Everything unraveled. That was the way of it. Always, the first kumiki block was the most difficult; once freed, the others fell apart quickly—so quickly, in fact, that Hino nearly crumbled too. The pieces were in disarray. In the spinning chamber of her mind—still echoing with a memory that was not her own—she had been left with little more than a pile of rubble to sort through. But somewhere in there would be the way forward.

  And duty demanded that Hino find it.

  Yet not far from her, the shirohebi’s golden eye dimmed and drifted shut, a molten drop weeping from the slit where its other eye should have been. The soft, white glow of its scales flickered weakly in the dark of the cave, not unlike a candle burning low before a breeze. It had shielded her, kept her warm. It had saved her. Hino looked down at her trembling hands, glanced back up at the coiled serpent, and drew them into steady fists.

  Without another thought, she crossed to the shirohebi’s side.

  Her first touch upon it was tentative, unsure, an asking of permission. A weary breath was the only response; smooth skin pressing back against her for but a moment. It was enough. Hino slipped a hand into the folds of her sleeves, fishing about. Her sandclock—now shattered and sandless—she set aside. Grandmother’s drawing book she left in place, snug against her ribs.

  Finally, she found what she was searching for. A bundle of linen—the seven waymarks she had collected as she ascended Mount Tsukigami. Wiping blood-caked hair from her face, she scanned the cramped little den to confirm what she already knew. None of her other supplies had made it here, and there would be no water to clean the shirohebi’s wounds. Hino’s eyes flitted across the sleek, curling cord of the creature’s body, from the jagged stub of its lost horn to the rivulets of its torn flesh, and calmed hands which had begun to shake again.

  Wrapping them was better than leaving them exposed. It had to be.

  And so, Hino began a careful labour. Band after band of linen was eased about the serpent’s trunk and tied off just tight enough to maintain a gentle pressure. At times, the shirohebi stiffened and Hino would slow, but for the most part, it endured in complete stillness. Only when she came to its ravaged face did the shirohebi rouse.

  An eye slid open, narrow pupil widening as it observed her. There was intelligence there. Understanding, too.

  “I am sorry,” Hino murmured sadly, raising a cloth to cover the ruined eye and the broken horn above it, “And thank you.” She finished fastening the makeshift bandage on the underside of the shirohebi’s broad chin. But before she could pull away, it leaned itself ever so slightly against her palm—warm, and soft, and forgiving.

  For a time, Hino let herself rest there, kneeling before the great white snake, head bowed with gratitude and sorrow. A hand cradled its chin, fingers tracing its even breaths. And the shirohebi gave her its weight, a kind of respite that loosened what fear and confusion still clung to her.

  Yet duty soon intruded, dispelling any small solace. Reluctantly, Hino withdrew. So long as the sun failed to rise—perhaps, even once it did—duty would return for her.

  She sat back on her heels and the shirohebi’s golden eye followed. “I am on a journey,” she explained, more to herself than her companion, “And I cannot stay here for long.”

  A long blink answered her, questioning.

  There was a knot of anxiety in Hino’s chest. Coaxing the Dawn Dragon’s Blessing from the collar of her yukata, she continued, “Who carries this will light the pyre at the Red Moon Shrine. Their prayers will call the Dawn Dragon to rekindle the sun.” The words were familiar, nearly recited fragments of the stories and lessons she had grown up with. Only now, the voice that said them wavered, where Father’s and Grandfather’s never had.

  She had suspected it earlier, during her blind and clumsy inspection, and there was no avoiding it any longer; what her eyes could not see, her fingers had already confirmed. The Blessing was no longer the same. Heart hammering, she looped the necklace over the tangled mess of her hair and into view.

  For a moment, disbelief clouded Hino’s vision. The Blessing was as it should have been, as she had always known it; the sacred culmination of over a decade of rituals, offerings, and prayers, shaped by the secretive hands of the Kōmyō family’s craftsmen and protected by the lives of its warrior priests. Delicate spheres of ivory speckled crimson, of crimson marbled ivory twinkled up at her—whole and perfect as when Teru had entrusted her with it.

  Then, the illusion faltered and reality came into focus.

  By the silvery gleam of the shirohebi’s scales, Hino saw the Blessing as it was; beads warped and flattened and dulled, cracks spidering across them. The air wrenched from her lungs.

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  This Blessing was hers and Teru’s, marking them as servants of the Dawn Dragon. There was no other like it.

  And Hino had destroyed it.

  A nudge, featherlight against her forearm, stirred Hino from her stupor. She blinked and met the shirohebi’s gaze. Without her notice, the cold had crept deeper into the cave and rain now whispered against the earth and stone beyond its mouth. Between them, cupped in her numb hands and reflected in the serpent’s eyes, lay the Dawn Dragon’s Blessing.

  Hino’s shoulders sagged. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” Chilled fingers closed over the Blessing as if to hide it from sight, and what her fist did not conceal, the tears in her eyes blurred away. “I promised Teru.” Her voice cracked. “I promised him. But I’ve failed, just like Grandfather knew I would.”

  The shirohebi was looking at her again, but Hino no longer wanted to be seen. Almost, she retreated; shame and defeat driving her back. But the shirohebi reached her first. Soundlessly, it glided toward her, lowering its head into her lap, curling itself half around her. And Hino regarded it with quivering lips, willing her tears not to fall.

  There were no words the shirohebi could offer, no embrace. And yet, Hino understood that it meant to comfort her.

  Still, the urge to cry choked her. Hino swallowed it down over and over again, until finally, something else—something far more bitter—began to spill out. “In the Kōmyō family, there has never been a firstborn daughter,” she found herself saying, “Since the very first morning, it has always been a son. And yet, I was the one who broke from the birthshell first. My eyes opened before Teru’s.”

  A gentle rumble, not unlike a cat’s purr, rose in Hino’s ears, more of a sensation than a sound. It seemed to be the shirohebi’s way of assuring her it listened, of encouraging her to go on.

  And Hino did. All that she had silently carried overflowed at last. The pitter of the rain and the rustle of the wind from outside faded, leaving only the shirohebi’s soothing hum against her side and the fragile trickle of her own voice. “Grandfather favoured Teru. More and more as we got older.”

  But even when they’d been young, Hino had noted every instance where Grandfather’s eyes had grazed over her to find her brother. She had memorized the exact tone of his voice that called Teru’s name instead of hers, the precise gesture he made as he beckoned Teru—and only Teru—to sit beside him.

  “I could stand it,” Hino said quietly, “for Father and Grandmother loved us both dearly. And we loved each other, too, Teru and I.” Her fist clenched around the Blessing, the distorted edges digging into her palm. “But when we came of age, Father named me heir. And Grandfather did not accept it.”

  That day still ached in Hino’s memory like a bruise that would not go away. It had been the only time Grandfather had ever raised his voice. It had been the last time she had ever seen Father.

  “Grandfather was right,” Hino ground out. In between words, her tremulous breaths misted before her, a shiver threading through her limbs. The shirohebi’s purr thickened and, like a sinuous blanket, it drew itself close about her. But that did not thaw the ice that had settled in her veins. It could not warm the deepest parts of her where Grandfather’s rejection lived; from where, even now, his words flooded forth to freeze her.

  To fail, Grandfather said with his voice that could not be forgotten, to fail would doom the world to darkness.

  “It’s all my fault,” she whispered, “Father leaving. Grandmother’s sickness.” A hand hovered over the shirohebi’s back, fingers not quite brushing the border of a bandage. “This. And now…” Hino withered, her fist falling open, the sight of the Dawn Dragon’s Blessing forcing her to admit what she had stubbornly and stupidly hoped would not come to pass.

  “And now, I have ended the morning itself.”

  Inside of Hino, heaviness descended, a silence stretching to muffle even the shirohebi’s presence. She was alone in a way she had never been before, burdened with a responsibility she could no longer fulfill. And the consequences were unimaginable.

  Still, the shirohebi did not leave her, and gradually, bit by bit, Hino gathered herself. High on her temple, her head still throbbed. Every inhale, every swallow reminded her of her parched throat, and the chill had begun to burn the tips of her fingers and nose. She could not even feel her feet anymore. But the serpent’s hum continued. Persistent. Peaceful.

  With a sigh, Hino swept the tears from her cheeks. She spared a final glance at the Blessing and then looped it over her head, tucking it away around her neck. The sun would not rise again, and perhaps Grandfather was right, and perhaps it was all her fault. But even so, she was still alive. The shirohebi was, too.

  Water. By the sound of it, the rain had picked up—drumming away at the threshold of the cave. She would start by collecting them some water. Once they’d both drunk their fill, she would rinse the shirohebi’s injuries and redress them. Maybe even do the same for her own, and from there she would figure out the rest.

  Even if that meant returning to Kōmyō Temple to warn them of her failure.

  Hino closed her eyes. The breath she drew in still shook, but when she released it, it was calm. As if sensing her resolve, the shirohebi relaxed, the knot of its body around her coming undone. Hino nodded to herself, decided. She unfurled her sleeping legs and turned—only to flinch, nearly falling over backward.

  Kodama peered up at her; a dozen and more, swaying and stumbling and staring at her with their black, unblinking eyes—crowded into the space like a sea of misshapen, white heads. There were more of them waiting, too, clinging to the cave’s opening, bobbing in and out of sight curiously. And they had brought something with them.

  Hino’s eyes widened, but not with fear.

  One of the kodama stepped forward, bowing clumsily and nearly falling as it offered her what it held in its hands. It was the largest of the lot, and although they all looked much the same, this one appeared oddly familiar. Perhaps, it was the shape of its rocklike face or the chubbiness of its fingers, but Hino knew it was the one she had given the rice cracker to.

  Speechless, Hino bowed and accepted her lost fire striker.

  As if permission had been given, three more ambled forth, awkwardly carrying her water gourd. Four, in a precarious zigzag, came with her wrapped provisions, and six with the torch she had dropped, another handful with her carrying stick.

  And despite herself, despite it all, Hino found herself smiling.