Ayame's eyes widened with intrigue.
'That is where they discuss foreign matters. Where decisions that affect the entire clan are made.'
She studied the three figures walking ahead of her. The first was a male whose head was cleanly shaven, his scalp smooth and pale in the purple light. A dark horn so long it curved backward over his skull protruded from his forehead, its tip sharp enough to pierce armor. The second was a middle aged lady who carried herself with the coiled tension of a predator.
This one had two horns, one on each side of her head, which signaled something dangerous. Those with two horns were said to be exceptionally adapt at combat and were classed above ordinary fighters. Ayame recognized that this woman could cut her down at any moment if she so chose. The third and last one was a man, short in stature perhaps, but he was an old oni who had lived for centuries.
His horn was elegant and curved in an absurd arc that seemed almost decorative. His face was so wrinkled with age that she could not even see his eyes beneath the folds of skin. He had a long beard which signified a class of leadership, the kind of authority that came from surviving when everyone else had fallen.
She noted these details with quiet understanding, filing each observation away in the part of her mind that never stopped analyzing.
They reached the edge of the grove. The trees parted before them like curtains being drawn aside, revealing the settlement beyond.
Chika was gone.
Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. Excruciatingly wrong.
There was snow on the ground where red dirt had been moments ago. Red tinged snow that glowed faintly in the purple light, as if it had been stained from beneath. The color was the same as the blood that had dripped from her wounds countless times, the same as the liquid that welled up when the twin moons punished her for resisting their call.
She knew in that instant what she had come to seek. What the trial wanted from her.
She closed her eyes. Just for a moment. Just long enough to steady herself.
They walked through the village but it was no longer the town she remembered. There were no buildings with sleek architecture, no carved wooden fences, no lanterns hanging from posts.
The homes were gone. In their place stood structures that looked more like piles of branches stacked on each other than actual dwellings. The roofs sagged. The walls had holes that let the cold wind whistle through. The people wore barely anything, their bodies exposed to the elements, their skin covered in scars and fresh wounds that had not been treated.
Dead imperial soldiers from Materna hung from hooks near the center of the village. Their bodies had frozen in the cold, their faces locked in expressions of terror that would never fade.
Their armor had been stripped away, their weapons taken, their boots removed from their feet. They were a source of food now. That was what the oni had been reduced to. Not warriors. Not exiles. Survivors. Desperate, hungry survivors who would eat anything that did not eat them first.
They finally reached a building. An actual building that had survived whatever catastrophe had transformed the rest of the settlement. This was the Ōhiroma, the council chamber, standing alone amid the ruins like a monument to something that had been lost and could never be recovered.
She sat slowly on the woven straw mats arranged in a circle near the center of the chamber. The fibers were cold beneath her legs, damp with moisture that had seeped through from the snow outside. The three elders made their way to their respective seats, each one taking a position that spoke to their rank and authority.
The old chief spoke first, his voice low, worn by years of command.
"Yomigahara offers us nothing. The empire closes its jaws tighter every season. Our hunters do not return. Our blood thins."
The woman beside him folded her hands into her lap.
"Your mother and father fulfilled their duty."
The chamber quieted.
The shaved elder answered.
"They offered their blood to the Twin Moons."
Ayame went still.
The old chief spoke first. His voice was low and worn by years of command, each syllable carrying the weight of decisions that had ended countless lives.
"Yomigahara offers us nothing. The empire closes its jaws tighter every season. Our hunters do not return from the forests. Our blood thins with each passing generation."
The woman beside him folded her hands into her lap. Her fingers were long and pale, the nails filed to sharp points that caught the purple light filtering through the chamber windows.
"Your mother and father fulfilled their duty before the Twin Moons."
Ayame's eyes narrowed. Something in the phrasing felt wrong, felt hollow, like a word repeated so many times it had lost all meaning.
"What duty?"
The chamber grew quieter. Even the wind outside seemed to hold its breath.
The shaved elder answered. His voice was flat, clinical, as if he were discussing a routine procedure rather than the fate of her parents.
"They offered their blood to Sellenia and Morwen."
Ayame went still. The words settled into her chest like stones dropped into deep water.
Offered. Not fallen in battle. Not killed by imperial soldiers. Not lost to disease or age or any of the ordinary ends that claimed ordinary people.
Given.
Her breathing slowed. The rise and fall of her chest became deliberate, measured, the breathing of someone who was holding something back.
The chief leaned forward. His wrinkled face caught the light, shadows pooling in the deep crevices of his skin.
"The ritual failed. Their blood was insufficient for what we required."
Something cold settled into her stomach. It spread outward from her core, through her ribs, down her legs, up her throat. A cold that had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with understanding.
She understood now. That was why she was here. Not to inherit her parents' position. Not to lead the clan into a better future. Not to protect the people who had raised her.
To complete what they had started.
The elder continued, his tone unchanged, as if he were explaining the weather or the price of grain.
"You are the last pure vessel of the Gensai line. Through you, the clan ascends beyond its current suffering. Through you, we reclaim what was taken from us."
Ayame stared at him. At the three of them. At the faces that had watched her grow from a child into whatever she was now.
"And what does that require?"
The woman answered plainly. Her voice was soft, almost gentle, which made the words worse.
"Blood."
The shaved elder added, his voice carrying the weight of arithmetic.
"All blood."
Ayame's fingers tightened against her thighs. The fabric of her robes bunched beneath her grip.
The chief's wrinkled mouth stretched into something that might have been a smile on a face less ancient.
"The children first. Pure blood carries greater favor with the moons. Their sacrifices will be received more readily than the blood of adults who have already been tainted by the world."
Her pulse stopped.
Children.
Her thoughts went immediately to Chika. That smile. That warmth. That innocence that had somehow survived in a place that seemed designed to crush it out of existence. Chika, who hugged without asking permission. Chika, who laughed when she was supposed to be silent. Chika, who had trusted her enough to lead her to the elders despite her fear.
Just fuel. Just another offering to be poured out on an altar that had already consumed her parents.
The woman continued as if discussing a harvest schedule.
"Once their blood is offered, the survivors will consume what remains of the flesh. Strength will be inherited through consumption. The weak will be repurposed into something useful."
Ayame felt her stomach twist.
Repurposed. That was how they spoke of kin. Like livestock. Like meat. Like tools that had outlived their usefulness.
"You mean to slaughter your own children."
The chief's expression did not change. His eyes remained flat, unchanging, like pools of water that had frozen solid centuries ago.
"We mean to preserve our future. The distinction is one of perspective."
Ayame's jaw tightened until her teeth ached.
"And my parents. What did they think of this ritual when you explained it to them?"
The eldest's voice carried no hesitation.
"They resisted at first. They required persuasion."
That was enough.
Everything inside her stilled. The cold in her stomach transformed into something else. Something harder. Something sharper.
Her father. Her mother. Forced into sacrifice. Reduced to components in some ancient ritual that had been waiting for the right vessels to complete it. Not heroes who fell in battle. Not leaders who died protecting their people. Victims. Offerings. Blood on an altar.
She thought of him. Of Lucid. The man who had stood before impossible things and still moved forward. Who bled for people he owed nothing. Who protected without asking what he gained in return.
Strength.
That was strength.
Not this. Not this hollow imitation dressed in tradition and decorated with ceremonial words.
This was hunger. Pure and simple. Hunger dressed in robes and given a title. Hunger that had learned to speak of itself as duty so that no one would call it by its real name.
The chief's voice cut through her thoughts like a blade through silk.
"Kneel, Ayame-sama. Accept your duty before the moons. At midnight, the rite begins. Your first offering shall be the girl you brought into your shelter. The half-blood. The one called Chika."
Ayame lifted her gaze.
For the first time, she saw them clearly. Not elders. Not leaders. Not the wise guardians of her people's future.
Predators.
People who had eaten their own future and called it necessity. Who had consumed their children and called it survival. Who had drunk the blood of their kin and called it tradition.
Her blood rose to her fingertips. The crimson threads wove themselves into existence without her conscious command, responding to something deeper than thought.
The old chief observed the display. His eyes tracked the movement of the blood with something that looked almost like approval.
"Do not be irrational, child. Eternity is the virtue of leadership. Eternity is the foundation of power. Your emotions will pass. Our need will not."
Eternity.
That word again.
Ayame almost laughed. The sound stuck in her throat, caught somewhere between amusement and disgust.
Eternity. A polished word for surrender. A noble-sounding command to obey without question.
Her mentor used to preach patience. Restraint. Acceptance. She had listened, convinced that wisdom meant learning when to fold, when to retreat, when to let the waves pass over her.
But waiting had never changed anything. It had only given fate more time to sharpen its teeth.
In that moment a quiet dangerous resolve settled inside of her.