My position in history is determined by the weight of my tasks and fulfilling them on the strength of my back. That is how great men are made. Greatness is the willingness to die. In this world, men of great responsibility are the executioners of grand visions that shape the world and what follows is order and then revolution. Revolution is the iron law.

Those who deem this to be an improper calculation of immoral mathematics have doomed themselves to a logic of an inert will and can never dictate the terms of fate or their providence and are dragged through the mud by chaos fueled by lofty notions where they find themselves in a space outside of reality. The few who realize this are truly free. It is the difference between those who are committed to reaching the mountaintop and gazing upon the world and those who are content to sit on a low hill overlooking their small town or village. I have earned my princely crown.

My people will know the peace that my empire will bring. Blood is a steep price to pay but whoever shed their blood with me shall be my brother and beware of the heretic whose first act is to name his brother.

“Drink, counselor,” he said. “It’s ayrag; milk from my favorite horse. She broke her leg yesterday so I fed her to my men.” Hazael drank from his gem-encrusted goblet and wiped his mouth with his wrist. He studied the counselor with a keen raptor’s eye.

The counselor warily sipped the ayrag. “Not bad, a little sweet but not bad at all.” He laid the cup on his table and leaned back in his chair and relaxed. “I appreciate your grace and hospitality, Prince Hazael.”

“I pray my men have been accommodating and kind upon your arrival, counselor.”

“They have been… for the most part.”

“Oh?”

“It’s nothing. Nothing of significance,” he said.

Hazael stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Are you married, counselor?”

“Yes, yes I am, my prince. Thirteen years now.”

“I imagine you understand their victories and defeats that are not recorded in the annals of history? It has led me to believe there will not be a decisive victory between the battles of the sexes.”

“How did you arrive at this notion?”

“There will be too much fraternizing with the enemy.”

The counselor quietly chuckled and sipped more from his cup and looked towards the flaps of the tent and snapped his fingers, his bodyguards hauled in several ornate chests. Hundreds of pounds of gold, silver, and precious metals.

“I believe we have a problem.”

The counselor cleared his throat. “It's a rather generous tribute, my prince. What else is there?”

“It’s in the wrong currency.”

“Excuse me?”

“What I want is your city's surrender, to be part of the great peace.”

“My masters and the citizens of this city would rather die with their heads held up high than to surrender.”

“Do you think their resolve can last when they are starving? And who do you think your people will hold responsible? And who will tear the hinges off the doors and set ablaze the city streets?” He calmly sipped his ayrag. “Hear me, counselor. In the dead of winter, I always made sure my children ate first where I would go without food for days at a time. I want my people to enjoy and get fat off the fruits of peace and prosperity. That is what I offer. Spare your people from the flames of war and accept my empire’s great peace. Accept my token of friendship.”

“Reconsider,” the counselor said calmly, “it’s a generous ransom from our coffers, please reconsider.”

“You should accept the predicament you are in, there’s more dignity in it for you,” he said. “But leave and inform your masters of your failure today, counselor. Inform them, that I shall execute your gods’ wrath and deliver your people to their final judgment.”

The tent’s flap was pulled open and Hazael’s prosthetic hand refracted off the sunlight. “Father, father?”

“What is it, boy?”

“Forgive me—”

“No. The counselor was leaving. There is no need for that.”

“Its mother! She is in her labors!”

Hazael finished his ayrag and rose to his feet and wordlessly left his tent and mounted his horse and turned his mount to the south. Under the midmorning sun, the grass was a brilliant green, and that vast expanse beyond was featureless and so without shape or identity. They went past the wild oxen grazing and the oxen raised their muzzles from the grass and regarded them with a placid curiosity as they left a trail of dust.

The hawk’s shadow flew over them, it dipped and raised again with the wind. It landed on the yurt's circular roof, a modest dwelling of wood and wool, dyed crimson and amethyst.

Hazael vaulted off his mount and hurriedly entered into his dwelling. The water was boiling in the hearth and the air was thick. The midwives attended her and laid cool cloth on her forehead. Talia had tears in her eyes and cried for her beloved. “Where is he!? Where’s Hazael!? I need him here!”

Hazael silently went beside her, he held his wife’s hand and she squeezed it tightly as another contraction came. “I’m with you, now,” he said in a low and comforting whisper. Two hours passed, and the child was born and silent. Tufts of black hair on her small head.

“It’s a girl,” the midwife said. She gave the child to Hazael.

He whispered into her ears. “Your bone of my bones. The flesh of my flesh. The spirit of my spirit. Your father loves you, Aisha. Fight.” The baby began to cry. The first cries of life. “A powerful set of lungs on her.”

Hazael laid Aisha next to her mother. Talia caressed her face with the back of her hand. Hazael turned to his son, standing in the doorway, and observing from a safe distance. “Do not be a stranger, Luke. Come and say hi to Aisha,” he said.

Luke moved cautiously and awkwardly to his sister and he stretched his long finger to her and she grabbed onto it. He fell in love with her in very that moment and he pulled away. He left the yurt and sat nearby on the flatlands of the Steppes and the shadow of the hawk flew over the brown and green grasslands. The wind seeped through the rich blades of grass and the sun hung over, hot and white, then thunder clouds rolled from the west like the smoke of gathering armies on the march. Hazael squatted next to his son.

Hazael affectionately pinched his son’s cheek, closed his eyes, and smiled warmly and then he looked out to the plains.

“I’ll spend the night here with your mother and I’ll leave by first light, Luke.”

Luke nodded. “I should be by your side, Father.”

“Your side is here. Family is a sacred obligation. Once you understand this, you know what it means to be a man of this world.”

“But father—”

“But nothing. What you can do is this: send letters to your Uncle and your brothers, instructing them it is time. Frivolity is not a luxury we can afford. The city of Azamo will fall.”

“Very well, father.”

“Contact the Kingmaker as well. I have use for his dogs.”

“Alright.” Luke rose to his feet.

Hazael studied his son. “When was the last time we hunted together?”

“It’s been a while. I’m not sure, father.”

“Readied the horses and the dogs. Wild boars are roaming around here. It will be a nice dinner and time well spent.”

Luke smiled.

The dogs gave chase and the boar’s hooves pounded the ground, the dust and dirt exploded beneath them as they ran hysterically down the hill. The dog sank its teeth into the boar’s hindquarter, and the boar squealed a low guttural cry. Dark blood ran down the dog’s wet nose. An arrow pierced the boar’s heart and it let out a strange moan and lay dead on the grassy floor.

“Well done, Luke.”

The fires burned low, the boar roasted slowly over the spit, and the night had come. There was rain on the wind. Mifune emerged from the night to the firelight, his eyes glistened, blue and opaque like lapis gemstones. He sat on a boulder and sipped his water.

Mifune wore an aged leather vest with a griffith emblem engraved beneath a thin linen shirt, dark breeches, and brown leather boots. He laid his hand on his holster as he drank.

Hazael slowly rotated the spit. “It was my son’s kill. It is expected of every boy to learn the bow and lance and ride and from a young age we learn that living beings are composed of flesh and tendons. My people believe there is nobility in sharing blood, especially with our adversaries, and there is a greater nobility in sharing food and drink amongst friends away from excessive toils that comes with living. Would you not agree, Mifune?”

“Who do you need killing?” he said.

“Impatient today?”

“I ain’t here for your history lesson.”

“Very well. The council of seven. All of them must die.”

“How much time you’re giving me?”

“Ninety days.”

Mifune sipped more of his water and wiped his mouth with his wrist. “Alright, Hazael. On your spiel, I know one thing is certain. Life always finds its path toward survival.” He rose to his feet and mounted his horse and rode off into the night before the darkest hour.

Hazael looked on and he stroked his beard thoughtfully. A lone hand laid upon his shoulder. Talia sat next to her husband with their baby girl wrapped in her arms, her head tilted on his shoulder.

“I thought I’ve lost you forever,” she said.

“I came back to you.” Hazael’s phantom hand twitched, he grimaced.

“Are you alright?”

“I’ll be fine. It comes and goes and lingers like all pain,” he said. “That man…was like no man I ever fought before. I hope we can meet again.”

“So he can kill you again?” Baby Aisha began to cry. Talia cradled her, humming a quiet lullaby.

Hazael caressed his child’s cheek. “He's the only man I have met that is an equal to myself.”

***

The Counselor kneeled before the Council of Seven. They towered above him in their seats. The room was illuminated by the candlelight and the air was still and austere.

Lady Constanzia sank into her chair, small and dignified, her eyes watchful, and her crimson gown shined under the lamps.

Lord Bardyllis stood proud and regal in his chair, his arms folded, he wore a long sleeve black kaftan embroidered and lined with a gold serpentine pattern, and his gaze was like a tiger ready to pounce on an antelope.

Alexander, the Merchant Prince, wore an attire consisting of silk finery, expansive jewels around his fingers, his fists pressed against the side of his face, his gray eyes half-close, and his mind appeared elsewhere.

Demetrius stood stately in his posture and his seat. He was tall in his high chair, dwarfing the others. He stroked his long brown beard thoughtfully, and his coal eyes kindly regarded the counselor.

Lord Octavian, is a portly man with a prodigious appetite. He was sweating despite the room being cool and wiped the sweat off his forehead and his cheeks were red and his fingers were clubbing and there were dark rings under his eyes.

Lord Mirek, he wore an all-black robe, his eyes were flat and aloof, his fingers were laced together, and his head leaned forward with intent.

Hakim, the Prince of Azamo. He wore a red cape lined with white fur and an iron crown and his body was as hard as the crown he wore. Steadfast and austere on his throne. His eyes were cool and focused.

“I say this with the utmost regret Prince Hazael rejected our offer. He demands our city’s surrender. I have failed all of you”

“Raise Marek and stand,” said the Prince. “You have done well, counselor. Clearly, Alexander’s solution was no solution at all.”

“I have not met a man or woman that can’t be bought. Everyone has a price and the question is whether the price is right or not.”

“Then you have not met anyone of principle or conviction,” said the Prince.

“It surely disappears when money is on the table,” Alexander said lazily.

Lady Constanzia cleared her throat, her voice was small and she did not raise her voice. Everyone present listened closely. “What is your estimation of Prince Hazael and his men, counselor?”

The counselor rose to his feet, his eyes met contact with Lady Constanzia. He spoke slowly. “Hazael is proud if not an arrogant man. Dedicated, and committed, and his resolve unwavering. The soldiers under his command are brutish. Boisterous. A horde of barbarians. They nearly accosted me and mine bodyguards when we rode into their camp.” Hazael’s words echoed in his mind. Inform them, that I shall execute your gods’ wrath and deliver your people to their final judgment. “My council is to fortify our walls and build a defensive perimeter around the outer walls. We must prepare for what’s coming, my lords,” he said. “If we defend our home it must be on our terms and not his.”

“You are speaking wisely,” Bardyllis said, “and it’s more than I can say about this council and the course its has taken.”

Octavian wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of the sleeve. He breathed heavily as he spoke. “You rather send our young men to be slaughtered than be protected behind our walls, Lord Bardyllis.”

“So they can be swine like you? Or they can service you—”

“That’s enough!” Prince Hakim said sharply. “I appreciate your wisdom, Marek. You're dismissed.”

The counselor bowed his head and made his exit to the courtyard.

“Let’s begin,” said Prince Hakim, “...a military solution is the only forward. You were right, Bardyllis. Some people cannot be bought nor bargained with but have to be overcome. How fast you can amount our defenses.”

“Before we go on that,” spoke Lady Constanzia. “Do you have anything to share with us, Mirek?”

“I think we should surrender.”

“What!?” almost shouted Bardyllis. He took a deep breath. “You expect us to cow to this horde of barbarians led by this madman?”

“If the rumors about Prince Hazael are true…We should not attempt fate.”

“I can’t believe what I’m hearing. He’s only a man. No man should be feared.”

“Maybe it’s prudent we should. This is a man that surrounds himself with magicians and sorcerers; practitioners of dark arts that the heavens’ decree prohibited. We have no idea what he’s capable of or his numerical battle strength. Surrender and being part of his empire seems to me the only logical option on the table. War resides in the realm of uncertainty and the only certainty is we will live to see the sunrise tomorrow if we accept his terms if it's not too late.”

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“I concur,” said Octavian.

“Of course, you would agree but I expected you to be made of sterner stuff, Mirek.”

“We should consider this: it means sparing our home, our families, our children from war. Life is too dear and peace so sweet to be tossed away so easily.”

“There is merit in your words,” said the Prince, “but surrender is not an option. They are greater stakes at hazard. For our survival, and our honor as a people, we have to afford to take certain risks onboard.”

Demetrius folded his arms and stroked his beard thoughtfully. “This city’s soil was consecrated with the blood of tyrants and the oppressed. It will insult our forebearers if we submit without a fight. I agree with Lord Bardyllis but I’ll stand by whatever decision you make, Hakim.”

The prince nodded and steepled his fingers. “Bardyllis, I’ll trust you manage our forces?”

“I can have the troops digging trenches and forming a defensive line in the next few days.”

Lady Constanzia rose to her feet. “I have grown tired, I’ll leave you, boys, to your military affairs.”

Her personal guard escorted her to the inner courtyard and they entered the water garden, a stream flowed over the small pebbles and boulders under the painted crimson bridges, and the scales of the koi glistened off the lanterns as they swam with the current. Dark clouds passed under the moonlight and water was on the wind.

The counselor leaned his back against the bridge's rail, gazing up at the cloudy night sky. The Lady approached him leisurely.

“Take a walk with me, Marek.” She extended her arm and the Counselor took hold of her arm as they walked over the bridge and on along the stony path. Rows of chrysanthemums and orchids decorated the path and were in full bloom under the moonlight. “I always enjoy our walks,” she said.

“So do I,” he smiled.

The dark clouds began to bind and swirl together like dark tendrils, and flashes of blue and purple lights empowered them. Lightning struck the stream. Lady Constanzia clung to the counselor tightly.

“The hell?” he said.

Suddenly, a spontaneous combustion of blue light came down like a thief in the night. The stench of burnt hair was in the wind and his clothes smoldered and seared onto his skin and his body twitched, his lips jerked and drooled. Strange scars ran down the crown of his head. He soundlessly collapsed, his eyes were bleeding and aghast and burned away in low blue flames.

“My God! Help! I need help!” Constanzia cried.

***

It was midmorning. Mifune’s white hood shielded him from the oppressive sun. He rode at a steady pace on the west road to Azamo, and it bore the tracks of wagon wheels and hooves. He pulled down his red scarf and sipped from his canteen and wiped his mouth. Far off into the distance, buzzards were circling about and a man lay in the road, and his raiments were rotten and in tatters. The man was covered in welts and wounds across his back.

Mifune dismounted and checked the man’s wrist for his pulse. It was weak. Mifune surveyed the area around him and put the man on the back of his horse and rode further down the road. He went past soldiers with shovels and axes and they were tents along the outer walls of Azamo. Another soldier passed. “Hey,” Mifune said, and the soldier with a shovel slung over his shoulder stopped. “You lot have a medic’s tent set up?”

“Yeah, it’s a red tent over near the Green River. The head doc is the talkative sort but good people.”

“Thank you.” Mifune bowed his head and turned left to the river’s direction and it goes long and passes through the great city. Along the banks there was a makeshift structure overlaid with a red roof and ceiling and hung over an iron caduceus.

There was a good-looking woman in a long burgundy gown with an white apron and a dark veil. She stood erect with her hands behind her back watching the river waters rushing through the gates.

Mifune dismounted and slung the man over his broad shoulders. He walked to the woman.

“Excuse me, ma’am, are you the doctor for this outfit?”

“No,” she turned around, her eyes widen. “Oh! You need to see Doctor Miller. He’s inside. I’ll take to him.”

They entered into the hastily constructed structure. There was a row of beds and cots and standing was Doctor Miller; he wore black robes and thick white leather gloves and a wide-brimmed leather hat. His eyes were light nearly gray and his face bore the features of a red fox.

Miller wafted his hat and he placed a glass vial filled with a milky substance on his shelf next to other medicines and oils. The flap pulled open.

“Doc, doc? There’s a man hurt. I think he’s dying.”

“What?” He turned around and his attention was at the half-dead man slung over Mifune’s shoulder. “Place him on one of the beds,” he said calmly. “What’s wrong with him? Where did you find him?”

“I’ve found him beaten and left to rot in the middle of the road. I think he was robbed.”

“Oh. The roads are infested with vermin,” Miller said. He walked to his desk and pulled his drawer and laid on mortar and pestle on his desk. “Joan hand me a pitcher of water and garlic.”

Joan nodded and went past Mifune. She laid the pitcher and garlic on the desktop. Miller sliced a piece of garlic and placed it inside the mortar and grind it into a paste with the pestle and he slipped into the water pitcher and poured it into a glass cup. Miller pulled the back of the man’s head and forced him to drink.

“The garlic should prevent a fever,” Miller explained. “Joan clean his wounds and apply the bandages around his back.”

Joan nodded and did as instructed.

“I’m Wei Miller,” he slipped off his gloves. “I can see you met my colleague and friend Joan, who is occasionally good enough to assist me in my more peculiar cases.” Miller extended his hand for a handshake.

He accepted. “Toshiro Mifune.”

“Miura City? A long way from home, huh?”

“Yeah. Like Cain; I’m a vagabond that wanders,” he said. “Is he going to be alright?”

“As long as he doesn't catch a fever, he will be fine,” he said. “Do you miss the old country?”

“Sometimes.” Mifune checked his nickelplated pocketwatch. “I should be getting on.”

“Sit down and share a drink with me.” Miller pulled a silver flask from the inside of his robes. “I know the way of the transgressor is hard.”

“I wouldn't turn down Satan for a drink.” Mifune pulled an old wooden chair and politely took the doctor’s flask and sipped and handed it back to him.

“What part of the city you’re from?”

“New Prosperity. The old neighborhood.” Joan handed Mifune a cup of coffee. “Thank you, ma’am.”

Joan blushed. “It’s a pleasure, Mr. Mifune.”

Miller studied Mifune. “A tough neighborhood.”

“Tougher people too. One can say we were instruments or tools or toys for the rich man. Just small things. Passing from one hand to another. And we only have God to guide us.”

“Well,” Miller patted off his lap, “we all are instruments of an execution of a design that most men or women can scarcely conceive. Like these troopers here with their shovels and axes digging trenches to defend their city. They can call upon courage in the ranks of men who were sworn to the same oath. A man without a city cannot be a real man. They’re a shadow on the wall fading to the dying light and it’s to be cast out in a place more lonely and bitter than hell. Well maybe it’s hell. I do not know. No man can endure loneliness. Only God and heroes can.”

“Do you think I’m a hero then? Hell. I ain’t.”

“No. You’re a fugitive from the ways of this world.”

“Are you married, Mr. Mifune?” Joan asked.

“In the eyes of the church, sure. And I have a little girl too.”

“Oh.”

“I should be getting on. I have business in the city.”

“I can show you around the city if you like.”

“I appreciate it but I know the way.”

Mifune left the tent and vaulted his horse and turned his mount to the gates of Azamo. The streets were bustling with activity. The merchants selling. The customers are haggling. Good spirits and chatter filled the air. Mifune passed down the market square and over the horizon, on a high hill, a gothic construction of gray brickwork and four gray spires painted against the morning skies and loomed like the eyes of God. Where the bones of prophets or oracles are interned. To the east, a massive keep overlooking the city. Home to Azamo leadership. Adorned with thick walls and gates and man by archers.

Mifune stopped at a stable and paid the shopkeeper to board the animal and he walked to Sleeping Fox Inn. It was quiet when he entered. The patrons sat at their table and broke their fast.

The innkeeper was a small and gray woman in an oversized purple gown that made her appear smaller than she was. Mifune walked as far as the front desk.

“I need a room and board.”

“Overnight? Or a week.”

“Three months.”

The innkeeper looked up and studied Mifune. “That will be thirty silver pieces.”

Mifune laid out three gold pieces on the oakwood desktop. “This should suffice.”

“Yes, yes. It is sir. There's a room upstairs with a stunning view of the city proper. It's yours. Anything else?”

Mifune reached into his pocket and laid a sketch drawing of a griffith, his personal brand, onto the tabletop. “A woman comes by bearing this, tell her where I am.”

The innkeeper nodded. “A lucky lady,” she muttered under her breath.

Mifune walked upstairs and entered his room. He laid his sword and gunbelt onto the table and he pulled a chair to the window. The midday sun arrived. Mifune watched the day recede to the clicking of gears in his pocketwatch. There was a knock on the door and she entered the room unannounced. She was heavy but moved with elegance and grace, her auburn braid flowing in the warm breeze. Mifune pulled a cigar and put it between his teeth as Delilah struck a match, it flared and settled and the short-lived flame lit his slender cigar. Mifune puffed streams of blue vapor into the window and out to the void as she sat on his lap and wrapped her arms around him. Their eyes met. Delilah rested her head against his shoulder and Mifune caressed her brow gently. They lay together naked in bed.

Mifune rose and sat at the bed’s edge and he reached out to touch her, sleeping beside him. He got dressed and walked onto the city streets. The activity waned as the sun went down. He walked to the gothic cathedral. It was closed to the public. Mifune climbed the building, his fingers clinging to every nook and cranny and crack in the granite wall. He pulled himself to a ledge and lean against the fabled gargoyle and he overlooked the sallow sky and beyond there was black smoke rising. There was a faint scent of carrion in the wind and the stars began to fall like the angels that were cast out of heaven. Ninety days? The countdown to doomsday. Mifune close his eyes.

***

Mifune salted his egg whites and Delilah sat across the table in their room. It was a hot morning and the morning sun sat boiling east at the curve of the horizon and the hot breeze bristled through the shutters.

“Three months, you say? It’s rather generous of him,” she said.

“We need to get out of the city before then.”

“How do you mean?”

Mifune chewed thoughtfully and spoke slowly. “He intends Azamo to die a painful death. His armies are bleeding the lands white and all in the while they live off it. The people fleeing will seek asylum in these walls.”

“It’s a thorough strategy. I can see why Leonhart aligned with him.”

“Our Kingmaker,” Mifune said contemptuously. “Anyway. I don’t intend to stick around for the chaos. You made it into the city, alright?”

“Yes, I did,” she said. “They’re preparing for war around the walls. I can tell a lot of these young men are greener than grass and moved with a sense of dignity and purpose.”

“They’ll be pissing their pants when they're run through by the lance.”

“Toshiro!” she said sharply.

“What?”

“Don’t talk like that. Talking like that is beneath you.”

Mifune closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Is something wrong, Toshiro?”

“Do you have any intelligence on the council?”

“Of course I do. Before we get to that I have a gift for you,” she pulled a small and long, and tight roll wrapped in red tape with a short fuse. “It’s a smoke bomb. My little gift to you.”

Mifune nodded and slipped it into his pocket. He steepled laid his elbows on the tabletop and steepled his fingers.

“I’d take you saw there keep, Night’s End? They’re holding a funeral for Lady Constanzia’s husband. He died under bizarre circumstances. You can hit them all there.”

“I could but breaking in and entering and escaping cleanly is a pain in the ass. You know where one of them is going to be after the funeral?”

“I was about to get to that. The fat one, Octavian. He always wanders into the Red Light District and into the brothels. But I need more time on the rest. They’re a motley crew, Toshiro.”

Mifune finished his meal and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “When the funeral will be over?”

“Sundown.”

“Alright.”

“Toshiro, talk to me.”

“We got a job to do, Delilah. We’ll talk later, I promise.” Mifune rose to his feet.

“Where you’re going?”

“I’m off to make some friends.”

Mifune wanders the winding and crooked streets of Azamo, away from the Market Square and to the North where the entertainment district is. It was quiet, there was a few on the corner sweeping the dust and others were sleeping in ratty blankets clutching something tight to their chests. A legless beggar stopped Mifune. “Can you help me get something to eat, friend?” he said, his voice coarse.

Mifune studied the beggar and dropped two silver pieces into his rotting hat.

“Thank you, mister. You’re a kind soul.”

He nodded and went his way further into the district. Mifune stopped by a rustic tavern with a sign overhead, the Summer Moon and entered. It was cozy, a few patrons were chatting and drinking at the long tables. The innkeeper was cleaning the glass as the cockroaches moved in between the bottles.

Mifune sat on a stool at the bar. A woman in a dark blue floral patterned hijab and a thin white coat sat right next to him.

She regarded Mifune with kind eyes and he silently nodded. The innkeeper tended to the woman first.

“What would you be having, miss?”

“Water,” she stated.

“And you, mister?”

“Beer.”

“Alright.”

The innkeeper turned around and pulled the lever of the beer dispenser, filling the mug up and wiped foam off with the comb and laid it next to Mifune.

“I'll have to get your water downstairs, miss. It will take a moment.”

“Take all the time you need,” she said.

The innkeeper pulled the countertop open and made a sharp right to the stairs heading down to the cellar.

The woman turned to Mifune. “What’s your name?”

“Toshiro. And yours?”

“Jasmine. You're from here or visiting.”

“Visiting, I suppose. Not for pleasure but for business.”

“That’s a shame. I grew up here and watched this place change and expand so quickly. You wouldn’t believe this was a row of little houses and only a dozen fishing boats. And the birds on the river bank,” she sighed. “Change is a funny thing. I don’t like it. Things were simpler back then.”

“Seems like that but often it ain’t always the way that people remember it.”

“That’s the hard part but brighter times always exist in the past and the future as well.” Jasmine smiled at Mifune warmly. “It’s a gift, a heavenly gift from Allah. A divine attribute to look back and the ability to move forward.”

The innkeeper came back. “Here’s your glass of water, miss.”

“Thank you.”

Mifune studied her. “What brought you here to a place like this?”

“What business is it of yours?”

“My apologies.”

“I’m teasing. I’m here to see my sister. I pray she has been doing well. This life fell upon her, you know.”

“I understand,” he stood from his seat. “Godspeed.”

“It was nice meeting you.”

“Likewise,” he warmly smiled at her.

Mifune left the Summer Flower saloon, which was the first and last encounter with Jasmine. A soldier smashed her skull in, and everything she had or will ever know drained slowly on the wall. The death of her father, the birth of her son, the friends she had made, and the stranger she met and made smile in the Summer Moon tavern.

It was the early hours of dusk. Mifune was in a filthy back alley and he checked his pocketwatch, it was 5:48. He observed from afar the Lily in Bloom under the fledgling lunar light. It was a three story house with black shutters and a crimson roof. He drew his flintlock pistol; it was carved from cherrywood and the Miuran dark steel engraved in a pattern like a diamondback and on the barrel contained the maker’s mark: MK. Loud and clumsy. It’s good for one shot. The last resort. He put it back in his holster next to his black sword streaked and patterned with red flames: the Igeal. It was indeed a masterpiece in metalworks.

A dark carriage drawn by four horses parked in the front of the brothel and four men clad in brigandine coats and carrying heavy swords opened the door to the carriage and stumbling out was Octavian, sweating through his silk finery and waddling to the entrance where the doors was pushed opened for him and his personal guards follow in after him.

As the carriage drove away, Mifune made his way to the brothel and when the doors were open to him the sounds of music, the brass and drums and the fiddlers filled the room. An enormous whore in a man’s jacket and a long green skirt, stood clapping her hands and calling for her sisters to the dance and they were dancing. The floorboards were slamming under their boots to the tune of the band. The music sawed up. A federated resonance was felt throughout the levels of the house.

Mifune surveyed the room and caught the glimpse of Octavian’s guard going up the stairs. And then there was something tugging at Mifune’s cloak and he looked down and there was a child whore. He studied her, she wore an oversized floral gown and hair was short and brown, her face was long and childlike. About fifteen he judged.

“C’mon, have fun with me,” she said. She pulled him down to her level and leaned in his ear. “I can show you a good time, mister. I’ll be your woman for the night.”

Mifune looked at the stairs towards the corner and looked back at her. “Sure,” he said.

The child whore led Mifune by the wrist to the third floor going past her sisters and the dancers and the band as Mifune cased the house for any avenues of a quick exit. Two guards at the window on the opposite end of the hallway and the other two at the white door. A half-naked little boy came out of the room and ran past the guards and Mifune and the girl, crying.

Mifune stopped the girl in her tracks.

“Is something wrong?” she asked nervously.

Mifune reached into his pocket and placed five gold pieces into her palm and closed her small fist. “It is a strange thing to ask but can you lead those men away from that door and show them the dance?”

She nodded and walked to the guards. She whispered into one of their ears. He shrugged and followed the girl downstairs and his fellow men-in-arms pursued.

Mifune drew his hood and pulled up his scarf and walked to the white door and turned the knob and pushed it open. Naked and sweating was Octavian, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Give me a moment,” he said, his voice hoarse, “I’m not ready.” He turned his head to the door and stood in the door was a man he did not recognize. Dressed in white. Adorned in a half red cloak. Excruciatingly calm. Blue eyes opaque like wet stones. He gripped his sword’s hilt as he was ready to draw. “What do you want?”

He did not answer.

“What do you want from me? Coin? Women? My wife? Where are my guards!?” Octavian’s heart was skipping every third beat, he clutched his chest and there was a sharp pain and his fat face was pale. He violently seized and jerked and collapsed to the face of the floor, his nails dug into his flesh. The last solitary beat ceased.

“Damn.” Mifune flipped his limped body, Octavian’s eyes were sightless. He took a knee and closed them and checked his pocketwatch. It was 6:17. Mifune looked around the room and there was a thin coat on the floor at the foot of the bed and several papers peeking out of its pocket. He picked it up and slipped them in his pocket and left the room and closed the door behind him and exited the Lily in Bloom to the darkening back alleys of the entertainment district. Through the twisting and winding streets back to the Sleeping Fox inn.

When entered his room, Delilah was gone. Mifune enkindled the hearth and pulled a chair next to the hearth and read the papers next to the firelight. As it reads: Your face is etched by youth. Untouched by time. You help me reclaim what I thought was lost. In the next life, we can be young men together, again.

Mifune cast the poem into the hearth. It crumbled, blackened, and burnt to ash on the logs. “Bastard…” he whispered.

“What was that, Toshiro,” Delilah said as she came into the room and closing the door behind her.

“Nothing but a pig bastard’s ramblings.”

“I take it he’s dead?” Delilah sat on the chair next to him.

“Yeah, in more ways than one.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing, sweet one.”

Delilah held Mifune’s hand and softly squeezed it. “Talk to me, Toshiro.”

Mifune gazed into her eyes, they were deep and warm like the sunrise. “There’s nothing to talk about. You’re here. That’s the only thing that matters to me.”

Mifune slept that night with Delilah in bed. He dreamt an old dream and where he stood on the bluffs towards the North Sea and where held the hand of his daughter and watched waves moved and crashed on the rocks. He smiled softly and then he wept. “It’s not too late,” a voice in the wind whispered.