The sun bled into the horizon, spilling its final light over the wheat fields, turning the stalks into swaying gold. The world smelled of dry earth and distant rain, the wind carrying the ghost of an incoming storm.

  Delacroix sat in the dirt, back against the gnarled trunk of an old sycamore, quill in hand, ink drying on the last words he would ever write. His blindfold was damp, his breath shallow. Next to him, the noose swayed gently from the branch, waiting.

  "To whoever finds this, burn it."

  Bronx, his black steed, stirred uneasily, ears flicking toward something unseen. Delacroix had felt it, too. The weight of a presence, lingering. Not a demon—no, it was too early for that. Something else.

  Then came the voice. Steady. Unhurried.

  “What a waste.”

  Delacroix let out a slow breath, swallowing the irritation curling at the back of his throat. He didn’t turn. “Come to berate the Shadeborn? Or perhaps you’ve come to see this through?”

  A pause. Then, a quiet hum. “There is much hate in your voice.”

  “Am I not allowed to hate?”

  The man did not answer immediately. Instead, there was the soft creak of leather, the heavy shift of a saddle. Delacroix finally looked up from his letter, lifting his head toward the voice. Against the dying sun, he saw them—three riders, their silhouettes framed in amber light.

  The man who had spoken was at their center, sitting tall in the saddle of a dark-coated horse. His robes were simple, but well-made, his hair tied back in a manner that suggested discipline rather than vanity. He was flanked by two men dressed in similar attire, their features foreign.

  Delacroix tilted his head. “Fengjianese?”

  The man’s lips curved, just slightly. “Kyosakan.”

  “Never met a Rōnin before.”

  There was the faintest flicker of surprise, as if the man had not expected that recognition. “It is rare in these parts for one to know us by sight.”

  “The product of having books for companionship,” Delacroix said.

  The man nodded, as if that made perfect sense. “What are you writing?”

  Delacroix smirked without humour. “You can read it later. I won’t be in much of a position to stop you.”

  The Rōnin regarded him for a long moment, and then, in a voice as even as the tide, he spoke. “Death at one’s own hand is not a finality. It is merely an invitation.”

  The words cut sharper than Delacroix anticipated.

  His fingers curled over his knee, the nails pressing into fabric. He had known fear before—on the battlefield, in the moments between steel meeting flesh—but this was something colder. The idea that even death would not be his release.

  He exhaled sharply. “What, then? What am I to do? What choice do I have?” His voice cracked, but there was fire beneath it. “Tell me.”

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  The Rōnin did not blink. “There is a way for a man’s name to disappear, yet for him to still draw breath.”

  Delacroix scoffed, rubbing a hand down his face. “That sounds suspiciously like a metaphor.”

  “A path,” the Rōnin corrected. “One few can walk.”

  Silence stretched between them. The wind stirred the noose, made it creak against the branch. It had seemed so simple, a moment ago. Now, something had shifted, like a door slightly ajar, offering a glimpse of another path.

  Delacroix swallowed, glancing toward his horse. “And how, pray tell, does one take such a path?”

  The Rōnin turned his horse slightly. “Mount your steed. Ride with us.”

  Delacroix let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. “You sound awfully sure of yourself.”

  Nakamura’s voice was as even as the shifting wind. “Because I have seen men like you before.”

  Delacroix scoffed. “Doubt that.”

  A pause. Then, with quiet certainty: “Men who have no war left to fight, but still wake each morning as if there is a battle to lose.”

  Something inside Delacroix cracked.

  His jaw tightened. He could hear the screams again—the cannon fire, the wet sound of steel meeting flesh, the way the mud swallowed bodies whole. Every battle. Every blood-soaked field. The taste of iron, the stench of burning men. How many times had he crawled, bleeding and half-blind, just to see another day?

  And for what?

  His breath hitched, sharp and sudden. “I don’t—I don’t want to die.” The words wrenched out of him like something torn from his ribs. “I never have.”

  He swallowed, his fingers trembling against his knee. “Every time they sent me to the front, I fought. I killed, I bled, I survived. I was meant to die out there, but I didn’t.” His voice was shaking now, but he didn’t care. Let Nakamura hear it. Let the whole damn world hear it. “And do you know why? Why they sent me to every war they could find?”

  Nakamura said nothing. He only watched.

  Delacroix gave a hollow, broken laugh. “Because it would’ve been convenient for public sentiment. Better the Shadeborn prince die in honour of his king and country than continue living as a shit stain on the monarchy.” His throat burned. “I was supposed to die a hero. That’s what they wanted. They just didn’t have the spine to kill me themselves.”

  His breath came ragged now, his body trembling with something raw and ugly. His hands curled into fists. “So tell me,” he ground out. “What choice do I have?”

  The noose swayed beside him, creaking softly against the branch. The wind pressed at his back, carrying the last warmth of the sun, but the cold was already creeping in.

  Nakamura tilted his head, his voice steady. “You said it yourself. You are the prince they never wanted. You were destined to fall by an enemy’s blade. Yet, here you are, with the ability to take destiny into your own hands.” He let the words settle before continuing. “You say you do not want to die. So I invite you to join me in a place where death is merely the end of a chapter—and the beginning of another.”

  Delacroix exhaled, slow and measured. He ran a hand over his face, fingers pressing against tired eyes beneath the damp blindfold. A long silence stretched between them.

  Then, he let out a dry, humourless chuckle. “This place you’re inviting me to. There’s still drink, isn’t there?” He tilted his head toward Nakamura. “Because the way you talk sounds awfully celibate. And if it’s all the same, I’d rather choose death.”

  For the first time, Nakamura laughed. Not a soft chuckle, nor the short exhale of amusement, but a real, open laugh—warm, genuine. “How the princeling spends his nights will be up to him.”

  Delacroix turned his head slightly, as if trying to read him. Then, after a moment, he exhaled through his nose and reached for Bronx’s reins.

  Nakamura watched him with unreadable patience.

  Finally, Delacroix pushed himself to his feet, brushing the dirt from his coat. He did not mount immediately. Instead, he ran a hand down Bronx’s mane, fingers threading through the coarse hair. He wasn’t sure why, but he needed the moment—to feel something living, something warm beneath his touch.

  His voice was quieter this time. “And you? What am I supposed to call you?”

  Nakamura inclined his head. “The name bestowed upon me is Nakamura.”

  Delacroix studied him for a moment longer, as if searching for the trick, the lie, the hidden blade. But there was nothing. Only quiet certainty, steady as the tide.

  He sighed, then swung himself into the saddle.

  The wind whispered through the wheat.