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Chapter 9: “The Wolf of the North”

Rikuya

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The Northern Wastes were nothing like the capital.

There were no songs here. No petals. No silks.

Only blood.

And snow.

And silence.

> Rikuya had become a myth among soldiers.

A ghost in black armor.

They called him “The Wolf of the North.”

He didn’t command from behind walls. He rode at the front.

When his men starved, he starved too.

When they bled, he bled first.

And when they won… they barely remembered why they fought.

Only that he led them, and they followed.

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One evening, after the fifteenth winter siege, he stood alone outside a ruined chapel, arms crossed, blade at his side.

The snowstorm howled. His breath steamed. Blood soaked one sleeve.

He didn’t care.

Because once again, he had lived.

And once again, she hadn’t been there to see it.

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> Yume…

Her name came to him sometimes.

In dreams.

In the quiet moments after a kill.

In the space between life and death.

He had written letters—two. Maybe three. But burned each before sealing them.

> What could he even say?

“I miss you”?

“I’m still alive”?

“Do you think of me when you stand beside him?”

No.

Silence was better.

He had nothing left to offer her but a corpse.

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His second-in-command, Kael, approached.

“Another skirmish at Black Hollow. Rebels think they can take the eastern pass.”

Rikuya didn’t even blink. “Then we’ll show them they’re wrong.”

Kael hesitated. “You should rest. You’ve been awake three days. You can barely stand.”

Rikuya looked toward the burning horizon. Then whispered:

> “Then I’ll fall forward. Just make sure I fall into them.”

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Later that night, he sat alone in his war tent.

Snow melting on his cloak.

He pulled a pendant from beneath his armor—silver, etched with a sakura blossom.

> The only thing he hadn’t burned.

The only warmth he let himself keep.

He pressed it to his forehead, eyes closed.

> “Don’t wait for me,” he whispered.

> “But please… don’t forget me either.”

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