The Thirteenth Day’s Shadow

Yoshikiyo stands barefoot in chilled mud, wrists cinched in rough hemp, the carved prayer beads biting into his skin. The warding talismans tied to his arms pulse with static hum, reacting to the ruined land’s poison. Abe no Masahiro, elegant robes untouched by the filth, circles him, reading incantations off an immaculate scroll. The words crawl under Yoshikiyo’s skin, dredging up the memory of a blade pressed to his scalp and the stink of burnt hair. Soldiers form a wary circle; none meet his eyes. Taira no Kagehira looms at the edge, his bulk wrapped in blackened armor, hell-scorched arm hidden under iron-bound canvas. The wind shifts, blowing the stench of ash and old blood from the Waste. Masahiro’s voice rises, cold and precise.

"You will proceed directly to the ruined keep. Any deviation, and I will burn your soul clean."

Kagehira’s hand tightens on his sword; the ropes at his wrist creak. The ground vibrates with a low, subterranean howl as the mists part, revealing the shattered road to Sadamune’s fortress. Yoshikiyo swallows, lifts his chin, and steps forward, every motion watched by enemies, uneasy allies, and the vengeful dead.

Yoshikiyo stopped, the cold mud sucking at his bare feet. He glanced back at Masahiro, his eyes unwavering despite the talismans’ faint crackle.

"If this corruption is to be ended, you must walk beside me, Inquisitor. Do not think you can hide behind your scrolls while I bleed."

He pivoted slowly, waiting for a response.

Kagehira exhaled a ragged breath, the sound rasping like dry leaves against stone. He shifted his stance, the heavy iron-bound canvas over his blighted limb twitching as he tightened his grip on the sword. His eyes fixed on the shifting, ash-choked horizon, jaw set in a grim, silent line.

Kagehira's words hang in the stagnant air, swallowed by the encroaching gloom. The ground beneath their feet pulses with a rhythmic, sickening heat. As they move forward, skeletal remains of a village materialize from the mist, wooden huts leaning at impossible angles, as if recoiling from the fortress looming ahead.