THINGS ARE ABOUT TO GET EPIC ⚔️
Shogun meets Game of Thrones in this action-packed retelling of an ancient Japanese samurai saga.
Sen Hoshiakari is an exiled prince of a clan that lost everything in his father’s failed rebellion. Deprived of his birthright, Sen is determined to restore his family’s lands and honour at any cost.
Rui is a peasant girl who saved Sen’s life on the night his family were put to the sword. But now, she is adrift and unsure of her place in the world, not knowing that the gods themselves have plans for her.
As civil war throws the empire into chaos, and demons seek vengeance on the living, Sen and Rui must fight for both their clan and their shared future…
Exclusively read chapter one of The Book of Fallen Leaves below:
Demons
Gyokuji Year 1
Era of the 78th emperor, Suji Ten’in
10th day of the first month
Winter
The man took too long to die.
He thrashed and screamed and trembled in the girl’s arms, and at the end, he begged for mercy, clutching at her with a wet, wavering voice, choking and full of fear. But he was just a priest. She was small, no more than a child, and the man was weak, and the knife was not too heavy.
When it was done, his lifeblood warm over her fingers, the girl crouched beside him, waiting for the last of his spirit to leave. The red spilled a darkening ochre into the dirt; she held his hand. “You don’t have to be afraid,” she said. “It will be over soon. You’ll be all right.”
When it was done, she let the body fall.
When it was done, she looked up, and slowly seemed to remember where she was. She peered into the night, the rotten fence, the winding line of cobblestones and weeds. She saw a clump of steps that crowded at the foot of a decrepit hut, dark and so ramshackle that a ghost could knock it down. There, the woman she called her sister stood waiting like a statue in white mourner’s robes, gazing up into a black and hooded sky. Two more dead monks lay in broken pieces at her feet.
“Sister.” The child went to her, hesitantly, and tapped a finger on the woman’s arm. “Look, sister,” she said, peering upward. “The gods are walking. Do you see?”
“Yes,” the woman said. Her face shone pale as alabaster, smooth as stone. “Yes.”
The rain had stopped long before the two figures had entered the courtyard, leaving the air wet and heavy. But when the dark-eyed woman in the long white mourner’s cloak stepped across the gate, a chill fell through the night and even the crickets stopped their clamor. The lack of a breeze and the oppressive feeling of the low clouds overhead filled the air with a cloying fullness, a kind of thick humidity that made it hard to move; it was as if the dark itself had weight. There were no stars.
Storms had come hard and fast, flooding the little courtyards of the decrepit shrine and the temple just beyond, but now, everything was still. The two figures walked past the gate, sandals squishing in the mud and between the sodden stepping-stones. The small temple lay before them, hardly more than a shack. A thin stream of smoke unfolded itself from an opening in the roof, and the crackle of a fire whispered faintly from within.
“We will stop here,” the woman said.
If not for the lines and the shadows under her eyes, she would have seemed almost young. But there were shadows, and there were lines. Criss-crossing a gentle face, the trace of a dozen written marks cut across her features as though she’d been splashed by ink. Words written onto skin, fine strokes almost too faint to see. When she stepped into the light, the writing vanished, leaving her skin unblemished. When she looked down, her face falling into shadow again, the letters reappeared, faint as they were, and hard to see in the darkness. She took the young girl’s hand.
The girl didn’t notice the marks. Or if she did, she didn’t mind them.
“Let us hurry,” the woman said, leading her toward the shack at the edge of the courtyard. “Before the rains return.”
Her voice was but a whisper, sibilant and thin; like the trickle of water on the shores of Onji River in the spring. Her eyes were polished stones, shining in dim cloudlight. She was tall, towering over the child, and her movements were gentle, but slow, careful as a tiger on the hunt. She seemed, with her steady gaze and calm, unnatural look, to be somehow disconnected from the earth.
By the time they reached the little temple, her face lay smooth and mournful again. The words, like spells, had disappeared. The girl shifted as they got close, listening to the sound of the fire inside. “Someone’s in there.” “Yes, child,” the woman said. “Come. He has been waiting for us. Though, perhaps, he does not know it.” The hut, a simple open space, had a shrine on peeling wood, a place for tea, a hearth, a dying fire: nothing more. There was barely any warmth. A young monk sat in meditation by the wall. In his third decade on this earth, he swayed, turning prayer beads with slim hands, counting each one, click, click, click. “Namu Ohirume Kotaijin,” he intoned.
A breeze swept past, the fire flickered, and in the space between one breath and the next, the woman was there. She stood as if she’d always been there, floating in the dark beside him. Finally, she sat. The prayer continued in silence. The incense burned. The woman said nothing, but in the end, he glanced up, his young face no more than twenty-two or three.
“Welcome, sister,” said the monk. The fire cast tremulous shadows over his features, black as lily seeds, then warm and orange in the glow. “The storm has not ended yet. I fear it will return soon, and you must be weary.”
“Thank you, young one.”
He tried a smile. “You are surprised. Am I so young on this earth, and yet remove myself from it already?”
“There are many children sent to temples in these days,” the woman said, settling beside him. “I know this. But you were not one. Your robes are new.”
“Observant.” He faced her now. “Have you come from the west? You must have seen my associates on the road. They left not an hour ago.”
“We did,” said the woman. “They offered prayers, directed us to this place, to pray before Ohirume . . . We sent them on their way.”
“Is that why you’re here?” he asked. “To pray? You may join me. I know I’m young, but I will aid in what I can. What troubles you?”
“On a night like this,” the woman said, “everything. Tell me, monk, do you believe in the cursed gods?”
He paused, considering. “There are many hungry spirits now,” he said at last, “searching for something to calm their wrath. Vengeful, bitter. Corrupted . . .”
The woman inclined her head. “Once, when I was young, I was sent to a temple in the northern islands, to the order of the sacred law. Just a child, alone. I was told to seek enlightenment. They said I was suffering.”
He held out his hands. “We all suffer, and we all have the elements of enlightenment inside us. Eventually, we may change.”
“Change,” mused the woman. “A funny word. Where were you, may I ask, in the recent wars?”
He grew still. “I was in the royal city.”
“You must have seen it, then. I saw many things myself. For a time, I too thought the Age of Plagues was upon us. I despaired. I fell ill. Then, one day, the wind changed. The tides were stayed. And when I woke, I could hear.”
“Hear what?”
“The other place.” She moved closer, reciting an ancient verse. “‘Waves, lapping onto the Awa shores, are still unchanged; while you are so very different than I remember.’” She gave the faintest sliver of a smile. “But such is life.”
“Do I know you?” the young monk asked.
“No,” she said. “But I know you. I have been with you every day of your life.”
He glanced at her, then away.
“I am troubled,” she said. “Such death and devastation in this world. War, rebellion, unrest. The clans and noble families. I fear the gods will punish us. I fear that I am . . . cursed.”
“The gods are kind,” he said. “They show compassion.”
“No,” she said. “It is for the gods that I am cursed. I seek to end it.”
The spellwork writing became visible on her face as she lingered at the edge of the hearthlight. “You see,” she said, “I am their messenger.”
He blinked. “Who are you?”
“A ghost,” she said. “Like you. Remaining, and yet changed. I am brought unto this world at the will of the gods. I am their servant. Their . . . voice. I am here in search of sinners. There are so many on this road to hell . . . so many who wander the wastes of the world. And so must I wander, until I fulfil my purpose and bring their souls to justice. You see . . . then will my curse be ended, and I will become one of them.”
“One of who?”
“The gods.” She leaned forward, letting the light of the dim fire spill across her eyes. “They brought me back for a reason. I know, now, what that reason is.”
He tried to move, found himself pressed upon the opposite wall. The fire burned dim in the hearth. Each time she left a flicker of light, the strange, dark writing returned. “I am but a mirror,” she said. “A servant who walks the earth to correct a great and terrible wrong. The gods ask me, even now: Deliver us, they say. Deliver our divine punishment for the sins of the three.”
His breath caught at the words. “You need to leave.”
“I cannot, young prince. Not until my work is finished.”
“I’m not a prince.”
“But you are,” she said. “You are.”
“I have renounced that way.” He trembled. “I am a monk of the sacred law. My name is Joren . . .”
“You are a son of the Keishi line.” She blocked him every time he tried to move. “You have blood on your hands the same as your father. You know this, Shigemune. You know it in your heart.”
“I’m not that man anymore. I left that behind . . .”
“You cannot leave it behind,” she said. “The gods are watching.”
“Why are you here?”
“Because of you, my prince. ‘Three will die.’ You know these words.”
“Get out.”
“Three will die,” she said again. “Gensei. Keishi. Ten’in. Three great families to which I am bound. I must reclaim their children. You see? A child, for a child.”
His eyes widened. “You’re a demon.”
“There are many demons in the world now,” she said, “and all have suffered. Tell me about the Gensei family.”
He tried to rise. She caught him in her gaze and laid a hand on the wooden table. Her eyes glinted like broken pearls, reflecting light.
“I . . . told them not to,” he whispered, as though under a spell. “I knew it would lead to nothing but death . . .”
“Which you took part in.”
He said, “I have no illusions about what I’ve been a part of. Now I dedicate my life to something better . . .”
“Better?” She gestured at the small shrine room, the decrepit hut. “Yes. Maybe this is better.”
“The gods will forgive me,” he stammered. “I am their servant . . .”
“As am I,” she said.
He paled at that, said nothing. Outside, the wind howled. “I don’t have much,” he said at last, “but, if you would have it, I can offer you some food. Then I would ask you to go.”
She smiled again, as if amused. But her eyes were dead. “The fighting will be over soon. Even now, your father is out hunting traitors . . . while you sit here in the rain. Soon the Gensei clanline will be broken. Their leader, Katsusada, will never be forgiven for insulting your father. He will be found. He will be killed.”
“Why are you here?” He was shaking now, unable to move.
The woman withdrew the small sword she kept tucked into her belt. The scabbard gleamed, inky black and lacquered, with reflections of the hearth. She set it on the maggot-eaten wood. “When Katsusada rebelled against the Ten’in emperor, he left two heirs behind,” she said. “Your father has decided to spare them.”
“He left one heir behind. Kai Gekko’in is a child . . . She caused none of this. She’ll be a ward, she’ll grow up under my father’s control.”
“It won’t help you if you lie,” the woman said.
The monk stirred, taken aback. “What?”
“There is another heir. His name . . . is Sen. And you know where he is.”
“No . . .”
“You know where they’ve hidden him away. You helped them.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you don’t like what your father Lord Keishi is doing.
You think his ambition has gone too far. You think he deals with gods beyond his control. So, you turn. You think, something must be done . . . Tell me, where is Sen of the Gensei family?”
“. . . I can’t,” he said.
“You must.”
He shook under the flat glare of her eyeshine. The writing on her skin began to change, glimmering: “Speak,” she said. He choked. Words gasped themselves out of his throat. “I heard only whispers. But . . . he is an infant. He will never come back . . .”
“Tell me where, prince.”
“He is protected. Your magic cannot harm him.”
“Where?”
His hands shook as he clutched his prayer beads. His breath shuddered, and when he spoke, it was as though against his own will:
“East.”
The woman made a slicing movement, like a blade across his heart. He jerked, pale, gasping. “Take the sword,” she whispered. “Take it.”
So he did.
Suddenly, drawing a vicious hate from within himself, he slashed at her, but he was clumsy with fear, and only the tip of the sword caught her across the jaw.
The moment it did, he fell back, clutching his own jaw with a hiss of pain. The sword went clattering to the wood. His fingers were covered in blood. The moment he struck, his own jaw was sliced open, as if an invisible knife had cut the skin, exactly where he tried cutting her.
The woman, on the other hand, remained untouched. The spellwork marks that crossed her features shifted into different words. Then faded.
He held his face, blood already seeping through his fingers. “What are you?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “When you look at me, what do you see?”
“I see a monster—”
“A monster?” she echoed. “Maybe. Yes. Maybe.”
“The gods will strike you down,” he said, shuddering. “And you will die. Your body will burn.”
“Burn?” She repeated him again. “No. I don’t think so . . . but, in truth, only time will tell. I don’t know what will happen to this body. Maybe it will burn, as you say. Maybe. Either way, what does it matter? One day it will die, as all things die. Then I will return and find another. Such is the way of things. Now take the sword.”
“I will not . . .”
“You must take it.”
Under the power of her words, he reached for the sword again. His hand moved as if on its own; he gasped, his arm following her command, shaking and convulsing as he tried to stop it, but he couldn’t, he continued. She whispered:
“Do it.”
He impaled himself in the abdomen, slicing through his own belly, then up toward the heart.
“This is what you want,” she said. “Accept it. This is what you want. This is how you end your disgrace . . .”
He made a heavy, choking sound, drowning in his own blood.
“Higher,” she said. The hissing of her voice hung in the air. He tried to say no again, but his arms obeyed, pulling the blade up, and with a thick, wet gasp, he cut through his own ribcage, fat and tissue, organ, bone. His body trembled. His hands shoved higher yet again, forced by her spell. Blood bubbled through his lips. He continued until there was a final shudder, and the sword in his hand reached his heart, and he stopped. Viscera pooled in an ocean before him.
“Thank you, prince,” she said. “As you see, I am a mirror. You wanted to die, for the guilt, deep down . . . and so, you did. Such is the will of the gods.”
She wiped her hands on her white robe. He fell forward. His intestines, or what remained of them, spilled out over his legs; his ribcage, sawn almost in half, opened awkwardly as it landed on the floor. The sword remained where it was, where she’d made him bring it into himself, jutting from the gory blossom of his bones, and organs, and his heart.
Quietly, she stood, and turned from the folded body on the oak. The floor and the hempen mats were a mosaic now, red and white and brown. She drew her sword from the mess, began to clean it with a cloth, before sheathing it again. “Not yet,” she whispered. Then a second time in the stillness, “No, not yet.”
A wash of embers and bright ashes from the hearth had spilled onto the wooden floor, but she ignored them. She crossed instead toward the thin sliding doors, and when she stepped outside, she found the child waiting for her on the steps. “Come, child,” she said. “It’s time to go.” They left behind them four dead bodies and a burning shack that no one would remember. Already the flames had started to take hold, growing hotter as the child followed her into the dark.
“Sister, look,” the girl said, nodding toward the shadow of the mountains. An immense shape lingered there, high above them, moving slowly. A giant. “Gods.”
“Yes,” she said. “The pilgrims.”
Above them, great shadows churned and shifted in the sky, elemental shapes in human form, but skeletal, made of a darkness thicker than smoke and far off as the moon. Huge, they lingered, so huge it seemed they might reach out, carve the entire mountainside away in one soft scoop of bone and shadow. As the white-clad woman tightened her black cloak, and took the girl’s hand, the giants vanished, floating through the edge of the horizon and merging with the night itself.
“They come when there is blood now,” the woman said. “Soon, perhaps, they will return into their world, and ours will have some peace.”
When they had passed the gate and found the road again, the girl tugged at the woman’s hand. “Sister,” she said, “I can’t remember anything. About before.”
“I understand, child. It’s all right.”
“How come?”
“You have been harmed by great evil, child. Your spirit is hurting. Are you scared?”
The girl shook her head. “I just want to remember.”
“That may come, in time,” the woman said. “Until then, we must continue on our path. But remember, this is all for you, child. You must remember that. Everything that happens now, it will all be done for you. Now come.”
The temple burned behind them, slowly at first, but then with a surge and a great sheet of flame that consumed the right-hand wall and showed no sign it would abate. The cobbles glinted bright as tiny mirrors in the rain.
The girl spoke. “Sister, you said you’d tell me why so many people have to die.”
“I will,” the woman said, “but it’s a story that will take some time to tell.”
“Sister,” the girl asked again, “where are we going?”
The temple burned, flames rising to the black of night, and as they left, the roof began to collapse. A stream of life-streaked embers shot into the sky and the darkness came again. The woman watched, for just a moment. Then she led the girl down the road.
“To end a war, my dear,” she said. “To end a war.”