilities and responsibility. Yes, Ash would be dead, but…some horrible little thing inside him expected it wouldn’t make much of a difference.

None would mourn him either way. Not for anything more but the loss of his blood.

And then, his father had died.

It had been unexpected, to him, and to the world. It had not been to the family doctor and to his mother. Lord Fumero had been suffering a heart condition for years following the strain his imperial expeditions had given him. Although he had outwardly been a large, strong man, with the face that would refuse the hand of any reaper, his death had shocked Ash with the knowledge that his father had been human all along.

All at once, he had been thrust from the quiet hallways of a mansion that he was left to wander alone to a seat of the military that he’d been woefully unprepared for, despite all of his imperial education.

He received a letter from his father an hour following the funeral. It had been a great ordeal, televised, and Ash had fumbled his way through a pre-written speech. Despite the bright letters of the teleprompter behind all of the cameras, the eyes of the expansive crowd of military personnel and important politicians had made his throat close with numbness. His father was dead. He was seventeen years old, and his father was dead.

He and his mother had returned to their mansion-house in the Upper East of the Geum Region. His mother wore the proper mourning garb of a high-born lady—modestly undecorated robes, but with a trail of skirts that followed feet behind her. A veil hung over her face, but Ash could see behind it. His mother had not cried, her lips had not trembled. Her eyes had slid across the casket of his father, and the face of her son, emotionless.

“Let me take your coat,” Ash said quietly when the grand doors sealed behind them.

She said nothing, holding an arm out for him. He helped slip the hanten from her silk robes, folding it over his arm. The woman did not reach up to adjust her elaborately done hair, nor did she attempt to brush the veil from her face. She began walking away, robes gliding behind her.

“Mother?” he tried, voice weak. “Would you like me to request anything for supper?”

She did not respond. As if he’d said nothing at all.

The hall was quiet but for the soft scrape of the silk across their carpet until she eventually turned a corner. She didn’t look back.

Ash was not surprised, but the young, scared part of him made his eyes sting.

“Milord,” their butler, Herio, materialized beside him. “I shall take that. Supper will be served soon enough.”

Ash handed the hanten over. He felt ridiculous in his own suit and haori. Like a child playing dress-up.

Herio was gone before Ash could get a word out. He had never been close to their serving staff. His parents had ensured that the atmosphere within the house was chilly to those of lower status. So, although it was now Ash’s house, he…found himself alone.

His mother did not come to supper. The long table was utterly empty, Ash sitting at the head of it, in his father’s chair, for the first time. The seat was cold and stiff. The candles that flickered across the table flickered, throwing shadows over the buffet set out for one.

The sounds of Ash’s silverware on his plate made ghosts echo. This was much what every meal had been like. His father would sit here, Ash would be four chairs down, and his mother would be nowhere to be found.

The hole in his chest…really it was there because…nothing felt unchanged. There was grief for his father, but with Ash now filling the space he had filled before, it was only as if he were looking through his father’s eyes. He was seeing what his father had always seen as he looked out to the space his son occupied: nothing.

“Milord.”

Ash startled, numb to his own world. Herio stood beside him, holding out an envelope. It was addressed to no one.

“What is this?” Ash asked, taking the cream-colored paper. Whatever was inside felt awfully thin.

“Your father requested I give it to you upon his untimely demise,” Herio explained plainly, folding his hands behind his back. “You are welcome to do with it what you will.”

“…Okay,” Ash winced. “Herio…please, don’t call me lord. Sir was just fine.”

“I cannot do that. You are Lord Hinokiri, now, and I must address you by your proper title. Unless you would order me otherwise, milord.”

“…I...don’t know.”

Herio stared at him, unimpressed above his thin mustache and wrinkles.

Ash swallowed and returned to the letter, his food barely touched. His hands felt unsteady around it because of the disconnect Ash felt between his mind and body. Still, he managed to tear the seam of the envelope and pull out the single sheet of paper, folded over twice.

There was a single line written. It was not signed by his father nor addressed to him. There was no love imbued in it. Ash read it over once, then twice.

‘Look after your mother.’

Ash looked up at Herio. “Is this all he left me?”

The butler nodded shortly. “That was all I was given, milord. You have also received other messages of business and condolences. It would be prudent to wait one day out of respect for the late Lord before responding to them.”

“Yes, okay,” Ash sighed, holding the letter tightly. “I…I will. You can go.”

Herio seemed to be straining to wait for his permission. When he was given it, the butler wasted no time turning on heel and leaving the room.

As soon as he had, Ash returned his eyes to the letter.

‘Look after your mother.’ That was all he’d been given. After being treated as little more than a decorative piece for years and proceeding to be dumped with one of the greatest positions in the Realm, this was all the guidance his father had elected to leave him with.

The paper crumpled in Ash’s hand as unjust betrayal rose in him. His eyes burned with frustration and self-pity. What was he supposed to do? What was he supposed to do? The weight was crushing him from the inside out, sitting on his lungs like a great panadaphant. All he’d ever wanted was to know how to be a general but he’d been such a thorough failure that he was ready for nothing. Why had his father left him with this? He’d known he was dying and had still said nothing!

Ash crunched the paper in his fist and dug both of his knuckles into his forehead, leaning his elbows on the table. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to keep breathing. The thought of actually eating any of the readied meal made him sick.

His father was gone. But…But Ash still had his mother. Maybe this would…warm her to him. Perhaps the marriage she had never wanted had been clouding her mind all of this time, and now that his father was gone…perhaps his mother would finally see him. Perhaps her grief, their grief, would change the world in her eyes. After all, the loss of his father was making Ash feel lost. He couldn’t imagine how much worse it would be had he lost his mother, too. Maybe his mother was feeling the same way about him.

Ash let out a shaking breath, pulling his hand back far enough to look at the crumpled piece of paper. He regretted his treatment of it. It was, regardless of how helpful, the last thing his father left for him.

The boy uncrumpled the letter and smoothed it out over the dinner table. With much more care, he then folded it into neat squares before tucking it into his pocket.

Unsure of what else to do, he took the plate from his mother’s empty place and began to fill it with finger foods. Easy to eat, plain. The least annoying thing anyone could be offered, he hoped.

He slipped from the dining room into an empty hall of dreary grey carpets. The walls were lined with portraits of important figures alongside either his father or grandfather—framed artifacts or newspapers alongside them, boasting more achievements for the House Hinokiri. A grant odachi blade once held by one of the Emperor’s hands had been gifted to them and now sat as a centerpiece, light shining down on it, where the hallway met the front foyer. The sword of black steel glinted beneath the spotlight.

Ash’s father had once dully described to him how the sword felt. Like the cold eternity of space—like the ever-oppressive earth above a cave. Like raw power—an alien energy from a Realm long left behind.

Ash stopped, the teenage boy hesitating as he held out his free hand, plate of food huddled to his other side as if the sword might poison it.

Ash touched the glass case.

He felt…nothing.

He frowned, pulling his hand back to look at it, as if he would see something wrong with it. The only thing wrong with it, however, was in the fact that it was not filled with the power that Ash should rightfully have.

Ash’s father had been dead for more than two days and yet his magic had not been passed on to his son. The only reason that he had kept his pathetic excuse for an heir around and it seemed to have been for nothing. Ash was a fluke heir. He, of course, would be the one person that the First Spinjitzu Master would break the cycle for. Not even the Creator saw Ash fit as worthy.

He had stared at the smoke from a candle flame for hours on end the day before and it had not even shuddered with his efforts.

He turned, trying to tamper his twisted expression, and clutched the plate of food tightly.

The curtains along all of the windows were drawn in, as they always were, because his mother liked them that way. The occasional small creases between the curtains lit the hall with spaced out stripes of sunlight, giving the illusion of arrow slits along the wall.

He found his mother in her art studio. It was a small ballroom that his father had gifted away to his wife, the Hinokiris never having entertained guests in their home before. The room was beautiful—marble columns lifted up a domed ceiling. With the curtains draped over what few windows there were, the light faded before it reached the depth of the bowl above, making the curved surface vanish into darkness. Harsh electrical lights on metal stands, with cages around the bare bulbs, stood staggered between easels set with canvases.

The canvases primed and ready for fresh color were not the only ones. There were more, leaning against the circular walls, stacked upon one another, all of different sizes. Some had been pulled from their wooden frames and rolled into an uneven pile beneath the easels. In the center of the ballroom, there was a rumbled linen tarp that covered the ground, ready to catch any stray drops of paint, although there were none. Among all of the paintings, there was not a sign of mess, a line out of place, or anything to suggest that they had all been painted in the spotless room. Nothing but the woman that sat on a stool on the linen tarp, a great, wide canvas set up before her. It was mostly empty, now, only the first few strokes of paint being applied by the careful brush that hovered before it.

His mother sat with rigid posture and a flat expression as she painted. Despite the inherent passion that was required to create, the paintings seemed to hold no emotion. One was a black and white painting that was painfully realistic of his father—his usual sullen scowl drawn onto his face of porous skin. Another was a still life of flowers, wilting within a plain vase, upon a plain background. The one his mother had finished just two days ago, before his father’s passing, was a barren landscape of a yellowed field, sky dark with clouds in the moments just before a thunderstorm. The only paintings that would really catch a viewer’s eyes were those of Ash’s own mother.

The self-portraits always featured a woman slightly hidden. Half in shadow, behind a curtain, the angle obscuring the face. But her expression was always void, body language simple, attire perfect and boring.

There was not a single painting featuring her son.

Although she had certainly heard him enter the room by the creak of the large wooden door, Ash still walked with heavy steps and announced himself quietly. “Mother, I’ve brought food.”

She continued to paint. Upon drawing closer, Ash heard the soft violin strings of an orchestra playing from somewhere in the dark of the room from an invisible speaker. The strings were low and slow, the softness of the music meant to inspire sadness. Still, his mother looked utterly uninterested.

She didn’t glance back at him.

Ash puffed a quiet sigh, lifting a pail of cherry red paint and removing it from the stool next to his mother’s. He set it on the ground, then sat himself on the stool. His mother’s veil was thrown back from her face, her dark skirt spilling around her stool, as if she were floating rather than sitting.

When he sat, her hand froze over the canvas.

He held up the plate, anxiety suddenly curling in his gut. He gathered the feeling he’d done something wrong. He always did.

He persevered. For once, craving the comfort more than he feared the repercussions.

She turned her nose up at the plate, giving him a look of cold disapproval. “Who asked you to sit?”

He pressed his lips thin. He stood back up, hoping that would be that, and offered the plate again.

She turned her nose up. “If I were hungry, I would have come to supper. Do you imagine I’m a helpless whore who would starve herself?”

“N-” Ash tried not to cringe back. “No. No, of course not, I just…I’m sorry.”

She turned back to her canvas. During Ash’s short time in the dining room, she had left strokes upon the canvas that hinted at what she was painting. A large outline of a chair stood alone in the center of the piece.

“Well?”

Ash jumped, eagerly looking back down at the woman. “Yes?”

She was giving him a chilly glare. “If that’s all.”

“I…” The plate wilted down. “No, it’s not. I…was wanting to ask, if you weren’t busy, if you’d like to help me go through our condolences. I imagine there are quite a few.”

“Ashiro.” She said his full name like it was a curse in itself. “I know you’re not this slow. Stop acting like it.”

The brush curved a plain brown line into the canvas. She didn’t bother to face him, now—a clear show that she was, obviously, occupied, and Ash was foolish for suggesting that she wasn’t busy. Something in his chest cracked at the implication that she had begun to think he wasn’t stupid, only for him to prove her wrong.

The apology got stuck in his throat. He swallowed it down. It just lodged itself in his airway, making his limbs numb. “...Father’s dead. What am I…What am I supposed to do?”

He felt small on the stool.

His mother’s lips pursed, the brush gliding another stroke. Her dainty gloved hands, wrapped in black, lowered it to mix a swath of white paint with the brown on the extended ledge of the easel. The white went from clear to muddy.

“Mom,” Ash muttered. His fingers were white around the porcelain plate. “Please.”

“What are you searching for that you do not already have?” She snapped, whipping the horse hairs over the layered paint. They left splatter marks in their wake. “You have always known you would take the place of your father and you were given training and resources and time. You were given everything. If you are still so helpless a child, it is not by my fault. How dare you ask more of me?”

Ash opened his mouth, but it dried before words could form. Something in his chest shriveled in shame. She was right. It was his fault. How could she have ever changed the fact that she had a daft child?

The chorus of violins faded out. A new orchestra did not replace the group of strings.

The silence was suffocating. Or maybe that was just Ash.

“I apologize,” he whispered. “I overstepped.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Well…Perhaps I could go through them here, where the lighting is good. I won’t get in your way. So that you can be aware of any important correspondence. I’ll be quiet the rest of the time. Or whenever you wish me to be.”

She, again, stopped, her lips curling up in disgust.

“Are you so against your responsibilities?” She asked coldly. “I have no need to be aware if you would show respect for your father and accept his more than generous mantle for what it is. The matters of the Hinokiri name are yours to handle. Which you should well understand by now.”

“I have accepted it,” he defended, frowning. “I accepted it in front of five thousand people this morning. I…I want to fill Father’s shoes. That’s all I have ever wanted.”

“Then stop clinging to me like a child,” his mother hissed. “Your office is perfectly well-lit.”

Ash grit his teeth. His father’s office was the last place he wanted to be at that moment.

“Unless you would use your new authority to undermine your own mother’s. Would you have me removed from my own studio, next? Exiled from your house? Thrown to the gutters?”

“Of course not,” he said quietly.

“Then if you are gracing your mother with your generosity for another day,” her venomous voice made his heart freeze. “Leave me.”

Ash hesitated. But his mother had made her opinion perfectly clear and to continue ignoring how she felt for his own desires was nothing short of disrespectful.

“Yes, mother.” He set the plate of food down on the stool in his place and left the room.

He didn’t offer for her to send for him if she was in need of anything. He knew perfectly well that she would never need a thing from the likes of him.

-

Days passed. And although the world seemed to be constantly changing around Ash, nothing had changed in him. It was frustrating him to no end. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have begun to wonder if his father had a bastard child hidden away somewhere who had actually inherited his powers. Fortunately, or unfortunately, Ash did know better. His father had only ever had one love and it hadn’t even been his wife. It had been his job.

Ash understood it even less, now that said job was nearly his. It was an endless, and he meant endless, barrage of paperwork. The most he had done in the week after receiving his new title of General in regards to the imperial military was greeting his father’s high-ranking men. Other than that, it was document after document sent to him, all having to be read word-for-word. Ash’s teenage brain was, for lack of a better term, mush after only the first day.

Thank the Master for General Bolobo, the ally of his father’s that had taken over the policing of the Geum Region for the time being. But Ash knew it wouldn’t be forever. Eventually, the Lord Commander would expect Ash to step into his role fully. If Ash couldn’t, well…the Shogun was not known so much for his leniency as he was for his brutal efficiency. Ash could only hope that his status as an elemental master and the son of House Hinokiri would spare him.

One of the governors had sent his tailor to the Hinokiri mansion as an offering. Ash’s mother had turned her nose up, but Ash had accepted the help thankfully. He was glad that he could have appropriate uniforms for work, but it was strange to be wearing his father’s clothes.

None at the Geum Region Center had said as much. They’d bowed, commented on how he fit into them well, and led him to his new office easily enough. The high collar was choking him, sure, and the annoying half-sash of a robe kept getting snagged behind him, but…this is what it meant to be his father’s son.

The grand office dwarfed him. The large doors of double oak were hand-carved and two times the height of his father’s tall stature. Books filled the walls in strict, organized shelves, scrolls rolled and packed away safely in small shoe-box-like glass cases that stacked across the lowest of the shelves. There was a second level of bookshelves halfway up the height of the great office, but there were no stairs, ladders, or other conceivable ways to get up there. Ash still hadn’t figured it out—he’d pulled books from the shelves until his fingertips had ached, trying to find some sort of trigger for a secret staircase or something. All he’d achieved was a stack of books that he then had to re-shelf with disappointment.

The window sat directly behind the half-moon desk in a brazen challenge for any who may dare to target the Master of Smoke in his own oval office. Ash knew, of course, that the glass was lined with the same kinetic energy shields that protected most high-profile imperial locations. The Empire did love its illusion of ease.

The high sun poured into the room, so unlike the darkness of Ash’s home. Despite the papers that had been making his eyes burn, the responsibilities that had been pressing down on him, and the overwhelming experience of being in his father’s office without him…Ash at least had the sun on his face.

The boy pushed the hair from his face where it had slumped down, leaning back in his chair and turning it halfway toward the large window. The light warmed his face and forced him to close his eyes, colors filling his eyelids. He took a deep breath, taking a break from the blue of the holoscreen that had been pounding into his skull. Something about needed replacement of individual personnel equipment in the forty-second division continuing to be higher than other divisions, leading to an investigation that had found…something. Ash had begun reading words but not processing their meaning after that.

A loud knock on the office door startled him.

Ash lurched up, sliding off his chair and almost face-planting into the ground. His hand shot up to grab the arm of the chair, which wobbled and spun a bit to compensate for his weight.

Ash quickly stood, face red, and was ever-thankful everyone knocked before coming into the general’s office.

He cleared his throat, brushing off his beizi, and said, “Come in!”

Before he’d even finished, one of the doors was being flung open, one of his harried advisors bursting into the room. She was an older woman, one experienced in warmongering and strategy, having stood by Ash’s father for years. And now, her glasses were sliding down her nose, his face slack with nerves.

“General,” the woman snapped and Ash twitched. “We’ve just received correspondence from Shadowspire. Lord Shogun is on his way to the Center.”

“Wh-What?” Ash caught the lip of his desk, going light-headed. “Right now?! What does he want?”

“Likely to speak with the newly appointed general,” the advisor said quickly, opening the door wider to gesture for Ash to exit the office. “Hurry, boy! We must prepare.”

“Prepare?” Ash gaped. “Prepare what? What am I—What am I supposed to say to him?!”

“Just answer whatever he asks!” The advisor waved sharper. “The guard has already been alerted and should be moving to honor. You’ll be expected to greet him, of course.”

“Right. Yeah, okay.” Ash kicked himself into gear, straightening his grey beizi robe, decorated with stylized smoke, and striding across the office. He winced at his unshined boots and his undone hair. He licked his own palm to sweep it back in some sort of purposeful look.

His advisor made a face, but she left the room ahead of him, her paces across the plush carpet fast. Her scholar’s robes flowed behind her, proper imperial colors, plus some accents of magenta. She held the scholar’s cap down on her head when it threatened to tip off.

Ash began to get nauseous as they shared a tense lift ride down to the first floor. Even if he managed not to stutter, what he was wearing was far from a general’s usual attire. He should have gotten armor commissioned by now, he should have some way to hide his face, to increase his mystique, to keep himself distant from the larger population. These were expectations of generals, he knew—but he thought he’d have more than six days to figure that out! Why else was General Bolobo filling in for him?

Would the Shogun expect Ash to be ready now? He wasn’t! He didn’t feel it, at least. Though the paperwork had been doing it’s job and helping him become familiar with the officers under his command and the extent of the military beneath him, he wasn’t ready to run it all!

Would he be punished if he wasn’t? He knew all about His Majesty’s punishments. His father had used them to motivate Ash as a child to not fail. He had a feeling that, like his mother, the Emperor would see a seventeen-year-old as plenty man enough to be punished if he were also man enough to be a general.

For the first time in his life, Ash was tempted to curse his father’s name. He truly had left Ash like this, in part knowingly. Maybe he really did want Ash to die in order to preserve the Hinokiri name. Perhaps if the Emperor slayed Ash quickly enough, it could be called a fluke of the bloodline, and his father and grandfather's legends could remain untarnished.

Such thoughts did nothing to help how sick he was beginning to feel.

Ding! The lift opened them into the lobby.

Ash’s other advisor present that day was waiting for them, a man similar to his father’s age when he’d died. He pulled the woman aside and the similarly-dressed scholars began whispering fiercely to each other.

As reported, there was indeed an honor guard rushing to prepare to greet an imperial of high status. They’d brought out the imperial colors and lined them up properly, the troopers stationed in the Center pushing their most polished soldiers forward to head the greeting. Everyone seemed to be sweating with wide, prey eyes behind their helmets. Ash’s Major General, Brigadier Generals, and the region’s larger politicians were also milling around, positioning themselves correctly by hierarchy.

On the left of the greeting line, the military officers stood with grim faces, hands behind their backs, uniforms impeccable. Their shoes were shined. On the right, the politicians stood, in their glorious robes that were lined with precious gems and intricate designs, hair pulled back into proper noblemen’s buns. Of these politicians, Governor Aiko fronted the line.

She was a lovely-looking woman, with a long chin and a long nose, her smile assuring and close-lipped. Today, she wore a shimmering hanbok with multicolor sleeves and the crest of the imperial phoenix artfully embroidered on her front. The beast seemed to be eating its own silvery tail. Her dark hair was pulled back properly, only two strands of hair loose on either side of her face, a twirling and twisted wire hair piece hovering behind her head, bent into the graceful shape of a great tree.

When Ash’s eyes passed over her, she raised a perfect eyebrow and lowered her head slightly in respect.

He stuttered in his walk, quickly bowing shallowly toward her. “Good morning, governor.”

She appeared quietly surprised, her other eyebrow joining the first and slipping her hands together under her sleeves. “Good morning, general.”

“My apologies for having to pull you from your work for a military matter,” he said nervously, trying to swallow any voice cracks. “I was unaware a greeting would be necessary today, otherwise I would have sent you a proper warning.”

“Oh, I am sure,” she hummed, shaking her head a bit. There was something sharp in those eyes that Ash didn’t recognize. “But ease your worries. As you will learn, the Shogun simply cannot stay away from Geum for long.”

Something amused played at her lips and her curious eyes raked him down. The question, ‘What do you mean by that?’ didn’t make it to his lips. This was not the first they’d met—she seen him as a boy, once, and they’d reacquainted at his father’s funeral—but certainly, this was Ash’s first time being studied by the woman.

He found he didn’t like it. Her gaze made goosebumps raise along his arms. He scratched his head, rather unprofessionally, and turned his cheek to survey his troopers. He hoped that if he appeared paler, after, that his men would simply attribute it to the coming of their lord commander.

The lobby was a tall, bright space with pale stone floors and tall windows that let in the morning sun. The walls were carved with the crests of each regional battalion, banners fluttering faintly in the breeze from the open doors. It looked official, especially with the strict lines of military men and politicians, the latter of whom chatted quietly amongst each other. His advisors had joined the politicians. Clean. Controlled.

Ash did not feel either of those things.

Governor Aiko stepped forward with Ash, gesturing away her Lieutenant Governor with a hand before making them both vanish into the fabrics of her sleeves again. The crisp echo of her footsteps were sharp under the dress. Then, she remained perfectly still, her only other glance towards Ash a dismissive one, as if her assessment had come back the same as Ash’s father: he was too non-threatening to be of interest to her.

Outside, the telltale sounds of a hovercraft lowering joined the sudden rush of a breeze it’s landing brought. The street beyond had already been brought to a halt by hasty barricades—the hovercraft filled half of the six lanes.

The hiss of released pressure warned Ash of the opening ramp. It folded outwards, lined with LEDs that were washed out by the sunlight, and extended out to tap the asphalt.

Before it was even fully lowered, the clomping of heavy boots began. First, the helm revealed, the light catching on the curved horns produced from it. Then, the remainder of the dark figure was revealed, blackened metal over shining silver chainmail. The Shogun emerged, and he was not alone.

General Bolobo walked next to him, and all of a sudden, the air smelled like it was the freshness of spring. The gardens in front of the Regional Center seemed to glow with a new health, flower faces unnaturally straightening and turning to look towards the Master of Nature. The grasses beneath them shuddered, their yellowed or brown tips shedding off to return to a lush green. Even the trees that lined the sidewalk abruptly rained down any of their unhealthy leaves, browned slips gently falling to the walk while more green bloomed along the branches.

The general had a serene look on his old, bearded face, shoulders straightened under his armor. That armor was especially strange, looking as if it were made of polished wood, a warm brown on top of the black and violet colors of his military robes. Somehow, Ash had a feeling it would not be as weak as normal wood was.

Some relief came with the presence of the second general—after all, he knew Ash, and would hopefully be willing to help him through his encounter with the Shogun.

But General Bolobo’s presence was near-completely overpowered by the looming darkness of the figure next to him. Where the general was the sway of the wheat fields, the lord commander was the inferno kept in strict check.

They, along with four platemail-covered members of the royal guard, walked through the propped open glass doors as if they owned the place. And, by rights, they did. He did. His soldiers flanked him, more shadow than presence.

Ash’s anxiety gagged him. He knew he should be the one stepping forward, saying something—he felt frozen. The politicians bowed low, and the troopers saluted sharply, but Ash was caught between the two actions—arm half-raised, body half-bent.

He felt a little thankful when Governor Aiko moved smoothly, taking the attention of the room before it could jump to Ash’s poor greeting.

She stepped forward, low and slow, bowing with practiced elegance.

“Lord Shogun,” she greeted, her voice warm as incense. “You honor Geum with your presence. Again.”

“Governor Aiko.” The Shogun paused before her. He inclined his mask. “You’ve kept the province polished, I see.”

Ash held in a shudder. His voice was the stuff of nightmares.

A small laugh danced from the governor’s throat, dry and amused.

“Polished and thriving, as always.” She tilted her head, and those sharp eyes met his, twinkling like cold glass. “Though I admit, I hadn’t expected your personal inspection so soon after the funeral of General Fumero. We must have done something very right...or very wrong.”

“Neither,” the Shogun told her, cold and distant. “I’ve not come here for you. I have business to discuss with General Ashiro.”

The form tilted his head toward Ash. Ash opened his mouth, thinking that was his cue to introduce himself, but his mouth ran dry. Oh, shit.

“Of course.” Her smile stretched. “I’m sure you would like to get acquainted. General Ashiro has been doing a respectable job. Allow me to extend the region’s full welcome. The staff is yours, and I’ll have the daily reports sent your way within the hour. Unless, of course, your interests lay elsewhere.”

Their gazes held for a beat too long, during which the Shogun did not answer. His eyes were harsh above the oni mask and Ash could only imagine the loathing that the rest of his face held.

Ash coughed, dislodging the lump in his throat. It sounded too abrupt and too loud in the echoing lobby. “Lord Commander, I—uh—welcome you to Geum. My office is available for your use, if you wish to speak. Respectful greetings, General Bolobo.”

“Good morning, Ashiro,” the older man bobbed his head more casually, giving Ash a small smile.

The Shogun’s gaze moved from the governor, the intensity falling a bit to give Ash an appraising glance. Somehow, the monster of a man studying him made Ash far less uncomfortable than when Governor Aiko had done the same. It felt far less personal. Like being analyzed by a machine.

“Thank you, General Ashiro. I would speak with you. Alone.” The last word was a bit off, and though the Shogun didn’t look at the governor again, Ash got the feeling the emphasis was for her.

Governor Aiko’s smile thinned, but she bowed her head again. “Then I’ll leave you both to your matters.”

General Bolobo gestured and Governor Aiko let him take her hand and raise it to his bearded face for a chaste brush of his lips.

“If your time permits it, my lady, I do have news regarding your region’s recent challenges in the Chu District. My men have been looking into it over the last few days and I believe they have come to a satisfactory conclusion. Is now an appropriate time?”

She nodded, dismissive. Meanwhile, Ash quickly pointed out the lift for the Shogun and lead him toward it. The royal guards took up stations near the doors while the honor guard remained glued to their spots, too anxious to move. Getting into the elevator with the weight of the Shogun made the cabin shudder and groan. The Shogun was silent behind Ash. Ash’s hand was trembling a little, so he hit the button quickly.

Governor Aiko turned gracefully, gliding across the floor like water towards her own lift, General Bolobo making polite conversation with her as he walked by her side. But just before the door closed behind her, she threw one last glance over her shoulder—at the Shogun, not Ash—and for an instant, the smile vanished. In its place was something unreadable to Ash, who could not for the life of him imagine looking at the Shogun with anything but barely contained terror.

Then, the doors sealed them together.

I’m putting in elevator music the moment he’s gone, Ash thought desperately, hands tight at his sides to prevent any fidgeting.

The presence was heavy behind him. He could feel those harsh eyes drilling into the back of his head. And, he noticed with some dread, the small space was quickly warming with the Shogun there. Ash tugged at his tight collar. He was already sweating.

And the strangest thing—Ash could not hear him breathing. Whether it was the mask that he wore, the same thing that was making his voice so inhuman, or whether he simply didn’t need to breathe, Ash didn’t know. Could an elemental master’s power go so far?

Ding! Thank the Master. Ash had never stepped out of a lift so quickly in his life.

“My father’s—Well, my office is right down here,” Ash said, wincing at his own stutters as he hurried down the carpeted hall. “I can—I made some tea, earlier, it might be a bit cold, now—”

Ash pushed open the doors and held one for the Shogun. The lord commander stepped through, surprisingly agile in all of his armor.

Ash went towards the automatic water heater that his father had kept at the edge of his desk and never used. He pressed one of the buttons, making it glow, but the Shogun held up a hand to stop him.

“That will not be necessary.” He surveyed the room coolly, the intensity from downstairs near gone. The eyes that remained were serious, but even. “You kept your father’s decorum.”

General Fumero’s numerous military awards sat above the great window. They were ribbons and medals that outlined a life of excellence. The irony of them hovering above Ash’s head with every decision he would make was not lost on him.

Ash nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“And these?” The Shogun continued, tilting his head towards the holoscreens that were still up, projecting glowing squares over the semi-circle of the desk. Looking at them from this angle was even more overwhelming than going through them. “Your father’s as well?”

“Ah...yes, I suppose. Some were reports sent before his…his passing. Some are newer. I’ve been going through them since the ceremony. There’s…a lot to read over.”

“I would imagine so,” the Shogun agreed. His eyes settled back on Ash. “Especially for a boy who has no idea what he’s doing.”

Ash’s mouth fell open, a defensiveness crawling up his throat that emerged from his self-preservation. But those eyes saw right through him. They were unimpressed and—even worse—unsurprised. This is it, Ash thought. I’ve failed. The Emperor’s going to drag me off.

“You lack the training,” the man continued, the metal of his armor clinking together as he crossed his arms. The black armored skirt swayed. “Would you agree?”

“I–I mean—” Ash swallowed. “Yes.”

“Why?”

The question was simple. The man’s eyes remained even. It wasn’t disappointment—it wasn’t even judgement. There was a lack of understanding. Because, like the Shogun had believed, like everyone had believed, General Fumero should have made sure his heir was more than prepared. What they all didn’t know was that it was Ash’s failures that had done this.

Ash hesitated. Then, ashamed, he said, “Because I wasn’t good enough.”

The Shogun’s brow creased—barely. But he didn’t scold Ash for being self-pitying and selfish for it.

Ash didn’t know what to do with that reaction. So he continued. “My father expected a prodigy. My mother wanted a genius. I...wasn’t either. I…I didn’t even inherit my father’s abilities when he passed, like I was supposed to.”

There was a pause. The Shogun studied him, and in that silence, Ash felt every year of his youth pressing in.

“My father gave up on me,” Ash said. “He stopped teaching me anything years ago, when he realized I couldn’t meet his standards. I don’t know how to lead. I can’t control smoke. I…I…I’ve failed you, my lord. I don’t deserve my father’s office. Under my hand, it’ll only burn to the ground.”

Ash’s hair dipped into his face again, his spit having dried and failed to do its job. He could only brush it aside, where it made his temple itch. His gaze was down-trodden.

At last, the Shogun moved. Not a dismissal, not a reprimand. Just a slow, almost imperceptible lowering of his shoulders. Ash suddenly wondered if he could not hear the Shogun breathe so that he could appear more monstrous—or to prevent people from hearing his sighs.

“Do you know why I came?” the Shogun asked.

Ash licked his lips before they cracked. “To…see if I have what it takes to fill my father’s office, I would guess.”

“I came to see if your father had failed you.”

The Shogun moved past Ash, past the grand desk, to stop in front of the window. He folded his hands behind his back, surveying the world beyond. The view beyond the back courtyard was the region’s largest public park. It was rolling hills and swaying trees, children playing among a set of swings, ducks gliding across sparkling ponds.

“I suspected as much would happen,” the Shogun told him as he watched. “General Fumero was many things. Powerful, yes. Successful. A decorated veteran of war. But of all the things he was, a teacher had never been one of them. I imagine he was even less of a father.”

The borderline-slander wouldn’t have been something just anyone would get away with, even in regards to a general passed on. But this was the lord commander—and he was right.

“Some elemental masters awaken their power as quick as lightning. Others, like slow-burning coals. Your father's legacy burns through your veins, whether you feel it or not. The smoke knows it’s time.”

Silence. The commander glanced over to Ash, who stepped up to look out the window with him. He looked up at his superior curiously.

Ash nervously brushed his hair back again when the grey strands began to dip into his face.

Then, the Shogun added, “The Empire expects greatness from its heirs. And greatness is not born in expectation. It is born in fire—in challenge and in pain. It is never an easy path.”

Ash swallowed hard. “Then what do I do?”

The Shogun turned away from him, eyes hard. “You survive it. You learn. You lead. And when the fire comes...you do not let it consume you. That is your first lesson from me. Because if your father did not teach you, then I will.”

Ash’s breath caught.

“I will return next week. You will have a list of your ten best officers ready. I will assess them myself. Your ranking officers should not be the people your father most trusted, they should be who you most trust. They are no longer his men, they are yours, and any would have a difficult time breaking their long-time loyalties, even to a dead man.”

Ash gaped for a moment, but quickly snapped his jaw shut. “Y...Yes, sir.”

“And Ashiro?”

Ash looked up. Those eyes burned into him.

“Do not ever mistake fear or uncertainty for weakness. Only the arrogant believe they are ready and those are the least prepared for whatever they face. You have not yet failed.”

“I–I haven’t?” The idea…didn’t make sense. But it was Lord Commander Shogun telling him it, and if there was one thing he did know, it was that the man was not human enough to make mistakes.

He couldn’t read the Shogun’s hesitation. “…No. You haven’t.”

Ash…was floored. He had no idea how to respond to the warmth he felt burst to life in his chest. He…hadn’t failed.

“Although I have one other order for you to complete before we next see each other,” the Shogun eyed him one last time.

“Yes,” Ash agreed breathlessly. “Of-Of course, sir, anything.”

The Shogun shook his head, turning away.

“Get a haircut. Keep it under control. The respect you build begins with your appearance.”

Ash ran his hand back through his hair. “Yes, sir.”

The Shogun made a noise that may have been amusement. Ash would never know, as the commander turned his eyes away.