The voices quieted down, but they still murmured grim prophecies. You’re defenseless here. No one has needed to fight an internal war before—they don’t know what to expect. But they won’t stop at Prince Teiki.

Although that shouldn’t surprise you. You wouldn’t have a purpose if they did. Just watch, Seiko—watch, join, do whatever you need to. It will end no matter what.

The same soldier who reported Prince Teiki had died also brought news that those who killed him—they were deemed ‘rebels,’ since Prince Jukazu insisted they didn’t deserve any more distinction—were heading towards the capital. Lord Gin chose not to tell the children; it would just worry them.

Seiko’s job, then, was to continue watching over the children without letting them catch on. Princess Maenomi proved to be the hardest—the rest had a shakier grasp on death and imminent danger, although Princess Rinatsu seemed aware that information was withheld from her—but she never outright asked. Chances were high that she wanted to be in ignorance if she could; Seiko couldn’t blame her.

Her mornings were still relatively free, so she decided to help set up for the summer festival. It granted a kind of normalcy—something to think about other than the voices and their mutterings—that she felt she needed.

Kinjo and Masaaki usually came with her, unless the latter was busy—even if he had a habit of abandoning them at first opportunity. His excuse today was to negotiate with one of the stall owners to see if he could buy a fish for Prince Kyuru to take care of. He stayed within sight, but he more or less ignored them.

Seiko sat by one of the to-be stalls, painting clay figurines for the owner. Kinjo helped set up the stall itself in the meantime, making sure the table was stable.

Kinjo glanced at her for a second, then picked up the folded fabric next to the table.

“You’re doing pretty well with those,” he noted.

“The right side is a little sloppy,” Seiko admitted. “I’m hoping no one will notice.”

“They look pretty good from where I’m standing—besides, the left side would look off if anyone else did it, so it’s not too unnatural. It’s just mirrored.”

She frowned at it, but continued painting. Kinjo carefully put the fabric over the table, tucking the excess underneath and holding it in place with rocks.

“Do you paint a lot?” Kinjo asked after a few seconds, going into the topic hesitantly. “You’re putting in a lot of fine, smaller details—painted jewelry and shading when you were only required to do one color.”

“It gives me something to focus on—there’s a bit of nostalgia to it as well. My mother made little toys and things when I was younger, for myself and for others; she usually let me paint them.” She half-smiled at the memory; the voices didn’t seem as loud back then. “They all looked hideous, of course, but as far as I know everyone kept them.”

“You still have yours?” Kinjo guessed; he had his own little smile as he set up poles at the four corners of the table.

“They’re in my room back home, waiting for the next child to play with them. I promised my mother they would be the first toys any child of mine received.”

“An heirloom of sorts, then?”

Seiko shook her head. “Not quite. I just know they’ll be better used if they’re tucked away for twenty-something years then taken out again than if I left them on my shelf to collect dust.”

Kinjo murmured in response. She appreciated the silence of the voices as she put down her current figurine and got a new one, but it made the real silence feel a little more notable than it would be otherwise. She failed to think of any good follow-ups, however, and Kinjo seemed focused on draping another piece of fabric over the poles.

Seiko lifted up the figurine—a little cat licking its paw—and she tried to decide how she wanted to paint it. White, maybe, with gold jewelry; pure but elegant. She was given plenty of colors to work with; she could mix a good shade if she didn’t have one available.

Someone swatted the figurine out of the palm of her hand; she flinched as it hit the ground and split into five uneven pieces.

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Broken, her voices mused, quiet but clear in the back of her mind. Just like the future of the nation. And they’re both so delicate…but at least it’s possible to fix a clay thing without bleeding for it.

Kinjo noticed, lowering the drape so he could face the stranger. There were four—all men, roughly middle-aged, in thick travel clothes despite the warm weather.

“Can we help you, sirs?” Kinjo asked, his tone respectful but with some underlying offense—underlying anger—that Seiko had a little trouble picking up on.

“Which way to the palace?” the leader—judging by his posture and position, at least—asked.

“You have to show some identification first,” Seiko replied, glancing up at him. He scowled, the rest of the men behind him tense. She stood up and brushed herself off, bringing herself as tall and calm as she could; her heart sped up as if it sensed a danger that her mind didn’t quite understand yet. “A family seal of any kind would be enough, or a letter from the noble that watches over your area.”

“Could we skip that? We’re in a bit of a hurry.”

Seiko noticed Masaaki behind the strangers, down the street a little ways away; he watched with narrow eyes, wary but prepared.

“I can’t make an exception,” Seiko maintained. “And if you won’t give identification, then—”

The man cut her off with a shove, pushing her to the ground. Her right hand landed on one of the figurine pieces; the pain silenced the voices, but they screamed once she lifted her hand up and saw the small dots of blood welling up.

Finally, they said. This is what we strive for—what gives us strength.

Her heart had a reason to beat now, and she slid away from the strangers while trying to avoid looking at her bleeding hand. If she focused on the pain, the voices didn’t say anything.

Kinjo came behind her almost immediately, his knife drawn with the blade facing the men. Yet when he looked down at Seiko, his expression showed nothing but concern.

“Are you all right?”

She could only nod, and he helped her up. She hid her injured hand behind her back—more so she wouldn’t see it than worry about Kinjo’s reaction. He would just insist she had it cleaned and bandaged.

Masaaki approached the group from the other side, walking nonchalantly but—unlike Kinjo—actually in his armor. Maybe seeing him would scare them off.

Kinjo must have thought the same; he slowly lowered his knife, but stayed close to Seiko.

The leader took a step forward and Seiko flinched—albeit at the voices’ reaction and not the movement. One of the strangers looked behind him, noticed Masaaki, and cursed; the leader glanced at the same direction, but still returned his gaze to Seiko.

“If you answered the question, you wouldn’t have gotten hurt.”

Masaaki casually stepped past the other three, straight to the leader, and put his hand on his shoulder.

“I would like to point out that harassing townsfolk is illegal,” he said. He maintained a neutral expression better than Seiko or Kinjo could; it seemed as easy for him as it was to smile.

The man rolled his eyes. “I don’t have time for this. Men.”

He gave a quick look around them—no doubt acknowledging that only Kinjo and Masaaki were armed—then drew his own knife and lunged.

Her voices laughed. A chance, at last. We’ll protect you, Seiko—you need to stay until the end, after all.

From there, she lost control over her own body. The leader chose to attack her, while two men focused on Masaaki and the last went to Kinjo; the strangers were disarmed almost as soon as they drew their knives, but they still put up a fight and mutually drew blood. Knowing that only made the voices louder, more controlling, kept her from fully understanding her actions.

The leader shoved her down again, but she snatched the knife away from him. He wasn’t expecting resistance from her left side.

He froze. She took her right hand and pushed him on the ground by his neck, flipping him over with strength she didn’t really possess as he lost his breath. He didn’t resist as she put pressure on her hand, her own blood making his neck red; he barely even choked on the lack of air.

His eyes went to his group, all bleeding from knife cuts while Kinjo and Masaaki sported no worse than a few forming bruises. Seiko slowly moved the knife near the man’s heart, only partially aware of it.

Finally, he coughed. “At least…we’re not blindly following…a lost cause.”

The ignorance is appalling. She mouthed the voices’ words, but didn’t actually say them. Total rejection and blind obedience often have the same result.

“...Death.”

She put all her weight on the knife, and the man sputtered his final breath. The sight of all the blood excited the voices—they grew louder and louder, until they truly took over everything.

She couldn’t see; couldn’t feel anything after stumbling back and collapsing. Even the voices faded, repeating the same thing over and over.

This cycle…everlasting, as promised, until a tainted child ends it…

And what taints better than red, pure blood?