“You can’t kill them all,” Yumi argued. “They are not of their right minds.” While she spoke, she tucked her daggers into their sheaths. “The best we can do is hope to immobilize them.”

“I don’t think their right minds matter as long as they continue murdering indiscriminately,” Ōkami said. “But Yumi is right. Some of them are elderly. I saw at least five of these desperate creatures who could be no more than ten years of age. Children.” His expression turned grim. “We cannot kill them.”

“Of course not,” Haruki said as he struck the soot from his kosode. It swelled around him like a dark cloud, but he did not seem troubled by it. As a metalsmith, he often worked around burning things.

Smoke from the fires in the Iwakura ward continued billowing all around them, blocking out the light of the sun. Many people had fled the city. The vassals Minamoto Raiden had requested from the east were dispatched two days ago, but most of them had yet to arrive. And the maddened creatures set on destroying the imperial city appeared to be endless in quantity. It was impossible to know where they came from. Where they meant to go next.

Or how to stop them.

Despite these many hindrances, the men marching beneath the banner of the Black Clan—four diamonds inspired by the crest of the Toyotomi clan—managed to secure the Iwakura ward and another smaller ward beside it. They barricaded the streets with broken furniture and started strategic fires to prevent the creatures from encroaching once more on the fortified space.

Ōkami mopped the sweat from his brow. Soon the men would need to rally and reassemble. There was far more work to be done.

“We will move along to the next ward in two hours,” Ōkami directed. “Tell the men not posted along the barricades to rest. Take in some nourishment. It will be a long night.”

“My lord,” Yumi said with a bow. She swung into the saddle of a waiting stallion and dug her heels into its side.

“If I’d only known enough to put a stop to this,” Tsuneoki said in a rueful tone as he watched his sister gallop away. “She deserves better than a bloody battlefield.”

“Who are you to decide what she deserves?” Ōkami eyed him sidelong. “If you’d tried to stop her, you would have failed. And it would have been glorious to behold.”

Haruki laughed softly.

Before Tsuneoki could retort, a rider emerged from the rising smoke, racing toward them at full speed. Shock flared through Ōkami when he recognized the insignia emblazoned on the samurai’s armor. Hattori Kenshin did not wait for his horse to stop before dismounting. “Prince Raiden requests an audience with you.” His chest heaved as he spoke. “The fighting around the castle has gotten worse. We need your help.”

Ōkami pushed through the fleeing crowds, trying his best to keep his horse calm. Panic had driven the wealthiest members of the city to throw items of value in carts, wheelbarrows. There was no thought to their movements. Only terror.

It was a risk, coming here. Ōkami saw the look on Tsuneoki’s face when Hattori Kenshin had asked.

If he rode to meet the son of Minamoto Masaru, death would be sure to follow. The last time a member of the Minamoto clan had met with the head of the Takeda clan, Ōkami’s father was bound in chains and ordered to take his own life.

But there had been many opportunities in the last few days for Ōkami to shy away from his responsibilities. He refused to allow his fear of Prince Raiden’s fury to take control of him.

Especially when the son of Minamoto Masaru had much to fear as well.

When Ōkami arrived at the post nearest to the castle—an odd settlement of makeshift tents with weapons strewn about in haphazard piles—he was surprised further by Hattori Kenshin’s behavior. His awkward deference. Once Ōkami had dismounted, Kenshin bowed quickly, granting Ōkami the immediate position of authority. Only days before, the Dragon of Kai had taunted him from his cell. Then offered him the means to free himself. Perhaps this was how Minamoto Raiden intended to lure Ōkami to his demise. By sending along someone he thought Ōkami might trust.

Kenshin paused just outside the largest tent, the canvas flaps at the entrance fluttering in a sooty breeze.

“You will need to leave your blades here, Lord Takeda,” Kenshin said.

“No,” Ōkami replied without the slightest hesitation. “I will not.”

Kenshin sighed. “Mariko said you—”

“Is Mariko here?” Ōkami wrapped a hand around the hilt of his katana.

Kenshin shook his head, a worrisome look passing across his features. “No. She is not.” He narrowed his eyes. “It is one of the reasons I have requested your blades.”

The Dragon of Kai was deliberately concealing something from Ōkami, which raised his suspicions even further. “Where is Mariko?”

“Prince Raiden will tell you.”

“You are not accompanying me?”

“I have a task to which I must attend,” Kenshin said. He frowned, then dipped his head in a bow. “I will ask once more for you to relinquish your weapons.”

“And I will refuse a final time.”

Kenshin sighed, then pushed open the flap of the tent. After the Dragon of Kai had departed, Ōkami stepped into a round room filled with the smell of iron and ash.

The prince hovered over a map in its center, marking through territory and listening to a frazzled runner offer updates. As soon as the flap fell, Raiden glanced up at Ōkami. It was difficult for Ōkami to miss the flash of emotion that passed across Raiden’s features. Difficult to identify its source. A knot pulled tightly in Ōkami’s chest. A fear he did not wish to dwell upon. His memories were awash with the pain of their last encounter. It was a strange feeling for Ōkami. To hate someone with such fire and know all at once that his death would bring Ōkami no solace. That—in order for them to survive—his hatred would need to become a thing of the past.

Perhaps this was what the son of Minamoto Masaru wrestled with in his own heart, too.

“You requested my presence,” Ōkami said to Raiden. He did not bow. His right hand remained on the hilt of his katana. A fact which did not go unnoticed by the prince.

“My runners tell me you’ve successfully secured the Iwakura ward,” Raiden began without preamble.

“We have,” Ōkami said. The sound of Raiden’s voice caused the rage to simmer beneath his skin. The memories were still too sharp.

But Ōkami would not flinch. Nor would he succumb.

Raiden stared at him. For a moment, he seemed to falter. As though he, too, was at a loss for how to behave in Ōkami’s presence. “Do you have any suggestions for how we can bring about the same outcome in the rest of the city?” the prince asked. “What directives did you pass along to your men? I’ve tried to move about in a grid pattern, but as soon as I gain a foothold in one, I lose it in another.”

Ōkami inhaled slowly to allow the ghost of his pain to break free. “We barricaded the main streets. Took the furniture from any homes there and piled them up until they were twice as high as a warrior. The people of the Iwakura ward assisted us.”

“How did you rally them to help you?”

“We asked.” Ōkami almost smiled. “Well, Tsuneoki asked. The people there would follow him anywhere.”

A flicker of irritation passed across the prince’s features. “I’ve heard the same said about you.”

Ōkami did not respond.

Lines of consternation formed above Raiden’s brow. He looked down at the map of the city spread on the table before him. “I don’t know that we can ask our people to help,” he admitted quietly. “We’ve failed them in so many ways.”

Ōkami considered the prince for a time. Despite the image Prince Raiden wished to convey—one of unwavering strength—it was interesting to witness him struggle in so open a fashion. Ōkami would not have expected the prince to divulge any weaknesses before him.

“Begin with the nobility,” Ōkami said. “Ask them to set the example of helping to secure the streets. Demand that they rally under your watch instead of only fighting to preserve the things they value.”

Raiden nodded. “It’s a good idea.”