Miyu rubs at her eyes briefly, trying to alleviate their stinging. It’s late, and she’s been staring at the board before her for too long.

  “Miyu-chan?”

  Kikyo’s soft voice breaks into her small bubble. The teen stands at the door to the office, a small tray bearing tea and fruit in her hands.

  “I thought you might be wearing yourself thin in here. You need to eat and drink,” she scolds lightly, doing a very good job of imitating Nanami’s inflection.

  Miyu gives her a small smile and sits back from the desk, taking a moment to stretch.

  “Thank you, Kikyo-chan,” she half-yawns. “Sorry, the annual Fire Festival is only a week away.”

  “No need to apologise,” the maiko sets the tray on the desk and takes the seat opposite Miyu. “You know what Nanami gets like the week before her performances. It takes a lot of restraint not to burn her stupid harp.”

  Miyu pours the tea, inhaling the soft scent of jasmine, perfectly brewed.

  “We’re perfectionists,” she murmurs before bringing the rim of the cup to her lips.

  “That you are,” Kikyo nods, and then tilts her chin to the board. “Care to tutor me a little, oh great one?”

  “Sure,” Miyu hopes her relief doesn’t show in the slightly prolonged exhale that follows Kikyo’s request.

  At the sight of the maiko’s slight giggle, she knows she’s been caught out.

  “You’ll be fine, as usual.”

  Miyu wants to believe Kikyo’s reassuring words. But she knows Makishima would not have been idle in the year since they faced each other last.

  If she intends to face him at her best, she needs to keep training.

  .

  “What’s got your feathers all ruffled?” Chikako’s squawk startles Miyu enough to almost send her toppling from her stool.

  “Tch. Civilian. Forgot, sorry.”

  “No, no,” Miyu’s only slightly out of breath despite the fact her heart feels like it’s about to beat out of her chest. “I was just focusing, that’s all. Surprised me.”

  “Figures,” Chikako cocks her head to the side. “Any reason you look like you haven’t slept in a week?”

  “Before big games,” Miyu says, glancing back to her board, “I study during the day. Only, I can’t seem to turn my brain off at night. I keep going over plays until I feel like I’ve exhausted every likely outcome.”

  “Hm.”

  The crow cocks its head to the side, and Miyu gets the feeling that Chikako would be frowning if she could.

  “Itachi-sama is worried about you. Your last two letters have given him cause for concern, apparently.”

  Miyu’s lips quirk down slightly.

  “He’s hoping to come watch your match if he manages to get his leave approved on time.”

  She’s not quite prepared for the excitement that spikes in her chest.

  “He applied for leave?” The hope in her voice is overwhelming. Her cheeks heat and she forces her gaze down to the board again.

  Maybe Chikako won’t rat her out. Unlikely, the crow’s a terrible gossip and has spilled more about Itachi than his letters seem to convey. Though that might just be intentional, based on her smugness at every detail divulged.

  “A few clan representatives will be present from Konoha,” Chikako sticks her leg out and lets Miyu untie the scroll. “Most notably the Nara, but I’m sure you were expecting that.”

  “The Nara and the Aburame, yes,” she murmurs as she skims the small, neat writing that definitely should not be making her mood shift so easily.

  “This year there may be a few more, just so you know.” Chikako cocks her beak towards the tiny treasure chest on the dresser. “Open that for me?”

  Miyu does so absently, sparing a brief smile at Chikako’s crow of appreciation.

  “Sapphires! You remembered – oh, the others will be so jealous you have no idea-”

  She lets the chatter fade into the background as her eyes rove over the letter before her again.

  Miyu-san,

  As expected, the earrings caused stir. Though my little brother seems to attract trouble and controversy with no effort on his part anyway.

  I hope this letter finds you well. I’ve written that in the hopes you won’t interpret it as mere courtesy.

  The Fire Festival is only a few days away, and this year my clan are sending a few representatives. Unfortunately I won’t be a part of the delegation, but I wish you luck in your match regardless.

  Eat well, sleep well, and take breaks at least once every hour. My sources tell me Makishima has been ruthless in his matches of late, and has gone undefeated since you played him last. He has increased his meditation time and changed his openings, probably in an effort to throw you off balance. I doubt he will switch his mid and end game so dramatically, it’ll be too much of a risk against you.

  Makishima will be at his best, and I’m sure you will be at yours.

  My money’s on you, Miyu-san.

  U.I.

  Chikako’s information directly clashes with Itachi’s words, unless he had written this letter before applying for leave.

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  “The clans,” Miyu says suddenly, interrupting Chikako’s continued chatter, “they’re sending representatives in an attempt to verify the rumours.

  She meets the crow’s eyes, as the realisation comes to her.

  “They’re gaining more accuracy.”

  Chikako cackles and shakes her little head, “Two extremes they are. Some have almost pinned you, while others indulge in the wild fantasy of your forbidden romance with Itachi-sama.”

  Sighing out through her nose, Miyu rubs at her brow and prays for patience.

  “You’d better get that beauty sleep,” Chikako guffaws, “there’ll be more than one game to play at this year’s fire festival.”

  .

  Miyu bows to Makishima, emerging from the calm, safe space of the board to meet his eyes.

  “You played well yet again, Miyu-san.”

  His address is low, not quite loud enough for the spectators to hear – though she’s sure the ninja don’t miss it.

  “As did you, Makishima-sama,” she offers a smile as they both get to their feet and bow to each other, and then once more to the audience above the applause.

  “I believe I’m getting old,” he doesn’t smile, he’s too straight-faced for that, but she’s come up against him for years now. Long enough to read the good-natured humour in his dark blue eyes.

  “Which way would you like your flattery?” She asks as they turn to exit the game hall together.

  “Both,” he says, long grey hair swinging lightly in its high ponytail, the trademark for his samurai clan.

  “Nonsense! You’re as youthful as the day we met, Makishima-sama.”

  “Hm,” he just barely raises a brow.

  “Or,” she allows him the slightest glimpse of a grin, “I believe I’m getting old.” She thinks her impression of his tone is rather impressive. The dry look he gives her only makes her want to laugh and communicates effectively that he perhaps doesn’t think it impressive at all.

  “You must be,” she says in her own voice again, “it’s the only way I manage to beat you, after all.”

  He really does crack a smile at that, so fleeting she almost thinks she imagined it.

  “Well p-”

  “Sugawara Miyu.”

  If Makishima’s face had seemed stern before it completely shuts out all emotion at the sound of her name.

  Miyu forces the reflexive stiffness from her shoulders and turns to face the Daimyo with a polite smile.

  “Daimyo-sama,” she bows low, aware that Makishima is doing the same beside her.

  “Well played,” says the middle-aged man, his long brown hair hanging in a straight curtain framing his face.

  “Makishima-sama honours me with his time,” Miyu is trying not to exude anything but calm, hyper aware of the dozens of eyes watching the interaction.

  “It is… uncommon,” he lets the word roll over his tongue distastefully, “to see a woman gifted in the noble art of shogi.”

  Clamping down on the urge to let her discomfort show, Miyu takes a deep, soothing breath.

  “Quite uncommon,” she agrees.

  The man before her looks her up and down. It’s not inherently sexual, rather – the look of a highborn peering curiously at something on the underside of their shoe.

  “So you are the best then.” It’s not a question. The man steps forward, slightly too close. Miyu keeps herself steady by thinking of boards and pieces and the cup of tea waiting for her at the Okiya.

  “I wouldn’t presume to-”

  “Play me.”

  It’s not a request.

  She keeps her gaze on his chest, absently taking in the fine silk of his decorated robes.

  “Daimyo-sama, I-”

  “You would decline my invitation?” His tone hasn’t changed. If anything, it’s disturbingly even.

  “Of course not,” she smiles once more, “it would be the highest of honours.”

  “Good,” he leans in, dark eyes intense, and Miyu resists the violent urge to step back. “Tonight at eight. I look forward to facing you, Sugawara.”

  And then he sweeps away.

  Miyu waits until he’s left the hall to turn on her heel and resume walking to the main exit. Makishima is still beside her, slowing his gait to match hers.

  They step outside, and before either can open their mouths to talk they’re ambushed by the liaison from Iron.

  “We should leave,” he urges, keeping his voice low as he addresses the man to Miyu’s right.

  “No,” Makishima leaves no room for argument. Then he looks to Miyu, his face set into a grim frown. “What will you do?”

  Miyu’s hands clench tight in the folds of her deep sleeves. She meets his eyes, for once letting her uncertainty show.

  “I don’t know.”

  The time between her game against Makishima and her upcoming match with the Daimyo shrinks at a worrying pace.

  Miyu goes to the Okiya, grateful that Nanami and Kikyo are out entertaining for the festival. She doesn’t have time for their questions right now.

  She goes to her room, locks the door. Leans against it, and lets out a long sigh.

  “Fuck.”

  The Daimyo of Fire has always had an ego befitting of his strong economy and military. The current one is just as bad as his father, maybe worse.

  The old Daimyo finally died last year – apparently a scratch from his wife’s cat had become infected and in his advanced age he was unrecoverable. The story itself is suspicious, but with the only suspect newly coronated, any leads served to be dead ends. Rather unsurprising.

  This younger Daimyo, from what little Miyu has heard, is eager to prove himself, all the while determinedly trying to mask that eagerness.

  And now, he wants to – what? Prove his shogi prowess before the nobles of his court, foreign delegates, and a fair portion of Konoha witnesses?

  Unlikely.

  To win or not to win?

  There’s little doubt in her mind that she can beat him. The man probably learnt shogi as early as Makishima, but she’ll bet on him having none of the ex-champion’s finesse.

  Whether she should beat him is another matter entirely. The smart thing to do would be to concede the match, but he would likely take insult if he ‘defeats’ her so easily.

  To let the game go on long enough for him to get bored is a risk she just might have to take. Will he be displeasured at the difficulty of playing her? Satisfied when he finally triumphs over her after his supposed hard-earned victory?

  She groans and lets her head fall back. The dull thud it makes against the wood of her door is oddly satisfying. She narrowly refrains from repeating the motion a few dozen times.

  He’s too unknown. She doesn’t know exactly what he wants, and that makes him more dangerous than any professional player she’s come up against.

  “Okay,” she pushes herself away from the door. “One step at a time.”

  Miyu takes a short bath, hoping it will settle her nerves. It doesn’t.

  She pulls out her most expensive kimono, a beautiful, soft lilac with curls of pale green vines around the hems. It’s nothing flashy, but the material is expensive and the cut of it is elegant and finely made.

  It will be suitable for the presence of the Daimyo, at the very least.

  Carefully, she remakes herself. She avoids makeup, hoping her face plain of decoration will dissuade any interest he might have in her.

  She’s not quite sure if he has any interest in her to begin with, but she’s better safe than sorry.

  Finally, she gathers her hair and artfully twirls it into a neat bun, secured with a thick hairpin. It had been gifted to her by Makishima when they faced each other last year at the championship in Iron. It’s a lovely thing, a shower of tiny glass snowflakes dangling from the decorative end.

  With an hour to go until eight, she settles her stomach with some tea, forces down an apple, and starts on her way.

  The busy streets serve as a sharp reminder that she is just like any of these people. Normal. No family or wealth, without great burdens. Without great power.

  Right now, she wishes she had considered the few marriage proposals offered to her between her last game in Iron and now. The Daimyo wouldn’t care much for a merchant clan, or even nobleman. But he wouldn’t be stupid enough to create enemies this early into his reign.

  She ascends the steps to the hall and realises something is not quite right when she notices the audience already seated. It’s barely seven-forty, they should be standing in small groups socialising.

  Miyu calms her racing heart and steps into the room. Her eyes sweep the audience – the usual nobles, important merchants, and foreign delegates sit in the first few rows to either side of the aisle. Behind them she spots a few glints of metal featuring the emblem of Konoha.

  The Daimyo is seated, facing the door. An early insult – it’s impossible that he doesn’t know that the higher ranked player must sit in the seat he now occupies.

  She doesn’t let any of her dismay show on her face.

  “You’re late,” he says without rising. He manages to look down on her despite being seated and at her hip level. Tch. Highborn. “I said seven thirty.”

  Miyu doesn’t point out that she hadn’t asked, though she knows that their esteemed audience won’t have missed his blunder.

  “I beg your forgiveness,” she bows deeply, “I must have misheard.

  “Hm.” He nods to the place opposite him. “Sit.”

  Is she a pet now? Is that what this is?

  She makes no comment as she easily assumes seiza opposite him. The board that had welcomed her so comfortingly just a few hours earlier now seems as temperamental as a wild snake.

  “Let us play.”