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on-wine-dark-seas · 2 days ago

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The Invitation

Dedicated to the little Black girl who wanted to be all things when the world told her she was nothing. You are everything. 🍯

🪧 Summary: Heian Era. One full moon, Sukuna meets a dancing storyteller at the Hida Harvest Festival. But after a tragically violent evening robs her of everything, she winds up in a strange alliance with the King of Curses as his guest. 📚 Series: Sonder ⛩️ AO3: The Invitation 🔞 Rating: Explicit ⚠️️ Warning[s]: Rape/Non-Con [not from Sukuna don't worry], blood, gore, description of wounds and dead bodies, cannibalism, recreational drug use [ganja, psilocybin, opium], slow-ish burn, hurt/comfort, PTSD, revenge, catharsis, eventual romance, eventual smut, Ryōmen Sukuna is his own warning. 💋 Pairing[s]: Sukuna x The Writer [⛩️🍯] 🎧 Playlist: [ the invitation ] ⛩️ AO3 𑁍 Parallax OCs 𑁍 Sonder OCs ⛩️

Author's Notes: ⚠️BE ADVISED⚠️ This chapter contains a graphic amount of blood and gore thanks to Sukuna. Including but not limited to: murder, cannibalism, even more murder, and Sukuna taking malicious pleasure in all of it. Also, things get a little wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey on account of travel times. Since the POVs switch with each section, we're going to assume that a week does in fact pass between the time Sukuna leaves the shrine on a mission, and the time he returns after me and Uraume have our little side quest. So before commenting, keep that in mind or whatever.

🍯 VII. 強さ Strength

The weather grows warmer, and with it, the earth itself begins to shake loose the bridle and grasp of winter. All around Sukuna’s shrine, signs of life begin to creep across the grounds in defiance of the death the shrine’s master wears like a shroud. Green shoots poke through damp, hard-packed earth, and sprinklings of green coat the barren branches of trees. Even the sunlight shifts as the days begin to grow longer, dawn coming sooner.

Since autumn, Šetû has learned the worth, merit, and import of routine. It is not something Sukuna has explicitly told her will help her, but it has been nice to fall into days of predictability. Dawn approaches, and she wakes. Sukuna spars with her until the sun reaches its zenith, and then they take a meal together. For the most part, these moments are quiet, but there is much to be said in the wake of that one fateful night she gave him a performance worthy of a king.

No, their conversations take on other forms: a brush of fingertips against a hand, gazes lingering in one another’s for too long, the flush of heat in their cheeks. Sukuna sees it in the way her body opens to him, less tense when he reaches for her, even shooting him longing looks when he is not near her. When they spar, she moves with purpose, pushes herself as ferociously as he goads her. Her power grows, and he knows her technique is on the precipice of manifesting. That storm inside of her aches for release.

How fortuitous that it will be his hand that provides it for her.

Šetû sees it in the way Sukuna’s barking commands feel less like lashings and more like affectionate shoving. He teases, of course, but there is a tender bend to his smile, a soft lambency to his usually cruel gaze when he addresses her. He calls her by lost flower more often, and at night, she lays awake mouthing the words to herself, smiling.

Mayoi-hana.

As the days grow warmer, Sukuna finds himself called to war once more. With hunting becoming plentiful, and crops being sold for cheap, Sukuna ventures out into the fray again, the sole defense against the bickering factions tearing apart the north. Hida fears and worships him, and in return, he drinks the blood of those who would encroach upon territory he has claimed as his own. No sorcerer in these lands can stand against him and hope to survive, and so they scramble to keep the blood tide of Sukuna at bay.

So it goes, this back and forth. It is enough that he is well-nourished after these skirmishes. Those who fall to him find usefulness in the nourishment their meat provides. It is a pity, however, that he does not have it in him to haul the bodies back to the shrine. He can already hear Uraume’s criticizing words as he tears the flesh with his teeth, raw and bloody. It tastes good on his tongue: the blood, the gristle, the lymph. All of it.

He thinks of Asiri’s words to him that night weeks earlier; about him not being a monster though she finds his taste for human flesh abhorrent. He chuckles to himself. Part of him had considered butchering her brothers and feeding them to her, but he remembers her face on those gray days after her recovery began and cannot fathom breaking her further. There would have been no joy in it for him.

On the days he is not bleeding the north dry, he is home in the shrine, and he hates to admit it, but it’s becoming harder and harder to leave.

He wakes up and traverses his halls and hears laughter trailing from other rooms: Asiri, Oboro, and Okoi. He hears the quiet and thoughtful conversations Asiri has in the kitchens when she assists Uraume. Sukuna has lingered in the doorway unseen, watching them together. Asiri regales his servants with stories: fantastic tales from faraway lands she’s traveled in, and even more from her homeland. In these quiet observations, Sukuna sees the many facets and dimensions of her art. Not just a dancer and singer, then; but a poet, a storyteller, and a keeper of ancient wisdom.

Uraume seems to enjoy it immensely and Sukuna can’t recall ever seeing them laugh and smile so often. Once, he even saw Uraume clapping along to a song Asiri sang as part of another story. Sukuna marvels at the juxtaposition of this woman’s gentleness against the backdrop of Uraume butchering human meat for his consumption. She doesn’t seem bothered by it, and if she is, even he can’t tell.

He still thinks about that night, weeks later. Her reflection in the mirror, curves illuminated by the Divine Flame. He’d touched the stories painted on her skin and can still feel the softness of it on his fingertips. Her, long legs spread, her reflection a stark contrast against the silhouette of his massive frame behind her, the Divine Flame illuminating both their faces. Her, writhing in his gentle hold, hips rocking in an undulating rhythm against his hand, a dancer even with those ancient steps known to all when they have need of them; his fingers soaked with her juices, pumping in and out, he’d been so desperate to have her there on the floor; his tongue tasting her when he wanted nothing more than to devour her. Her fucking moaning. Gods, Sukuna hears it still: that desperate, keening sound that skirted the line between agony and ecstasy, and it had all been for him. Those had not been the sounds of a woman who was a ‘broken thing.’ She is anything but and Sukuna being what he is wants so much more of the woman he’d seen that night.

Since that night, Oboro and Okoi have reported that Asiri has decreased her opium usage, and her sleep remains relatively undisturbed. It also helps that Sukuna trains her until she’s too exhausted for her mind to feed her nightmares, preferring instead the perfect darkness of temporary oblivion. He needs her lucid, and he needs her strong. She’s not the only one who has a mission to kill a sorcerer. Yet, for all that, she has not given him the names of her assailants. Whatever path she walks, she wishes to do it without his interference. Not that he’d ever intercede on her behalf, but it nettles at him that she keeps secrets from him. He’s willing to bet she does no such thing with Oboro. The stubborn old bat has taken Asiri on as if she is her own damned daughter: fussing over her appearance, comforting and cajoling her [babying her, more like], and Sukuna finds himself annoyed with it all.

He overhears them one day, while they are doing laundry. Asiri is telling one of her stories again, only this time it’s different. It’s about her.

Sukuna waits in the shade of an overhang while the woman hang laundry on clotheslines, chattering.

“Do you think Lord Sukuna would allow me to ride?” Asiri asks. Oboro stands on a stool to hang one of Sukuna’s robes.

“Akechi?! Good luck, tuh!” Oboro laughs, her tone teasing. “I don’t even think your feet could reach the stirrups on that beast of his!”

They laugh. The corner of Sukuna’s mouth twitches upward briefly, imagining Asiri astride his horse, feet dangling. Then, the image slips into something more intimate. Him behind her, holding her securely to him as they ride. He can bury his face in her hai—

Enough.

“No,” Asiri says. “Although his steed is a mighty one, I was speaking more about having my own. Winter is nearly done, and he did promise me a mount! My poor Nagesh was stolen by my attackers. He was old but stout. I can only hope he’s being treated well.”

She sighs, forlorn. Sukuna’s expression grows pensive.

“Did you ride often?” Oboro asks as they return to washing. Asiri nods, smiling to herself like she’s about to reveal a secret.

Well, Sukuna thinks from his hiding place. Out with it, then.

“Oh yes,” Asiri says with a smirk. “The Hausa are horse lords in their own right. My father and brothers taught me to ride. My father was an old soldier and participated in the Durbar Festival every year. We had a horse named Hero, and he was so beautiful: a coat of purest glossy black, and kind eyes.”

Sukuna heard the fondness in her voice.

“Every day I would ride,” Asiri explains. “It was one of the only times I felt free. Like I could go anywhere. I’d let Hero run and gallop and take me wherever we wished. Once, we even outran an entire storm before the rain got to us. It was exhilarating.”

Sukuna’s mouth curves into a smile as she sighs, dream-like and fond.

“Well,” Oboro says. “It sounds lovely, although I’m not sure if Lord Sukuna has any mounts for you to ride. Uraume’s mount was lost in a skirmish some months back and horses are hard to come by and require more resources we can’t afford to spare most of the time.”

Asiri sighs. “I know. Still, it would be nice to get out of the shrine for a while and stretch my legs.”

A brief silence, and Oboro’s concern is palpable.

“Do you plan on leaving?” She asks, a note of concern in her voice. “I know Lord Sukuna gave you an ultimatum to leave by winter’s end, but there’s no rush for you to be off so soon.”

Sukuna breathes deeply through his nose. Is that why she wants a mount? Does she plan on leaving after all this time? After carving out a space in this shrine for herself?

Where will you go, mayoi-hana? He wonders. Where will those dancing feet take you next?

Far from home. Far from him.

“I don’t know,” Asiri says softly. “With my family gone, I have no real paths open to me, and yet I have too many paths open to me. Out in the wider world, I may be able to find another troupe to join, but…it wouldn’t be the same.”

You’d be miserable, little flower.

“But here…” Asiri sighs. Sukuna longs for her to finish the thought, swallowing hard. She shakes her head and dismisses her thought. Sukuna almost sucks his teeth in annoyance.

“Well,” Oboro continues. “What do you want to do, Lady Asiri? You aren’t alone here, you know. I have it on good authority that Uraume enjoys your company. Okoi and I certainly find your presence here to be better for the shrine. And of course, there’s Lord Sukuna to consider.”

Asiri laughs.

“I don’t know how long his amusement and fascination with me will last, Oboro-san. I’d rather not overstay my welcome.”

Sukuna’s lip curls. Welcome? Has she not realized by now that she’s—

He shakes his head and leaves the two women to their conversation. He has more important matters to attend to, and he’d rather not dwell on the fact that Asiri is considering leaving the shrine for good. Sure, he’d given her the ultimatum months before at the beginning of winter but now?

Now, he is not so sure, and it irritates his spirit to consider the implications.

So, he does what he must: he purges his heart of doubts, starting with a visit to Uraume, who has prepared his afternoon meal as well as a stack of missives from a courier. Sukuna doesn’t bother with the missives, and Uraume reads through them. With the spring thaw comes travelers and sycophants seeking Sukuna’s protection and power. Sukuna is capricious in reputation, and he does only what his whim demands. To that end, all manner of outlandish offers have found their way across his threshold: from concubines, to horses, to foodstuffs, and family heirlooms. None of these things hold any true value to him. Concubines meant there were simply more mouths to feed, and gods forbid any of them got with child. He doesn’t have the resources or patience to deal with screaming brats and a harem. If sexual gratification is what they think will appease him, they are sorely mistaken.

The memory comes unbidden: a flame in the lonesome dark of his bedchamber, illuminating soft pliant curves, skin like burnished umber, the scent of cloves and jasmine oil. White paint on brown skin…

Sukuna breathes hard through his nose, clearing the memory away and letting it go.

Since that night he has not seen her in his bedchamber, and she uses the hot spring only when she’s sure he won’t be there. Not that he minds; she’s very good about not getting underfoot. Still, her avoidance since that night nettles at his nerves.

He comes to the present in time to hear Uraume reading a request for his protection along the coast. It is a week’s ride east, and about a day’s ride from the capital itself. Risky to be gone so long so early in the season, though not in the sense that his life is in danger. He’d just rather not draw Sugawara’s eye just yet. But it offers an opportunity to get out of the shrine, feel the sun and moonlight on his skin again.

Free his thoughts of her influence.

He shuts his eyes. There’s the sound of slick squelching; her panting and moaning; her begging. The feel of her slick spilling into the mouth on his palm, tasting her in every part of himself. Fuck, he needs more of her.

“I’ll take the fucking job,” he says irritably. Uraume is startled but Sukuna is already moving. Better to avoid any further questions. Not that Uraume will ever dare question him, he’d just rather not meet their shrewd gaze right now.

“Lord Sukuna,” Uraume trails after him. “You’re leaving now?”

Sukuna doesn’t stop moving. “Why not? If I leave now, I can clean up, collect my spoils, and be back in time to see the first blooms.”

That brings Uraume up short. What was he talking about?

“Get Akechi saddled,” Sukuna orders curtly. “I bet that bastard’s dying to stretch his legs after being boarded up all winter.”

Uraume’s mouth opens and then shuts. They bow before hurrying off to see his orders carried out. Sukuna, in the meanwhile, feels renewed. He once again has set his mind to a purpose. New flavors to try, new chaos to wreak. He is the storm that sweeps clear all in his path. Even those who called upon him for aid were not safe from the fury of him.

He grabs Hiten from its rack on the wall furthest from the bed on the raised dais, above the copper-locked mirror in the corner. He stares at his reflection, and another memory surfaces. Curves undulating under firelight, white paint on dark skin.

Fuck.

He doesn’t pack much, requiring less maintenance than an entire army of men. With his weapons secured, the stable hand brings Akechi around who is already restless in his bridle. Seeing his master, Akechi snorts and stamps his hooves, almost as if in indignation. Sukuna grins broadly, already anticipating a good, hard ride east.

“I know, I know,” he says, but there’s nothing but mirth in his voice for the beast. “Been a long winter for us both, believe me. But now…”

Sukuna hauls himself into the saddle with a satisfied grunt. Akechi shifts on his hooves to accommodate the new weight. The stable hand, whose name he still can’t remember, bows deeply.

“I should be no more than a fortnight,” he says. “See to it that Lady Asiri does not stray far.”

He does not wait for affirmation, and with a single cluck of his tongue Akechi lunges into motion, a powerful gait to suit an even more powerful rider. And then, for the first time in months, Sukuna leaves the shrine behind.

With the first nascent breath of spring everywhere, Šetû begins leaving her door to her tiny engawa open. The first green shoots of growth poke out from the melting snow in the walled garden her door opens into. In the clear light of day, she can make out patches of green poking through the frozen earth. She breathes deep the crisp morning air, shuts her eyes, and feels several things at once.

But most of all: she feels safe.

She thinks about her conversation with Oboro as she washes up and dresses for the day, doffing her usual worn woolens for a lighter linen ensemble. She tidies up her room, and notes that the shrine feels quieter than usual. There’s no sound save for the idle twittering of birds outside, the cawing of lone crows. She leaves her room to traverse the stone halls of the shrine.

It’s nothing like the first time, and yet, it is everything like the first time.

Shadows that once lurked along the walls and frightened her, feel like familiar friends. The braziers burn steadily, keeping the stone halls relatively warm. She comes to a halt at the end of the hall. Sukuna’s bedchamber is quiet as well, and he’s usually up before the sun. The door is shut, and even though they’ve crossed an intimate threshold together, she still feels wary about simply letting herself in. She is his guest, and something of a servant she supposes.

Actually, she hasn’t the faintest idea what she is to Sukuna, now. She has been ward, guest, pupil, and…she doesn’t want to use the term lover. It was a brief tryst, one that makes her cheeks burn hot with shame and arousal both at the mere thought even weeks later. She can still recall the heat of his body behind her, his honeyed voice murmuring into her ear as she guided their hands lower, lower, until—

She wants to ram her head into a wall with shame. She shouldn’t have allowed that to happen, but she had wanted it to happen, hadn’t she? She’d told him as much, and Sukuna had given her plenty of openings to say no, with no threat in his voice when he told her plainly that he wanted to touch her or that she could leave. But gods, she had wanted him to touch her. Even when she found herself repugnant.

She still wants him to touch her. But for some reason, she has confined herself to waking up sick with desire from a single memory of his touch. It’s pathetic, it’s shameful, it’s wrong.

Why?

The question comes unbidden as she stares at his closed bedroom door. Why would it be wrong to want him? He has been naught but the most gracious host when he could have easily killed her and saved himself the inconvenience of sheltering her in his shrine.

Šetû turns away from his bedchamber door and heads to the throne room. It too is empty and silent.

Sukuna is not in the shrine, she realizes. His cursed energy lingers, permeating the wood, stone, and earth, but it is a depression, at best; an indent of his soul where he has dwelled for so long. The core of him—the physicality of the God of Hida—is not here. The thought perturbs her even as she makes her way out to the courtyard.

Silence. The silence of absence.

The chill of the day is bearable, almost welcome, even as she takes a deep, tremulous breath.

“Lady Asiri,” Uraume’s voice cuts through the mist of her reverie, and she startles slightly, turning to face them. Uraume bows deeply to her, and she bows back.

“Uraume,” she breathes, a smile curling her lips, flashing pretty white teeth. “You’re here, but Sukuna is not. I take it he’s off on one of his mysterious excursions?”

Uraume chuckles. “It is not my place to question but yes, he departed not too long ago for the east. He should be back within a fortnight.”

Šetû mouths the word to herself. Two weeks? He’s never been gone longer than a few days. She’ll have to consult the map. Even more reason she needs a mount. She needs to learn the lay of this land if she’s to tarry here any longer. She is Sukuna’s guest, not his hostage, and she’ll not stand to be kept in ignorance. There is also the matter of finding out where Takeshi Zenin is so she can kill him.

Winter has done little to cool the fury inside of her. Her sense of justice feels stronger than ever. There will be no trial, no chance for reconciliation. She will have Zenin’s head, or she will die trying.

“I see,” she says at last, turning back to the courtyard. “Is it possible we can get out of the shrine ourselves? It’s been a long winter, and I could use the change of scenery.”

For a long while she and Uraume regard one another, the silence returning. The silence of contemplation.

“That can be arranged,” Uraume says slowly. “Lord Sukuna would not take to you wandering out alone. The surrounding forest is dangerous. But I had planned a trip to town to restock on supplies…”

Šetû’s eyes light up, a smile spreading on her face like a wine stain. Uraume heaves a sigh.

“Fine,” they say and Šetû barely suppresses a squeal of delight. “You may accompany me to town on the condition that you stay out of trouble. It would be unwise to draw too much attention. Lord Sukuna’s reputation protects insofar as he is here.”

Šetû grins. “But Umeeeee,” she sings and Uraume’s cheeks flush pink. “I’ll have you there to protect me! And Lord Sukuna’s been teaching me all kinds of things. It should be fine!”

Uraume sighs. They hope it’ll be fine, and they admit it feels somewhat nice to have company since Oboro and Okoi haven’t left the shrine in years and have remained adamant on remaining on the grounds until they die.

“Fine,” they accede against their better judgement. “But if there is any trouble, we leave. Much as the master would take joy in leveling the town, it is the primary source of our provisions and resources. Mind yourself.”

Šetû claps her hands together. “Yewá! When do we leave?”

“Now’s as good a time as any,” Uraume says. “And there shouldn’t be any cursed spirits we can’t handle on the way. I’ll have Ren saddle the—gah. I do not think we have any horses fit to carry us available. Get dressed, I’ll see that all is in readiness.”

With that, they take their leave. Šetû, excited at the prospect of finally getting out of the shrine, rushes off to get changed into something more suitable for the road. On her way out, she passes Oboro, who is handling a broom, and Okoi who is feeding the crows. Uraume seems to have found a horse suitable, an old mare named Yui, whom Ren leads out into the courtyard. Uraume checks the saddle bags and leaves instructions with Oboro and Okoi as they climb up onto the saddle. Šetû joins them, her arms going around their middle as they set off.

For the first time since her arrival, she leaves the shrine.

The journey east tells Sukuna everything he needs to know about what has passed during the bitter winter. Sickness and famine, as is the way of all during war time. It reminds him of a time when he was far smaller and weaker than this, little more than a scrawny child really. The times of scarcity are always the times he finds he thrives the most. Starvation, hunger, yearning, loneliness. These are the fulcrums upon which he turns smoothest. He understands these things intrinsically: the deadened look in the eyes of starving peasants, burned out of their homes for a cause that likely has nothing to do with them and everything to do with the petty squabbling of a few, pampered nobles.

So it goes, round and round.

Every burned-out hamlet, every silent battlefield littered with crows, all of it points him in the direction he must go. Eastward, ever eastward. The God of Hida rides through hill, plain, and paddy to reach the field to which he has been summoned. He thinks about Asiri, safely tucked away in his shrine, away from the horrors of a war that has already robbed her of everything. A war that has nothing to do with her.

Well, Sukuna thinks with a sort of grim nihilism. One cannot brave a storm and hope to survive unscathed.

He frowns. It is a harsh thought to place upon her. What happened to her was not war; not really. It was deliberate human cruelty.

Sukuna is familiar with that too.

He looks out over the expanse of another battlefield. The Fujiwara are desperate, spread thin across the countryside trying to cling to their vassals of power with a steadily weakening grip. The devastation of their best sorcerers has cost them and it’s only a matter of time before their regime is toppled and replaced with another. Sukuna wonders how many shoguns he will live through before death finally has the balls to claim him in truth.

One hand reaches, wraps around the smooth, perfect shaft of Hiten. With a low grunt, he yanks it free of the unfortunate soldier who crossed his path this afternoon. Deserters were few, but they were easy to spot. It just so happens this deserter had the misfortune of running toward the jaws of something far worse than a few katana-wielding humans.

And now Sukuna has food to eat on the way.

He rides on.

It takes him four days to reach the coast, and it’s already a massacre. Sukuna grins in anticipation when he smells and feels the crackle of cursed energy across the rocky beaches. There’s a vengeful spirit at large, and Sukuna grins. Someone must have gotten a lucky shot on some half-decent sorcerer for that to happen.

As he rides closer, he sees now why they have begged his help.

The bodies on the beach are not just dead but petrified. Sukuna touches one of the statues, frozen in the midst of fearful fleeing, and it crumbles to ash. His brows go up with acute interest sharpening his gaze.

Interesting… He thinks as he touches another statue. It too crumbles to ash. The cursed energy residuals aren’t hidden, and this feels recent. A domain, perhaps? To have encompassed so many victims en masse there can be no other explanation. Sukuna scratches one of his ears idly and sighs. He decides to tie off Akechi, deposit his haori, collect Hiten and Kamutoke, and make his way further down the coast. With this much cursed energy spilled onto the land, he doubts he’ll be disturbed while he works.

He wonders if there will be anyone left to fucking pay him when the job’s done. Either way, he will leave here satisfied, be it in battle, or with the coin of those who hate him but need him.

Shaking off the last vestiges of distracting thoughts, Sukuna moves through the carnage like a deadly apparition. To any who have never seen him before, he is a shock to the senses, both in appearance and cursed energy. The hairs on one’s body stand on end when he approaches, and an icy chill skitters down the spines of anything with a pulse and the cognizance to know that Sukuna is the apex predator in any situation.

Silence and death greet him, seemingly for a full league down the coast.

“Where the fuck is this damn thing?” He grouses, squinting against the late afternoon sun. It cannot have gone far. Even deadly vengeful spirits tend to stay where they are born, and this one is new. He spotted the tattered remains of the cursed womb an hour ago. He wonders if the thing has gained sentience yet and wandered off. That would be irritating.

He scratches his ear again, then glances over his shoulder at the sound of sand and rock crunching beneath booted feet. One of his eyes widens in surprise.

Standing there, brandishing pikes, are two pale foreigners. Sukuna’s other eyes rove the coast. Ah, he sees now. These foreigners made landfall and ran afoul of a vengeful spirit they likely created when killing a sorcerer. What a mess, and how fortuitous for him.

“You all should have run,” he says with an easy smile. The two foreigners share a fearful, furtive glance as Sukuna turns to face them. They are wearing armor, but Sukuna has cleaved through men with armor before. He makes an idle swiping gesture with one hand, and his lips curve into a fanged grin as he hears the wet sound of flesh and bone tearing. One of the foreigners stands in shock as he is sprayed with his comrade’s arterial blood. His companion, now headless, collapses to the ground.

“Tch,” Sukuna hisses, clucking his tongue in disappointment. “All that armor and you still die as quick as the rest.”

The remaining soldier trembles, the tip of his pike shaking in unsteady hands. Sukuna rolls his top shoulders, then bottom shoulders, crossing his lower arms under his chest.

“Well?” He growls. “Get on with it, then. Do your best.”

The pikeman glances from his dead comrade to Sukuna, and then makes a gesture with one hand, touching his forehead, chest, and shoulders. Sukuna frowns in brief confusion, but then the pikeman squares his stances, and the trembling in his weapon stops. Sukuna grins wider.

“That’s it,” he encourages, his voice a growl that makes the fine hairs on the back of the soldier’s neck stand on end. “Now: come at me!”

Though the foreigner does not understand him, he knows a challenge when he sees it, and he is a soldier first and foremost. Still, nothing in his life has prepared him to face the being that is Ryōmen Sukuna.

And Sukuna knows it.

The pikeman charges, and Sukuna allows him to get just close enough to deflect the pike downward. The pikeman is momentarily startled having not registered Sukuna’s speed. Sukuna brings one foot up, slams it down on the shaft of the pike, splintering and snapping it in two.

The pikeman’s pale face is one of terror as he holds the ruined haft of his pike in trembling hands. Sukuna grins at him, his belly splitting into a mirroring expression, tattooed tongue lolling out of its mouth like a cruel joke.

The pikeman’s mouth opens, and his scream of terror is cut short as his world tilts in every direction. His final sight is Sukuna and his devilish grin, and four crimson eyes flaring with interest.

Sukuna watches as the man falls to pieces before him, entrails spilling and steaming in the cold. Sukuna frowns. He’s not sure if these foreigners are edible, and he’s got no time to try. He turns away from his appetizer, smirking when he sees a group of armored men attempting to fend off cursed spirits that have gathered over the dead strewn about the beach like debris. Narrowing his eyes, Sukuna sees a ship anchored not far out to sea. Ah.

He ignores the ship. Doubtless what few survivors remain will turn tail and sail back to whatever foreign lands they came from; but alternately…

Sukuna watches the struggling group of survivors swipe endlessly at the cursed spirits swarming them. None of them are capable of a domain—mere nuisances at best—and he spies a man in black robes, clutching a string of beads bearing a strange charm. He holds a book and is chanting in a tongue Sukuna has never heard before. Whatever it is, it’s not jujutsu and has no effect on the cursed spirits.

Sukuna waits until the soldiers notice him, waits for their dawning horror to take hold, and then he grins again. The grinning always makes them scream; it never gets old for him.

Bedlam carols into the afternoon air for perhaps a few minutes: cursed spirit and human alike fall to his brutality, torn apart like wet parchment in all four of his hands, impaled upon Hiten like speared fish, gutted like cattle by claw and fang and blade alike. Sukuna tears hearts from crushed chest cavities, tears shocked jaws from ruined faces, crushes skulls to splintered bone and soft, red brain matter.

The priest screams when Sukuna rips his teary eyes from his skull one by one, popping them between his teeth before snapping the priest’s neck as easily as he would a twig.

Sukuna wears the deadly aftermath like a heady perfume, breathing deep the scent of blood, of slaughter, of terror, of unalloyed chaos.

Of war.

This too is home.

His mind drifts, briefly, a flicker of dark eyes illuminated by divine flame, full lips parted in a plea he longs to grant.

Gah. He needs to help this girl get her revenge and send her away before she truly infects him. She already occupies too much of his mind as is. And his mind is sacred space where he will have none impugn upon its privacy.

And yet…

The sound of bells makes his ears twitch in familiarity. For a moment his lower eyes search for the source of the sound, wondering if it is the hallucinations of a hungry body. He needs a proper meal, and the meat around him has a foul tinge to it that repulses him. He chuckles. Perhaps he has been spoiled by Uraume’s cooking.

Bells again. No, not bells. Sukuna cocks his head. No, that is the distinct sound of a shakujō. He smirks. So, the locals have sent their own in hopes they have no need of him, have they? Sukuna chuckles, knifing his hand through his hair, heedless of the blood and sweat and dirt, reveling in it like a baptism of violence.

Sukuna finds the sorcerer wielding the shakujō against the vengeful spirit, and it is a ghastly thing. A floating, decapitated head, eyes rolled back, jaw slack, but out of its mouth pours creatures seemingly made of smoke. Several sorcerers enact a barrier as a defense, billowing sleeves protecting their faces. Sukuna observes, his cursed energy drawn tightly about him. He’ll not spill his presence into the field just yet. He needs to assess.

The spirit moves rapidly for being a disembodied head. Two sorcerers hold up mudras: another barrier technique. The shaman chants, sweat pouring from his scalp, rings on his shakujō jingling ominously. Ash and soot streak his features, and there is a bloodstain from a gash in his arm. Sukuna clucks his tongue in thought.

It doesn’t take long as the spirit gathers its energy and opens its domain. Sukuna observes that too. Witnesses as the shaman and his comrades are turned to stone instantly from the spirit’s cursed breath and gaze.

“Oh?” Sukuna muses aloud, eyes glittering with a predatory interest. The shaman this spirit once was must have been caught unawares by the invading foreigners. Now that lethal technique threatens to petrify everything that draws breath on the coast.

Sukuna glances around, scratching his head and yawning. Ah. Everyone else is dead. How fortuitous.

“Well,” he says, stretching and cracking his knuckles and neck. “I suppose it’s time to go to work.”

And to work he goes, taking off at a sprint that has been the last sight of countless. He brandishes Hiten with a wild, manic grin, tongue lolling out of the maw on his belly with delicious glee. The spirit turns toward him, and he laughs.

“Gotcha.” He growls and strikes.

It’s over quickly. Sukuna counts maybe five minutes at most. He has to sever and regrow his arm several times to slow the petrification, marveling at how it twines with his cursed energy to take hold.

When the domain clash happens, however, Sukuna knows he’s won. The spirit is shredded in seconds, minced to cursed bits, and burned to ash. A smoking crater remains in the space around him. Corpses, curses, debris…all of it burned out of existence by the flames of his inner fury.

Sukuna inhales deeply, lets the acrid sting of smoke and flame burn the hairs of his nostrils before exhaling in a long, satisfied sigh.

“That felt good,” he says with a groan. “Now to collect my payment.”

The village—or rather, what remains of it—is fearful to relinquish payment.

Through a series of arbitrary executions by his hand, and stammering accounts from the survivors, Sukuna learns the village headman—the one who originally sent the missive begging his aid—was killed three days prior in the initial skirmish. Fujiwara reinforcements never arrived—Sukuna snorts derisively at this revelation; he expects nothing less of such a toothless regime as the Fujiwara—and villagers were forced to call upon other shamans in the area to defend against them. Their head shaman, an elderly man by the name of Nitta Saburō, was killed by a well-aimed spear by one of the invading foreigners and erupted into a vengeful spirit.

Sukuna pinches the bridge of his nose in irritation. He has a feeling he’s not getting paid in coin today, and continuing to kill these idiots isn’t going to net him anything worthwhile save their meat. And even that is naught but skin and bones from the sunken-eyed looks of these destitute souls before him. The sun is already beginning to set, and he wants to be out of this forsaken region before the Fujiwara and Sugawara patrols come sniffing about. Not that anything they’ve got less than Sugawara himself can handle his power, but he’s exhausted and needs food, sleep, and maybe a rinse in the nearest river…or the sea.

Gods, how fucking irritating.

“I was promised a sum for my time and effort,” Sukuna says, an aggravated growl in his tone. “Either gather the sum or find something of equal value, though I doubt you ragged lot can scrape together anything worth my—”

He pauses, his eyes spotting movement in smoke-choked village. For a moment he thinks it a trick of the light, but he realizes after that no, what he sees is real.

A horse. A horse of a breed he has never seen before. A coat of purest, glossy black from ear tip to the feathery hair over its hooves. Its mane drapes luxuriously in a curtain of waves the color of ink. The height is almost too perfect, and its gait is proud and delicate, surefooted amidst the uneven ground as a peasant struggles to rein it under control. The horse is wild-eyed and clearly unwilling to go with this man.

“You,” Sukuna says to the man trying in vain to calm the mount. “Give me that horse.”

“My lord!” The man says, strained. “This is ou—”

“Bullshit,” Sukuna says with a grin. “That horse breed is not native to these lands. Let me guess: the foreigners brought it, didn’t they?”

The horse’s bridle and saddle are decorated with tassels and finery, stained with blood and soot. Sukuna can see clearly that none of this is of Japanese make and yet the man wishes to keep it from him. Why?

“My lord, please…” The man pleads as Sukuna stands over him. The horse shivers and snorts, tugging at the reins.

One of Sukuna’s hands shoot out to grasp the reins, holding firm. The horse goes still from fear.

As for the man…

“I’ll consider this payment since your headman just met his end at my hands, and I’m in a good mood…” Sukuna says, then smirks. “But for your reluctance to relinquish this method of payment...”

There’s a loud and satisfying pop accompanied by the horrified and summarily hushed cries of the assembled survivors as Sukuna snaps the man’s neck with the ease of snapping his fingers. The man drops to the ground, limp as a marionette whose strings have been summarily cut.

No one speaks as Sukuna soothes the agitated horse, stroking the bridge of its nose in an uncharacteristically tender caress and murmuring to it. No one speaks as he leads the mount by the reins out of the village, and it is only when he and his prize vanish into the smoke that the weeping begins.

The town is only two hours by horseback, and Šetû makes sure to thank the old mare when they finally arrive. Uraume watches her coo to Yui like an old friend. They allow themselves a small, indulgent smile before they tie her off and head into the town proper.

Without the presence of Sukuna around them, their welcome is a neutral. Hollow-eyed and gaunt faced, the people of Hida watch as the two of them make their way into the market. So soon into the nascent warmth of spring, crops are scarce, and the war-ravaged countryside has made scarcity even worse. Uraume and Šetû are quiet as they walk, with Uraume carrying themselves with a monk’s stern dignity, inspecting wares and provisions with a critical eye, choosing only the best bits. The coin paid will go a long way for the farmers in this town, but their lilac eyes narrow at the sight of more official looking individuals mingling with the crowd.

Ah yes, the spring festival approaches, and despite the war, the people will still find something to celebrate.

“Does Lord Sukuna ever…provide these people with more than passive protection?” Šetû asks. Uraume does not answer momentarily, eyes focused on the two guards who are clearly part of a retinue. They spot the crest of Heian-kyō and frown. Would Sugawara be so bold to come this close to Sukuna’s proverbial doorstep? They admire the audacity.

“Lord Sukuna provides only what he chooses,” they answer absently. “While his cursed energy wards off most cursed spirits in the area, he is not at the people’s beck and call. What other means to survive they require, they must needs provide for themselves. If they cannot protect themselves from even the most passive threats without beseeching my lord for aid, then what good are they?”

Šetû blinks. “But these are just ordinary people? Not soldiers or warriors or sorcerers. Surely Sukuna can represent them in some way?”

Uraume winds through the market, ignoring the desperate attempts of peasants selling borderline rotten stock, or livestock that look as lean as the season they’ve survived.

“He goes where war calls the strongest,” Uraume tells her. “By pushing back the bulk of the Fujiwara forces he protects Hida in the long run from occupation, allowing the people to do as they will. Live, die, ’tis their choice, Lady Asiri. That is the protection Lord Sukuna provides.”

Šetû considers their words. Strange logic in her mind, but she can see the merit in them. Sukuna keeps Hida from brutal occupation from an oppressive regime. In return the people of Hida can choose how they live. It seems simple enough, but she wonders why they fear him so. Perhaps it is his capricious nature. She puts her thoughts to the side to focus on the task at hand. With some urging, she convinces Uraume to buy cherries. They smirk, asking if she has anything particular in mind.

“I suppose…” she begins, tapping her lips with an index finger in thought. “There was a recipe I learned on my travels, where the cherries were cooked into a pastry, but I do not know if we have enough flour to account for Lord Sukuna’s appetite.”

Uraume laughs indulgently. “He is not as partial to sweets. But I am sure he will welcome a new flavor in his kitchen.”

Šetû laughs. “We could stick a human finger in it,” she suggests. “Perhaps he would eat it, then.”

Uraume stares at her wide-eyed.

“It was a joke,” Šetû mutters, cheeks burning. “Forgive me, I’m bad at jokes. My cousins were so much funnier than me.” She rubs the back of her head in embarrassment only to find Uraume’s shoulders shaking, hiding their face behind the sleeve of their kimono.

They’re laughing.

Šetû grins and they share a quiet laugh in front of the fruit stall.

“Šetû?”

All at once the moment is shattered and time seems to slow. The voice calling her name is a familiar one, but not one she ever thought she would hear ever again. For months, her name has been spoken with a Japanese inflection on the syllables or addressed by honorifics. She has not heard anyone speak her mother tongue since the night her family was slain.

She turns, trembling in disbelief.

“Yusuf?!”

Yusuf stands there, staring at his sister with wide, disbelieving eyes. His face, lean and gaunt, is slack jawed. Then, his eyes fill with tears, and he runs to her as she runs to him, catching her up in a fierce hug, uncaring for the passerby who watch. Šetû doesn’t care. The dam of her grief breaks, and she sobs into her brother’s tunic, holding him tightly to ensure this is no hallucination or dream, but her brother in the flesh. She thinks of Amadou, Ajani, and Ajamu, and weeps harder that despite this one, small miracle, the rest of her family is gone forever.

Yusuf holds her away from him, looking her over.

“God, I thought you were dead!” He cries. “Alhamdulillah’s…where have you been all this time? What have you been doing?”

“Where have I been?” Šetû asks, smiling through her tears. “What of you? When…when I came to, you were gone, and I thought for certain you’d been killed…”

Yusuf shook his head. “They knocked me unconscious when they hauled me into the forest for their sick game. When I came to, the wagon was burned to a husk, and you and the others were gone. I thought you all had escaped…”

At that, Šetû looks away from him. He studies her face, and slowly his brows draw down into a frown.

“Šetû,” he says. “What happened?”

She is poised to answer when Uraume steps forward to stand beside her. Yusuf shivers despite the balmy weather and sees curls of frost forming at their fingertips.

“It’s…” Šetû begins awkwardly. “It’s difficult to explain. Yusuf, come with me. I can tell you everything when we are safely back at the shrine.”

Yusuf frowns in bewilderment. “The shrine? What shr—” All at once it dawns on him.

“Sukuna’s shrine?!”

“Lord Sukuna.” Uraume corrects, eyes hardening to amethyst. Šetû puts a gentle hand on their arm, shaking her head.

“Please,” she says. “Not here, Yusuf. Lord Sukuna is the one who rescued me. I’ve been staying in his shrine all winter. I thought…I thought I’d lost all of you.”

Yusuf seems poised to question her further, but he looks around, sees the curious eyes of these nosey townsfolk, and decides against it. He gives a shake of his head.

“I too have been sheltered for the winter,” he says. “I cannot come back with you to the shrine, but can we perhaps meet here in town?”

Šetû frowns. “What do you mean? Where have you been staying all season?”

Uraume narrows their eyes at Yusuf’s hesitation but says nothing.

“It’s difficult to explain,” Yusuf says instead. “Suffice it to say that I have gained a benefactor, and it would be in poor taste to abandon them, now. But…the spring festival is soon; will you be there?”

Šetû frowns in confusion. “Yes, granted Lord Sukuna permits me to go. He is concerned for my safety.”

Yusuf looks momentarily disgusted, but it passes.

“Very well,” he says. “I will see you at the festival, then.” He glances at Uraume, who stares at him impassively. “See to it that she remains safe.”

“That has never been a question,” Uraume says cooly. Šetû looks between them but shakes her head.

“The festival, then,” she says. “I will tell you everything. But for now, Uraume and I must return to the shrine. Lord Sukuna is due back soon and I still have duties of my own to fulfill.”

Yusuf frowns. “You’re working for that—” At Uraume’s withering stare he corrects himself. “You’re working for him?” He resumes in a whispering hiss.

Šetû’s brows raise. “Yusuf, it is why we were on the road to begin with. Even though tragedy befell us, Lord Sukuna still wanted to compensate me for services rendered. And so I have been his guest since that night.”

Yusuf frowns. “Has he…did he…hurt you?”

At that, Šetû stares at him, mouth agape before she closes it. A memory surfaces in her mind: firelight roving along her painted body, a large hand covering hers as she guides it downward toward her—

“No,” she says quickly. “He has been naught but the most gracious and magnanimous host, Yusuf. I would not have remained otherwise. Nor do I think I would have survived if he harbored ill intent toward me.”

Yusuf looks like he wants to say more but Uraume’s disparaging glare seems to stay his tongue. For now.

“Very well,” he says, but he does not sound satisfied with her answer. “I mislike you being at that place, but if you are safe, I will not gainsay it. If all goes well at the festival, we may have a way off this island.”

Šetû smiles, but there’s a sadness in her eyes Uraume notices.

They bid farewell, embracing one last time before parting ways. And on the ride back, Uraume is silent and thoughtful. Šetû chews her lower lip as they ride back to the shrine, passing through the forest where this entire nightmare began.

Back at the shrine, Šetû greets Oboro and Okoi, and she feels strangely at peace. Being in the town, seeing her brother, that had been an uncomfortable thing. Yet here, in Sukuna’s shrine, the familiar hum of his cursed energy soaking the place…it feels almost like—

“Welcome home, my lady,” Oboro says fondly. “I trust the excursion was a pleasant one?”

Šetû grins. “It was. Very nice to get out of the shrine for a day. And Uraume even bought cherries.”

Oboro eyes Šetû’s stained fingertips with a shrewd smile. “I see,” she chuckles. “Well, you’ll be pleased to know we’ve laundered your bedding and fixed that tear in your beautiful gown. Will you wear it for the spring festival?”

Šetû grins. “There’s an old adage: when in Rome, do as Romans do,” she says. “Is there…is there a way I could procure traditional garments of this country?”

Oboro’s eyes widen. “A kimono? You wish to wear a kimono for the festival?”

Okoi gives one of her gentle approving smiles, silent as always, yet saying more than words can encompass. Šetû nods, grinning. Oboro echoes her grin, clapping her hands together.

“Ah, how wonderful!” She cries and before Šetû can respond she is being ushered inside the shrine, toward her room.

“Lord Sukuna boasts an impressive collection of kimonos,” Oboro says as she observes Šetû in the mirror. “Mostly women’s.”

“Why women’s?” Šetû asks. “Was he married at one point?”

Oboro barks out an amused laugh. “Oh no, child. Lord Sukuna has never expressed interest in such a thing, but the cut of a woman’s kimono is more suited to his form. The sleeves give him room for all of his arms, you see.”

Šetû nods, understanding. It makes sense to her, and she’s sure he looks resplendent in them, if his usual garb is anything to go by.

“Would he mind, you think?” She asks. “Lending me one of his kimonos to wear, I mean.”

Oboro gets that sly look in her eye again and Šetû purses her lips.

“Oh, I’m sure Lord Sukuna would not mind at all, my lady,” Oboro says, sharing a grin with Okoi. “And I think I have just the one! Okoi, fetch it for us? We can adjust it if it needs resizing.”

Šetû watches as Okoi excuses herself.

“My brother Yusuf is alive,” she blurts out at Oboro who looks at her, startled.

“That’s good news, my lady!” She says. “Will he be joining you here?”

Šetû looks around, picks at the embroidery at the sleeves of her abaya.

“No,” she says quietly. “I do not think he finds it safe to come here, though he says he’s acquired a benefactor and that is how he survived the winter. He wants to talk more at the spring festival. He says he may have a way for us to…”

She hesitates.

Oboro’s smile is soft, the kindness almost too much for Šetû to bear.

“Do not worry,” Oboro says. “Whatever you and your brother decide, you are guests of Lord Sukuna, not prisoners. It has been an honor and privilege to have you here, Lady Asiri. Your gifts have brought a little more light to this place than we’ve seen in years. Even Lord Sukuna is…different.”

Šetû bites her lip, cheeks warming. Before she can respond, Okoi slides open the bedroom door, holding a folded garment in her weathered old hands. Oboro grins.

“Perfect! Come, Lady Asiri, let’s try it on. The festival is still a week or so away and we want to make sure it’s a good fit. Okoi, do we have any tabi or zori for her to wear with it? It wouldn’t do for her to display her naked feet.”

Šetû looks down at her bare feet. She had forgotten that custom. She’s so used to seeing Sukuna and Uraume barefoot and being barefoot herself. She supposes if she is to engage in the custom, she must do so all the way. She’s seen the tabi and zori before, but she herself has never worn them.

Oboro smirks.

“Don’t worry, my lady, we’ll have you looking proper by the time the festival comes. And Lord Sukuna will be pleased as he will be a guest of honor.”

Šetû smiles, reminded of the night she and Sukuna first met. She spreads her hands in welcome.

“Let’s get started.”

Sukuna has never been so glad to see the quiet countryside of his home in all his days. War is aggravating…and exhausting. Even Akechi is sick of it, and the bastard is mostly tolerant of anything, much like his master. That is to say nothing of the two prizes he’s collected, trailing on leads behind him, disgruntled and agitated.

Just like him.

It takes him less time to return than it did to head to the coast, and Sukuna lets himself breathe much, much easier when he feels the familiar currents of his own power curling over the hills and forests of Hida. Where he rides, people part ways for him, kneeling in deference, their eyes downcast, their bodies fragile and breakable. He ignores them, of course, having set his sights on home. He vanishes into the forest, and relief follows in the scant few who saw him.

Along the winding road leading to his shrine, Sukuna feels the tension in his back ease. He thinks of the hot spring, of Uraume’s cooking, and he lets Akechi take them the rest of the way.

He thinks of her, too.

He wonders how she’s fared this last week without him there, wonders if Uraume has kept up her training, if Oboro and Okoi have seen to her care. It is pleasant to imagine her being fussed over, soaking in the hot spring, indulging herself fully without him there to hinder her thoughts.

He nudges Akechi a bit faster when the torii gate comes into view, the sun already beginning to sink below its zenith. A late afternoon golden hour.

Home.

Sukuna doesn’t halt, heading straight away for the stables. The stable hand is already there, startling at the sight of two new mounts being brought in. Sukuna pats the black horse’s neck when he dismounts Akechi.

“This one is for Lady Asiri,” he tells the stable hand. “See it tended to and fit for riding. I’d see what such a beautiful creature can do when cared for properly.”

The stable hand bows low.

“As you wish, my lord.” He says in a quiet voice. Sukuna raises a brow. The boy usually never speaks, and up until now he’s thought him mute.

“What is your name?” He asks. The boy flinches.

“Ren, my lord,” he says quietly. Sukuna blinks.

“Huh.” He muses. “Would have taken you for a Jirō, but I suppose Ren is fine. See to it that this mount is prepared for Uraume’s use, and make sure to brush Akechi down. The bastard’s a little agitated being ridden so hard after the winter.”

He chuckles, not waiting for Ren to affirm the mandate and instead heading into the shrine proper.

“Welcome home, my lord,” Oboro greets him with a deep bow and Sukuna makes a grunting noise of approval, eyes roving.

“Where is Lady Asiri?” He asks and does not see Oboro’s subtle smile from her bowed position.

“I believe she is in the hot spring, my lord,” she says. “She and Uraume trained most of the day. I recommended she partake of the spring’s medicinal properties. Shall I fetch her for you, my lord?”

“No,” Sukuna says. “Leave her be, for now. I would have a meal prepared for us both. Inform Uraume.”

“At once, my lord,” Oboro breathes before she moves off toward the kitchens.

Sukuna heads to his bedchamber, and the quiet that greets him is soothing in a way. Here, in his inner sanctum, he can breathe deeply and feel completely unburdened. No one expects anything of him, and he has nowhere to be. He looks around, taking in the state of his quarters. The bed is made, and incense burns in the brazier, soaking it in the heady musk of sandalwood he enjoys so much. There’s a taste of cursed energy in the air.

Her.

The door to his engawa is open, and he can hear the soft swishing of water, and then soft laughter. His brow furrows as he makes his way to the open door. He can see the spring from where he stands: the moss-covered stones, the winding walkway, the low branches of a sakura tree still sprouting nascent, green buds.

And her.

Šetû is oblivious to him observing her as she luxuriates in the spring, sank up to her shoulders, a steaming cloth on her forehead to ease the tension in her.

And she’s singing.

Sukuna has heard her sing before: songs of exile and loss, songs of pain and fury, and hurt.

This song sounds like joy.

Again, she’s singing in her mother tongue, the one he cannot parse, but the meaning is felt in her tone, in the way her smile slips across her face in contentment as she tips her head back and lets her melody spiral into the dusky sky, twining with the steam curling over the surface of the water. Sukuna wants to strip down and join her, but as her song ends, he withdraws, sliding the engawa door shut quietly. He had told Oboro to leave her be, so he’ll not disturb her. Still, there is something unerringly pleasant about seeing her in a state of true joy. There were moments in the winter he was unsure he’d ever see light return to her eyes again.

He can still hear her humming as he scrubs himself down in the bath, drying off and dressing himself. It’s when he finishes tying the sash of his kimono that she comes into the bedchamber through the engawa door, wrapped in a linen yukata, her braids piled on top of her head.

She freezes when she sees him and for a moment they stare at one another. He sees her throat bob in a hard swallow before she drops to her knees and folds into a kneel.

“Lord Sukuna,” she manages to eke out. “I had no idea you’d returned. Welcome.”

Sukuna watches her a moment, silent and thoughtful.

“Get up, Asiri,” he says. “I told you, there are no formalities between us in here.”

He can almost feel the heat coming from her face as she climbs to her feet.

“Y-yes,” she stammers, fiddling with the sash of her yukata. “I remember. How was your journey?”

“Fruitful,” Sukuna replies laconically. “Have you eaten?”

Šetû shakes her head. “No, my lor—Sukuna. I have not.”

“Then we will take our supper together, and I will tell you all about my journey, and you can tell me about your own.”

Her eyes widen. “I haven’t gone anywhere, Sukuna.”

Sukuna stares at her, smirking. She sighs.

“Uraume and I went to town a few days ago,” she relents. “My brother Yusuf is alive.”

Sukuna’s eyes flare once, then harden to rubies as he watches her, peeling away the veneer of her sudden shyness to see what her intentions are. Yusuf, alive? So, the coward survives, does he? Then why has he not come to join his sister at the shrine? Where is he lurking? Sukuna runs these queries in his mind, mistrusting this convenience of fate.

“I see,” is all he says in response. “Will you be leaving with him, then?”

Šetû’s eyes widen. “What? No—I mean…I don’t know. He says he acquired a benefactor and that he may have a way to get us back to the mainland. I told him to wait until after the spring festival before we decide.”

Sukuna crosses his lower arms.

“And your mission?” He asks. This time, it is Šetû’s dark gaze that hardens, and Sukuna is reminded of obsidian, polished and luminous. Her face is carved for fury.

“Nothing has changed,” she says fiercely. “I meant what I said: I will not leave these shores ere my enemies are slain by my hand.”

“And who are these enemies, Asiri?” Sukuna asks. “I have sheltered you for months, yet you have not given me so much as a name. It had to have been someone at the harvest festival. And they were sorcerers, weren’t they?”

She looks away from him, hesitating and desperate to focus on anything else, but Sukuna closes the distance between them, reaches for her then stops himself. Never without her permission, he tells himself.

“Who did this to you?” He asks for the second time since they’ve met. His voice is quiet; the dangerous kind of quiet of a man who has decided on a killing. Šetû shudders, her eyes squeezing shut as she looks up at him.

She says nothing. Sukuna takes a deep breath, then exhales slowly.

“Fine,” he says. “But the day will come when I inevitably find out, Asiri. You will have to face this enemy eventually. I could prepare you better if I knew who you were facing.”

Šetû glares at him, but then he sees tears spring to her eyes. Fuck. She blinks rapidly, clearing them away.

“Just make sure I am strong enough to keep up with you,” she says to him quietly, her voice sad. “If I can keep up with you, I can kill the one who did this to me.”

Sukuna smirks. Aspirational, to be sure, but it is not what he wants from her. Still, he knows a losing battle when he sees one and relents.

“Come with me,” he says and Šetû blinks, but before she can ask, he’s already striding off, leaving the bedchamber. She trails behind him with quick steps trying to match his strides. Sukuna takes her outside, where the lanterns are already being lit for the evening. She’s barely had time to slip on her geta before she’s stumbling after him. Sukuna arrives at the stables.

“Ren!” He barks and there’s a sound of scrambling in one of the stalls as the stable hand scurries with alacrity to do his master’s bidding. Seeing Asiri beside him, fiddling with the twisted strap of her geta, he bows.

“My lord?” He ventures. Sukuna frowns.

“Bring the mount I told you to prepare,” he says. Ren glances from Sukuna to Asiri and then heads to one of the stalls. There’s a snort, a stamping of a hoof, before Ren leads the horse out. Šetû’s eyes go wide. She’s never seen such a horse in all her days. Sukuna watches her expression with his lower eyes.

“He’s yours,” he tells her. “You should probably name him. Something pretty, perhaps, to match his princess-like nature.”

Šetû smiles and bites her lip to contain what can only be described as a squeal of glee. She makes her way to the horse, approaching it with care. Sukuna watches as she reaches for it, letting its nose snuffle her palm before she strokes it tenderly between the eyes. The nervous energy of the horse calms almost immediately, while she coos and clucks her tongue, speaking to it as if it is a dear child and not a mount. Ren hands her the lead.

“He is so beautiful, Lord Sukuna,” Šetû breathes. “Ah, such a thing must have cost you dearly.”

Sukuna thinks of the bodies strewn on the beach, and the vengeful spirit he vanquished. He shrugs his shoulders.

“Nothing I couldn’t afford,” he says nonchalantly. “I take it you like him?”

“I love him!” Šetû blurts out, then claps a hand over her mouth, grinning sheepishly at Sukuna’s surprised expression.

“My apologies,” she says. “A bit excited. It’s been too long since I’ve been in a saddle.”

“Well,” Sukuna says gruffly. “Give him a name and take him for a ride, I suppose.”

Šetû smiles broadly, turning her attention back to the mount. For a while there is only silence as she strokes the horse’s brow with a tenderness that brings a small ache to Sukuna’s nerveless heartstrings. He wonders briefly what that touch might feel like on his skin.

“Ƙarfin Sarki,” Šetû says with a tone of finality. Sukuna blinks. Then, he mouths the words to himself. Ah, this must be a name in her own tongue for he can find no translation close to the words she’s spoken.

“What does it mean, my lady?” Ren asks, and Sukuna is thankful for the boy’s curiosity.

Šetû meets Sukuna’s gaze, her smile broad, eyes bright with something he doesn’t want to name.

“The King’s Strength.”

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