Winter Winds

Sengoku Period, Japan — 

The pale blue sky stretched endlessly above the Moritame mansion, its stillness broken only by the occasional whisper of winter wind. A crisp, biting breeze swept through the sandy courtyard, carrying with it the scent of frosted earth and aged timber. Sugi stood beside the small pond, its surface laced with delicate veins of ice — nature’s fragile artistry. Nearby, a solitary cherry tree stood barren, its skeletal branches trembling in the cold. Yet, despite the season’s harsh touch, a group of sparrows clung to the tree, their tiny bodies fluffed against the chill as they basked in the fleeting warmth of the winter sun.

Sugi had one hand resting on the hilt of his katana, eyes closed as he savored the crisp winter air — until a sudden, brutal shove sent him pitching forward. His eyes flew open just as his katana clattered to the stones. Then the world upended. Icy water enveloped him, shocking the breath from his lungs. The freezing cold seized his body like an eagle’s talons.

Above him, laughter erupted. His older brother, Kujou, postured at the water’s edge with a smirk, while his sycophantic companions clustered behind him, snickering. “Tsk, tsk, little brother,” Kujou drawled, oozing mockery. “You’re not supposed to swim in the koi pond.”

Sugi ignored them and lunged for dry land, fingers scrabbling at the frozen rocks, only for a boot to plant itself on his chest and shove. The water swallowed him again, his gasp lost beneath the boys’ howling mirth as they doubled over, pointing at his humiliation.

Sugi clenched his jaw and continued tuning out their jeers. He dragged himself onto the bank, soaking wet and shivering violently. His fingers, numb and stiff, barely cooperated as he forced himself to his feet.

Desperate for warmth, he sprinted across the courtyard, his sandals slipping on frost-slick earth. Dashing inside the mansion, he slid the door shut behind him.

…

Having retreated to the comfort of his bedroom, Sugi lay curled in a thick futon. Dim, amber light flickered from a lone andon lamp, casting shadows across the tatami floor. A small ceramic brazier smoldered nearby, but its feeble warmth hardly reached him. The cold still gnawed at his bones.

Sugi’s mother gently opened the door and shuffled inside. Her eyes scanned him over, checking for any real harm. “This has gone too far,” she said as she knelt beside him. Worry creased the lines of her face. “I need to speak with your father.”

“Please don’t,” Sugi said, sniffling. “If it becomes an open conflict, Father will side with Kujou.”

His mother pursed her lips, the way she always did when biting back words. A tear escaped despite herself, splashing onto her plum-colored robes. “I just wish…” she began, then shook her head.

A pang of frustration rose in Sugi’s chest — not at his own plight, but at the sight of his mother’s distress. He knew there was no use protesting, no way to change things. After a quiet breath, he reached out and gently took her hands in his, his thumbs brushing over her knuckles. “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s just teasing. It doesn’t bother me.”

Just then, the paper shoji door slid open once more, revealing a little girl in a pink kimono, carefully balancing a tea tray. “I brought the tea,” she said, her knuckles white from gripping the lacquered wood.

Sugi’s mother blinked away the last of her tears and accepted the tray with both hands. “Thank you, Yuuki. Well done,” she said. Yuuki’s mother was his father’s third wife, but in this house of stern traditions and sharp tongues, Yuuki’s kindness was welcome company.

His mother poured the tea and pressed the ceramic cup into Sugi’s palms. The first sip burned pleasantly, spreading heat through his stiff fingers and down his throat. He glanced over the rim to find Yuuki kneeling beside his futon, her eyebrows furrowed with worry. For some reason, the sight caused him to chuckle. “I’m fine, Yuuki,” he said, flashing her a relaxed smile.

“You’re not going to die?” she asked with the grave concern only a seven-year-old could muster.

Sugi chuckled once more. “No, I’m not going to die,” he shook his head. “Not until you beat me at kemari! And right now, you kick like a startled rabbit.” He stuck his tongue out at her.

She giggled, though her eyes stayed serious — that same quiet watchfulness he remembered wearing at her age.

The shoji door slid open again, this time with a confident thunk. A broad-shouldered silhouette filled the doorway, backlit by the courtyard’s winter light.

“Defeated by a koi pond,” boomed Uncle Yashiro, his voice rich with amusement. He strode in, the scent of pine resin and steel clinging to his military robes. “Truly, the ancestors weep for our clan’s future.”

Sugi snorted. “Says the man who tripped over his own sword at last year’s harvest festival.”

Yashiro laughed. “A tactical stumble! I distracted the crowd so the dancers could shine.”

Yuuki hid a smile behind her sleeve as Sugi rolled his eyes. “I appreciate you checking on me,” he said to his uncle. “As you can see, I’m quite alright.”

“As expected of a young samurai,” Yashiro said, then fixed him with a flat stare. “But you left this by the pond.” He held up Sugi’s katana, causing him to wince. To be separated from their sword was a rookie mistake for samurai. And this was the blade gifted to him by his father, decorated with azure dragons and golden clouds.

Placing the katana next to his futon, Yashiro shook his head with exaggerated dismay. “You must have grown negligent in your training,” he said. “Join me in the dojo tomorrow. I’ll teach you how to maintain some dignity as a samurai.”

As his uncle turned to leave, Sugi caught the gleam of a wrapped honey candy dropped discreetly next to Yuuki’s sleeve — the same treat Yashiro used to smuggle to him in his childhood. He watched as the girl’s eyes widened, before she quickly swiped the candy and stowed it away.

Sugi smiled. In this moment, he was reminded of why he put up with his brother’s antics.

…

As winter’s grip tightened outside, Akatsuki-ya tavern blazed like a beacon in the darkened district. Thick wooden beams, blackened by years of smoke, arched overhead, while the scent of roasting fish and millet wine clung to the humid air. Kujou and his pack lounged near the hearth, their table littered with empty flasks, while harried servers wove between the crowds, carrying trays of steaming nabemono and bottles of cheap, pungent sake.

One of Kujou’s retainers, a pockmarked man named Gensuke, slammed his cup down, sloshing sake onto the scarred table. “I swear on my sword,” he slurred, jabbing a chopstick toward the ceiling, “that courtesan last week was the most beautiful girl in the world. She had skin like snow. Even Lady Hiki, as pretty as she is, couldn’t match her.”

“Ugh,” groaned the youngest of their group, a lanky recruit with patchy stubble. He threw his hands up. “Why does Lord Hosokawa get a dozen concubines while I can’t even get a widow to glance my way?”

Kujou’s hand connected with the fool’s shoulder. It was half a clap and half a warning. “Shut your drunken mouth,” he hissed, though his breath reeked of fermented rice and a belch escaped his throat. “The Lord is a thousand times the man you’ll ever be. He could slice off your limbs with a kitchen knife.”

The recruit forced a laugh. “Y-yeah, obviously. I was just… just saying.”

Kujou snorted and signaled for more sake. Outside, the wind screamed through the streets, but here, within the walls of the tavern, the cold was just another story to drown.

…

The moon had long since vanished behind a shroud of clouds when Kujou staggered from the tavern, his breath curling in thick, liquor-laced plumes. The dirt road, icy and muddy, squelched underfoot as he trudged back to the Moritame mansion.

The path took him along the outer wall of the Lord’s palace, its plastered surface gleaming faintly in the gloom. Just beyond it lay the onna-goten — the women’s quarters. The image of that courtesan flickered in his alcohol-addled mind: Skin like snow. The words swirled on his tongue. His gut twisted with envy.

“Damn that recruit,” he muttered, kicking a pebble. “The bastard wasn’t wrong. Why should the lord get all the beautiful women?” His fists clenched. “When I’m the head of clan, I’ll take what I–“

A rustling above cut him off.

His gaze drifted upward, spotting the jagged silhouette of a gnarled pine tree. One ancient limb stretched over the wall like an accomplice, its needles whispering in the night wind.

Kujou’s groin stirred, and his lips twisted into a devious grin.

…

Sugi had fallen asleep early, his body still aching from the pond’s icy embrace. When his eyes snapped open to darkness, he knew this was no ordinary waking.

Muffled shouts reached his ears – sharp voices cutting through the paper-thin walls. Heart pounding, he crept to the shoji doors and eased it open a crack, just enough to peer through.

Below, in the moon-washed courtyard, the scene froze his blood. His father stood like a statue, and Uncle Yashiro a tense silhouette at his shoulder. Before them, three imperial officials in black kamishimo loomed like crows, their oiled topknots glinting in the silver light. The lead official extended a scroll with a broken wax seal.

Even from this distance, Sugi saw his father’s jaw tighten before giving a single, fateful nod.

Sugi watched as his father and uncle mounted their horses. Flanked by the imperial officials, they rode off into the night.

A familiar dread coiled in Sugi’s gut. He didn’t know why they had been summoned, but whatever business brought imperial envoys under cover of darkness couldn’t be good.

…

The echo of horse hooves marked their passage through the sleeping city. Sugi’s father sat rigid in his saddle, his uncle’s knuckles bone-white on the reins. Not a word passed between them as they approached their destination — the Imperial Castle.

…

Hours later, the first light of dawn bled weakly through the clouds. The Imperial Castle was cast in a pallid haze. Snowflakes began to spiral down like ash. Some settled on the still-warm body of Sugi’s father, some dissolving into the dark pool of blood beneath him.

Nearby, two other bodies lay shrouded under coarse mats: Kujou and the courtesan, their blood still glistening where it had frozen on the execution platform. Their crime, defiling the Lord’s private quarters, had been repaid with a single stroke each.

Uncle Yashiro knelt in the crimson-stained snow, his body wracked with shivers that had nothing to do with the cold. His breath came in ragged, uneven gasps. Despite the freezing wind, sweat beaded along his hairline, trailing down his neck like guilty tears.

Before him, Lord Hosokawa loomed, his shadow stretching like a black blade over the frost. The lord’s voice cut through the dawn’s stillness. “Your brother has restored his honor with his death. However, this treason stains the whole Moritame clan.” He extended a katana, its edge gleaming in the faint light. “Purge his lineage. Only then will the Moritame name be clean again.”

Yashiro’s hands trembled — not from cold, but from the weight of the command. His gaze flickered to his brother’s lifeless body, then to the distant horizon where the Moritame clan slept, unknowing. 

A heartbeat passed. The wind howled.

Slowly… Yashiro bowed, pressing his forehead into the snow. “As my Lord wills,” he said, jaw clenched tight.

…

A half-day’s ride from the Imperial Castle, the Moritame mansion lay eerily quiet. The sky grayed with winter clouds. Snow fell heavily to the earth. Only the occasional howl of wind broke the silence – a hollow sound that raised the hairs on Sugi’s neck.

Though exhaustion clung to his bones, sleep had abandoned him after last night’s ominous visitation. Now he simply stared at the ceiling, watching his breath curl in the cold air, clinging to the fading warmth of his futon.

A scream tore through the morning stillness, raw and terrified.

Sugi jerked up, eyes wide. He rushed to his feet, heart hammering against his ribs. Grabbing his katana, he threw open the doors to the courtyard, and the sight before him punched the air from his lungs.

Yuuki ran through the courtyard, her small frame wracked with sobs, her bare feet sinking into the snow. Crimson splotches stained the sleeves of her kimono. Her face, streaked with tears, turned toward him.

“Nii-sama—!”

Sugi didn’t remember moving. He dashed into the storm, the frigid winds stinging his skin. Yuuki crashed into him, her tiny hands fisting in his robe, her entire body trembling. She tried to speak, but only sobs and gasps escaped her lips.

A shadow moved at the edge of Sugi’s vision.

Uncle Yashiro stepped forward, his face obscured by the deep brim of his bamboo hat. Snowflakes dusted his shoulders like a funeral shroud. In his grip, a katana gleamed, its tip dripping a steady rhythm of crimson onto the white ground.

Sugi narrowed his eyes, his arm tightening around Yuuki.

“What happened?” he asked his uncle, his voice cutting through the wind.

Yashiro’s knuckles whitened around his bloodied katana. “Your brother was caught in the ladies’ quarters. With the Lord’s favorite concubine.”

A gust of snow swirled between them. Sugi’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Father is dead,” he said, more a statement than a question.

“He has restored his honor,” Yashiro replied. The unspoken truth hung in the air… seppuku.

A lump formed in Sugi’s throat, his heart beating like a drum. He swallowed, forcing the words out. “My mother?” he asked.

The world seemed to still. Snowflakes hung suspended in the air. The wind’s mournful howl cut to silence. Even the distant crows quieted their cries, as if nature itself feared the answer.

“I must restore the clan’s honor,” came Yashiro’s reply.

Sugi didn’t need to ask for confirmation. Tears welled up in his eyes, carving hot paths down his frozen cheeks. But even so, his hand found the hilt of his katana. The lacquered wood bit into his palm as his fingers closed around it, but his arm was steady as he drew the blade.

“I understand your duty,” he said. Steel whispered in the wind as he leveled the blade at his uncle. “But you will not touch this child.”

Sugi stepped forward, placing himself between his uncle and Yuuki. His stance wide, his blade poised, his eyes burning with resolve. He had drawn his line in the snow.

Steel flashed in the pale light.

Yashiro moved first — a veteran’s strike, precise and merciless. Sugi barely moved his blade in time. Steel shrieked against steel, the impact shuddering up his arms as snow erupted around them in a stinging cloud.

The storm, which had held its breath, roared back to life. Wind howled through the courtyard, hurling ice like shards of glass. With the weight of Yuuki’s sobs pressing on his back, Sugi’s world narrowed to the opponent before him.

Their katana met again — high, low, a whirlwind of flashing steel. Sparks sprayed into the gale, vanishing like dying stars. Yashiro’s overhead cut grazed Sugi’s shoulder, painting his sleeve red.

But Sugi pivoted, his sandals digging into the frozen earth. He used Yashiro’s momentum against him, letting the wind guide his counter.

A twist.

A lunge.

His blade parted flesh.

Yashiro staggered back, his knees buckling as he clutched the gash across his gut. Blood seeped through his fingers, steaming in the cold. 

Yashiro fell to his knees, his bamboo hat tumbling away. He drew in breaths, each more ragged than the last. The wind tore at his unbound hair, whipping the gray strands across his pale face.

But his eyes… his eyes.

They burned with the same quiet fire that had guided Sugi through endless drills in the dojo. The same crinkled warmth that had greeted him after every failure, every triumph. The love that had never required speeches, because it lived in the calloused hands that bandaged his wounds and the broad back that shielded him from the world’s cruelties.

“Well done… my disciple,” Yashiro rasped. Blood flecked his lips as he spoke, each word dragged from some deep, failing well of strength.. “After all these years… I am glad…” A shuddering cough wracked his frame. “…to see the man you’ve become.” His face beamed with a pure, prideful smile.

With fingers that barely obeyed him, Yashiro fumbled at his bloodied sleeve. Something golden tumbled into his palm — a single honey candy, its paper wrapper smeared red. The last of his secret stash, saved for moments when life demanded sweetness.

Sugi’s vision blurred as he choked back tears. He wanted to scream. To fall to his knees beside the man who had been more father than uncle. But the wind carried new sounds now — the distant bark of orders, the clatter of armored feet on stone. The envoys were coming.

He turned away. He snatched Yuuki into his arms, her tiny “Nii-san!” buried in his chest. And he fled into the storm, vanishing into the white.