Please enjoy this sample of the upcoming new MM Romantic Fantasy, Yoshi.
Chapter 1: Yoshi
I stood there, my shoulders soaked and hair plastered against my forehead, trying to steady my breathing. My knuckles were white around the hilt of my blade.
There was no time to cower beneath the weight of the oncoming storm.
Kaneko towered before me, calmly assessing my stance. His hair whipped in the wind, and with his ridiculously chiseled jaw and muscular frame, he looked god-kissed. I would forever be jealous of his stature, especially when compared to my scrawny arms and pitiful chest.
Kaneko raised his bokken and launched himself forward, forcing me to the edge of the dock, beyond which the sea frothed and raged.
The world trembled beneath my feet as thunder—no longer distant—battered the skies.
Lightning streaked against blackness, illuminating the jagged coastline in quick, blinding flashes, while gusts yanked at my hair, unfurling my topknot.
Then the rain came.
It fell in sheets so densely I could scarcely see to the beginning of the dock where land met wood. Even so, neither the raging storm nor the echoes of my own misgivings could keep us from our training. Why my uncle insisted we spar on ever-bobbing planks was a mystery.
Why we remained while a gods-damned storm closed in was even more of one.
Uncle Takeo stood further down the dock, his powerful form braced against the wind. He wore a straw hat strapped tightly about his chin to shield his face, but the elements still battered him from all sides. His ever-present armor resisted the rain, though I knew he had to be soaked to his skin beneath. The faintest of smiles curled his lips.
He’s enjoying himself, I thought. Who enjoys taking a beating from both an opponent and the gods?
Ignoring the infuriating man, I focused on Kaneko.
He wasn’t smiling. He looked utterly composed.
The same storm that made me tremble seemed to invigorate him.
“Oni’s teeth!” I cursed under my breath, shivering as the cold seeped into my blood.
Kaneko’s grin widened.
“Come on,” he growled, raising his blade until its tip pointed at my chest. The wind tossed his words, but I heard the challenge as if it were a bell tolling. “The future Daimyo shouldn’t be so easy to defeat.”
Annoyance flared inside me, scorching the chill from the rain. “You—”
My breath caught as a gust of wind lashed my face with a cold spray.
Anger battled the bite of the storm, and I realized I was trembling—whether from fury or chill, I couldn’t say.
“It is no insult, Yoshi.” Kaneko stepped back, giving me room to retreat from the edge. His strokes were precise, each footstep calculated. “It is encouragement.”
His smirk belied his words. His wink . . . damn him and his wink.
I lunged without thinking, letting my temper guide my movement. My bokken whistled through the air, but Kaneko parried it with ease.
The crack of wood against wood was swallowed by another thunderclap.
We exchanged blows, each faster and louder than the last.
Neither of us gained ground as my anger fueled the flurry.
I stepped in, determined to close the gap and throw him off balance, but my left foot slid on the rain-slick planks, and I barely managed to right myself in time to deflect his counterstrike.
Lightning flared again, painting Kaneko’s features in harsh white light.
That smirk tugged at his mouth again.
He knew I’d charge in anger; he knew exactly how to provoke me.
“Yoshi-san”—Uncle’s voice cut through the gale—“do not let frustration control your hand. Balance. Always balance.”
I wanted to yell back, to blame the storm or Kaneko or a hundred other things, but I knew better. In these moments, with my heart pounding and my pride on the line, I could hear my uncle’s patient instruction from years ago.
“Plant your feet, Yoshi. Feel the earth beneath you, the world around you. Let your body find its center.”
So I tried.
I forced myself to breathe, to spread my stance, to ignore the sting of salt and wind and rain.
Kaneko didn’t wait for me to find balance.
He rushed forward, delivering a quick series of strikes aimed at my arms and torso. I blocked with desperate speed, each impact jarring my elbows, wrists, and shoulders.
His final strike knocked my bokken wide, and it skidded across the sodden dock.
Before I could recover, he clacked the end of his sword against my side—lightly, but enough to mark a winning blow and likely leave an angry welt.
Frustration felt like a physical weight.
“Your eyes betray you,” Kaneko said in a quiet tone. Beneath the pelting rain, it felt strangely intimate, as if we were alone in a world of storms. He reached down, retrieved my bokken, extending it hilt first, then whispered, “They show your anger. You telegraph every move.”
He lowered his weapon and stepped back, offering me a respectful nod.
“Again,” Takeo barked.
I exhaled slowly, then lifted my bokken, ignoring the throbbing in my arms and side and, damn it, everywhere else.
Kaneko was right.
If I couldn’t master my emotions, if I couldn’t think several moves ahead, I would remain an easy target.
Some future Daimyo indeed.
My heart twisted at the thought.
How many times had I questioned whether I was truly worthy of that title?
Worthy to rule?
The wind lashed like a whip, nearly knocking me off balance. Rivulets of rainwater raced across the planks, swirling into the sea. In the distance, beyond my uncle’s silhouette, I glimpsed waves cresting in white, hungry foam, smashing against the wooden stilts that supported the pier. The entire city beyond was dark and hazy.
“Focus!” Takeo’s command cut through the roar.
I planted my stance anew, then lifted my bokken and advanced.
The water beneath my feet made each step treacherous. I feinted toward Kaneko’s shoulder, then shifted my weight, aiming for a low sweep instead.
He caught the ruse at the last second, pivoting gracefully.
I pressed on, spinning and feigning a blow to his hip, only to switch direction mid-strike, shifting all my force into an upward slash.
This time, Kaneko had to hop back, water sloshing around his ankles.
I heard a grunt of approval from Takeo.
My final lunge left my right foot braced near the dock’s edge. With the boards slick from rain and sea spray, my foot slipped completely.
Time seemed to slow.
My balance vanished.
One instant, I was engaged in a flurry of strikes, adrenaline coursing through my veins; the next, I was teetering backward over the edge of the dock, arms pinwheeling in the air.
My stomach lurched.
The ocean below yawned like a hungry beast, waves rising in frothing crests.
My bokken clattered to the boards as I braced for the plunge.
Rain showered my face, and the surge of a mountainous wave roared toward me.
“Yoshi!” Kaneko’s voice sang above the thunder.
He moved faster than I could react.
As frigid wind slapped my back, powerful hands clamped around my arm, Kaneko catching me by my forearm. My momentum nearly pulled him off balance, but he held true, his muscles straining as he hauled me onto the dock. My feet found purchase on the slick wood, and I stumbled into him, my chest heaving.
My heart pounded so violently I thought it might burst.
Standing there, pressed against Kaneko, the two of us sucking in breath beneath the deluge, everything else faded.
The storm’s rage dimmed in my ears.
I was suddenly aware of Kaneko’s hand wrapped around my arm, warm, even through the soaking wet fabric. I felt the rise and fall of his heavy breaths, the beating of his heart in time with the racing of my own. His breath, rapid bursts, was hot against my face.
Lightning flashed, and in that slice of brilliance, our eyes met.
My pulse thundered anew, and a strange warmth bloomed in my chest.
“I’ve got you,” Kaneko said, but his voice sounded different now, thick as syrup. I’d recovered my balance, yet his grasp lingered, his gaze deepened. For the briefest moment, I thought his breath caught, too.
I swallowed hard and looked away, managing only one word, “Thanks.”
He let go and stepped back.
I felt the coolness of the rain again, the distant crash of waves returning, as the world sped back into focus. Heat rose in my cheeks, and I prayed that the storm would hide the blush creeping across them.
Takeo cleared his throat, startling me from the moment. “Stance! Go again!”
Kaneko and I sprang apart as if jolted by a lightning strike. I brushed droplets from my bokken’s wooden surface, though they were quickly replaced by more.
Above us, thunder rumbled again.
Is training out here in this mess really that important? I wondered.
Takeo answered as if reading my thoughts. “If you wait for fair weather, you will never be prepared for the storms of life. Every warrior must learn to fight whenever an enemy calls.”
Kaneko and I shared a look, neither of us quite willing to challenge the Chief Samurai of our han, uncle or not.
I braced myself again, shifting my stance.
“All right,” I said, mustering the last of my courage and smirking at Kaneko with what little confidence remained. “Ladies first.”
His lips curled, and lightning flashed in his eyes.
This time, there was more caution in our steps as we circled the dock. The ferocity in Kaneko’s strikes remained, but I saw now a guarded concern in his eyes.
That made me more uncomfortable than the pelting rain.
Does he think me fragile, too prone to slipping, too weak to face him?
I set my jaw and met his blows with newfound fervor, moving in careful arcs. For the first time that day, I sensed a rhythm in our sparring. Thunder became our drumbeat, lightning our signals to strike or parry.
“Excellent, Yoshi. Your breathing is more controlled,” Takeo barked. “Kaneko, stop holding back! You do Yoshi no favors if you coddle him.”
A ghost of a smirk appeared on Kaneko’s lips. “I wasn’t holding back.”
Moon-blighted liar!
I pressed my advantage, using a shift of my hips to direct a blow toward his shoulder. He parried, and our weapons locked for an instant. Up close, I noticed the intensity in his dark eyes, the way his jaw clenched with the effort. For all his composure, he, too, was testing his limits in this storm.
We broke apart, only to re-engage a heartbeat later.
The wind gusted, swirling around us like an angry spirit, snatching at our keikogi. My uncle’s instructions echoed through my head—breathe, strike, evade, counter.
Finally, Takeo clapped his hands, his deep rumble almost lost in the gale. “Enough! If we keep this up, one of you will drown.”
I sighed in relief.
My arms trembled from exertion and the cold.
My teeth threatened to chatter.
Kaneko nodded, lowering his bokken, his breaths shallow and quick, then offered a curt bow and stepped back.
Takeo stepped away, scanning the storm-racked ocean, as the pier groaned beneath our combined weight. Wave after wave pounded its supports.
“In all my life,” Uncle murmured. “I have seen precious few storms like this at the start of spring. It feels as if the very seas are angry at us.”
Kaneko stepped up beside him, drawn to the dark horizon. His eyes narrowed as he raised a hand, pointing into the distant gloom. “Look.” The wind whipped at his sleeve, flattening it against his arm. “There.”
Takeo and I followed his gesture, peering through the downpour.
A flicker of lightning revealed rolling waves and the swirling mists of rain, but for just a flash, I glimpsed something else—a silhouette cutting through the haze.
A ship?
“Is that . . . ?” I asked, half to myself.
“Could be one of ours,” Takeo said, “but I am uncertain.”
“The banner,” I said, squinting. “I can’t see its mark, but in the flash, I swear I saw gold.”
Only one man in the Empire was allowed a banner of that color.
Chapter 2: Yoshi
By the time we made it back to the castle, the storm was howling so loud I could barely hear myself think. Shutters were tightly latched on every house we passed, where families huddled and prayed the storm would pass without too much damage. Tooi sat on the northern tip of a massive island and rarely experienced the gods’ ire. Fear flowed as freely as rainwater on cobbles, and I caught myself flinching with each spear of lighting that stabbed from the sky.
Samurai who normally stood outside the gate now sheltered in stone shacks to either side of the entrance. The moment they spotted Takeo and me, backs bent and eyes averted. Kaneko trailed a few strides behind us, bowing deeply to each of the Samurai the moment they raised from their bows toward us.
“Go to your father,” Takeo said. “And you”—he pointed to Kaneko—“go home.”
“But—”
“Go!” Takeo’s bark left no room for debate.
Kaneko’s shoulders slumped as he shot me a quick glance, then turned and strode back out the entrance, bowing one last time to the guards as he passed.
“He could’ve come with me,” I said, not meaning to let a sulky tone enter my voice.
Takeo’s gaze was ice. “He is your friend and training partner, not your equal. Go to your father. I will join you shortly.”
Moments later, I stood at the doorway to my father’s private office. While this chamber was where Father did his solitary work, it held no less majesty than the hall in which he received guests and official visits. Flickering light from candles and two small braziers cast warm glows through the sliding paper panels. The faint scent of lavender hung in the still air. A massive tapestry depicting the mountainous capital of Tooi stretched the full length of the room.
Father sat on a cushioned, knee-high bench before a richly stained table. His back was perfectly straight, making his already tall frame appear even more imposing. In his fourth decade, Father still prided himself on taut muscles and his youthful gait, though gray was beginning to intrude on the inky black pulled into his tight topknot.
From the neat stacks of parchment on his desk by the near-empty inkwell, I knew he was reviewing petitions from across the province he governed. It was a thankless, endless task, the pile of yet-to-be-reviewed missives regularly outpacing those completed.
“You are dripping on my floor,” Father said without looking up, his quill scratching furiously, correcting some lines and obliterating others with the efficiency of a seasoned scribe.
“I’m sorry, Father,” I said, bowing respectfully. “Uncle sent me straight to you. We saw a ship bearing a golden banner.”
Father’s quill froze, and his head snapped up. “Are you certain it was gold? It did not simply contain gold?”
I shook my head. “No, Father. It was a golden banner. I could barely make out the markings, but I’m sure it was his flower.”
Father’s posture faltered as he let out a heavy sigh and tossed his quill on his desk. Ink dribbled from its tip, pooling and ruining whatever document he’d been reviewing.
“Father?”
Time stretched as I waited.
Many grew unnerved when Father lost himself in thought, but I was used to his silences. He taught me to think before speaking, a practice he exercised with religious conviction, especially when holding court or council. But this moment, with only the two of us present, stretched beyond any I recalled in years. Before his lips moved again, his brow furrowed, and I saw creases about his eyes that had appeared more often of late.
“How far away was the ship?”
“At the edge of our sight without a glass.”
“We have only hours,” he said, nodding to himself. “Go, send your mother to me. Also, send word to Seiichi-san and Kura-san that I require their counsel. Return with your uncle in a half hour. We will meet in the Ōhiroma.”
His formal audience chamber?
Father summoning his deputy and castellan wasn’t unusual. They lived in the castle and attended him most days. And Takeo led Father’s Samurai. He was most often his brother’s shadow. Adding Mother to the mix was unusual—making the tiny hairs on my neck stand up straight—but having this group assemble where he received his vassals and conducted his most formal business sent my head spinning.
“Yoshi, there is no time. Do as I ask.”
His voice was not unkind, but there was steel in his words. This was no game or ruse. Something serious was afoot.
I bowed deeply from where I dripped outside the doorway. “Yes, Father. Right away.”
When I entered Father’s audience hall a half turn later, Father sat in his high seat, its ornately carved back a mirror image of the tapestry that hung behind him. Forested mountains and lush fields flowed from one end to the other, while an undulating ocean tickled a distant shore. No one knew from whence the artist had drawn her inspiration—one of the smaller isles, perhaps—but the piece served as the backdrop for many generations of Anzu Daimyo, and Father loved it. I often caught him standing before the tightly woven piece, examining some boulder or mound while he considered requests or appeals.
I never understood why he spent so much time thinking. Samurai didn’t waste time staring at ancient art and fretting over strategic moves. Their decisions were made with a blade and required swift judgements—and even swifter actions.
Why did a Daimyo have to ponder so?
I wasn’t sure if my musing was more about Father or premonitions of my own future. Did I dread the days to come, days in which so many looked to me for guidance? Was I afraid to lead? Would I be as wise, as considered? Would I be respected?
Father’s voice quelled my inner questions.
“Yoshi-san, come,” he said, turning to motion me into the room.
Father rarely used a revered honorific with me unless we stood surrounded by his court or foreign guests. With only his inner circle in attendance, his sudden formality sent another thrill of fear up my spine.
Mother, Takeo, and our two most trusted officials already stood at the bottom step of Father’s three-tiered dais.
I scurried forward and bowed. “Yes, Father.”
“His Divine Majesty comes.”
Neither Takeo nor I flinched, as we had been the ones to report the arrival of the vessel flying the Emperor’s chrysanthemum. Mother and the ministers blinked in surprise. Seiichi, Father’s younger brother and chief deputy for the past two decades, swayed on his feet and had to brace himself by grabbing Takeo’s arm. The old man barely rose to Takeo’s shoulder, the withered bones of his hand as bent and gnarled as his back.
Father, seeing his advisor’s distress, motioned for all of us to sit, then settled himself onto his throne. Mother climbed the stairs to sit on the top level at Father’s feet. He reached down and held her hand, an oddly intimate gesture in the midst of such formality.
I waited for them to still before climbing to my spot on his right, facing the others.
Takeo helped Seiichi to the floor, where the two men settled onto thin mats, their legs crossed, backs straight—or as straight as Seiichi could sit. Anzu Kura, my portly aunt with the face of shriveled fruit, lowered herself beside the men.
“Is it possible this is only a messenger, that the Son of Heaven does not visit our shores?” Seiichi asked.
“It is possible, but unlikely. If Yoshi saw the golden banner, His Imperial Majesty will be close behind,” Father said. “We have two hours, perhaps less, before his envoy arrives. I suspect he will send his Chief Samurai, Akira Rei, or the Grand Minister of State, Akira Satoshi.”
I couldn’t hold my tongue. “What does he want? Why is he—?”
Mother silenced me with a sharp glare, but Father nodded, keeping his eyes on some distant point beyond where Takeo sat.
“Allies.” His mouth twisted, as though the word tasted of bitter tea. “He seeks allies.”
“Has it come to this?” Takeo asked.
As surprised as Seiichi and Kura had been at news of the Emperor’s imminent arrival, they showed no reaction to Father’s guess at his aims. Takeo leaned forward, as though wanting whatever Father feared.
Father nodded slowly. “I have held nothing from you, Takeo-san. Han Asami and Maria have long sought power in the capital. Their plots and schemes are well known.”
“But to take up arms against the Jade Throne?” Seiichi asked. “Would they truly tempt the anger of the gods?”
“Eiko would sell her own daughter if it gained her the throne,” Mother said.
“If Heaven’s Son comes to our shores, he is frightened,” Takeo said.
“We must prepare, Hiroki-sama,” Kura said, her first words since the meeting began. She ran the castle, which meant herding the staff, supplying the stores, and ensuring the lives of the Daimyo and his government ran smoothly. A visit by the Emperor would send her already active mind into overdrive. I felt a brief pang of sorrow for the poor men and women who worked in the castle. The storm howling outside was nothing compared to Kura in a crisis.
Father eyed her, then nodded once. “You should go, Kura-san. Assume His Majesty comes, not merely an emissary. We must receive whoever arrives with all the grace of our han.”
Kura bowed from where she sat, an almost comical gesture with her belly in the way, then struggled to her feet, where she offered a more appropriate gesture. “My people will need to get in here—”
Father raised a palm. “We will only be a moment. Make your preparations, Kura.”
She bowed again and hurried out of the hall.
Takeo renewed his questioning. “He will want troops. Will you really consider—”
“I will consider whatever His Majesty asks of us. To do less would be to dishonor His Divine Majesty, the gods, and our han.”
“Of course,” Takeo said, not retreating an inch. “But are you seriously considering entering this war?”
“There is no war yet,” Mother said. “Perhaps, His Majesty comes hoping to secure peace, not preparing for conflict.”
Takeo rolled his eyes, a gesture that would earn anyone else lashes—or a stern reprimand, at the very least. Beside him, Seiichi fidgeted with his arthritic fingers.
Father stood, drawing all of us to our feet.
“Wondering if rain will make one wet is a waste of time. The storm comes, and so we must face it. Seiichi, Takeo, assemble a greeting party of your highest-ranking men. Yoshi, Kita, and I will meet you at the docks in two hours. Hopefully, this squall will have ebbed by then.”
“Just in time for another to begin,” Takeo muttered.
Father eyed his brother as he pinched the bridge of his nose and released a breath.
Chapter 3: Yoshi
I stood a step behind my father with Mother next to me. Several servants struggled with umbrellas in a failed attempt to keep the blinding rain from dousing us. To our right, Deputy Seiichi and three other advisors appeared more like miserable, sodden rag dolls than leaders of one of the Empire’s seven han in their finest robes. Behind, Takeo and a dozen of his best Samurai stood like wooden soldiers staring at nothing in the gloom.
It was a wonder none of the old men had lost their balance and taken a fateful swim. In the sideways rain, I could barely see a hundred yards ahead.
The ship I’d seen from afar now docked securely at the end of the pier that served as my training ground only hours before. It was not a merchant vessel or Imperial junk. It was a black-hulled warship whose railings were carved like vines of some distant jungle, then dipped in gold. Atop its mast, a pure gold banner snapped in the angry wind, its brilliant thread impressive, even in the deluge. Lanterns with the kanji of the Emperor’s name hung from the stern, and rain-soaked silk streamed in red and gold along the prow.
“Amaterasu, bless us,” Mother whispered. Her eyes roamed, settling on a replica of the Imperial flower carved deeply into the side of the ship.
From somewhere aboard, a drum began to beat a steady, stately rhythm.
Then the first of the retinue appeared at the top of the walkway.
Two Samurai in gleaming black armor with glittering pauldrons, their kabuto emblazoned with the Imperial crest, again in gold, smacked polearms against the ship’s planking, then strode toward the dock. I could barely see their eyes through holes in fearsome masks that covered their entire faces.
Another pair followed. Then another. Then a dozen more.
When the small army of inky guards had disembarked and formed a double line, a herald wearing the black and gold livery of the Imperial han descended. The man was younger than I expected, perhaps only a year my senior. He was reed thin and appeared as miserable as the older men and women attending this soppy ceremony.
“His Imperial Majesty’s Great General, Akira Ryuji-sama Dai Shogun,” the herald announced.
A mountainous man with a vicious scar above his right eye stepped forward, bowed deeply, then descended the walkway. He wore the same black and gold armor as the other Samurai, but held his masked kabuto under his arm. The only difference between his armor and the others’ was the golden chrysanthemum gleaming on his breastplate. Only the Emperor himself could award someone the honor of that symbol. The moment Ryuji’s foot touched the dock, every person, Imperial or otherwise, bent deeply at the waist.
As Ryuji took his place in front of the Samurai, the herald called again, “His Imperial Majesty’s Grand Minister of State, Akira Satoshi-sama Daijo-daijin.”
A bald man with a thin mustache and wispy hair flowing from his chin struggled to keep his purple and gold robes from flying off his scrawny body. Pasty white legs revealed themselves each time a gust swelled. As before, the moment his foot left the ship’s walkway, all bowed, including the Dai Shogun.
For the briefest moment, all stood silent—silent save the howling wind and biting rain.
Then the herald called, “His Imperial Highness, Akira Haru-sama Daiji Ouko, third son of His Divine Imperial Majesty, bearer of the Celestial blood, envoy of the Jade Throne of the Grand Empire of Mugen.”
The top of the walkway remained empty.
No one stirred.
A moment later, the herald called, “His Imperial Highness—”
The man’s voice stilled the moment a figure appeared.
The Prince was tall, taller than most, his rich black hair pulled back in a tight topknot that was bound in a golden cuff. The blue of his robes shifted and swirled as he walked, giving a sense of flowing water across the fabric. There was a majesty to the man, a presence.
I was struck dumb.
This was a prince.
The moment Haru stepped forward, two things happened at once.
First, every person assembled, save the Prince’s midnight guard, dropped to their knees and pressed their foreheads to the planking of the dock. Rain be damned, this was the son of a living god. He would receive our homage.
The second may have been more startling than the first.
Haru began to laugh.
I violated all sense and snuck a peek, careful to keep my head lowered and not get caught.
The Prince strode down the walkway, the rain somehow avoiding his presence. It looked as though someone had constructed a shell around him that no rain or wind could penetrate, though I saw no armor or glass or gold. And the man was so young, perhaps twenty, barely my senior, yet he was the Heavens where I was mere land.
“Daimyo,” Haru said from halfway down the walkway. “Why are we here in this squall? Let us set aside ceremony and find a dry place to exchange our greetings.”
Slowly, everyone rose.
All color had drained from Mother’s face.
Seiichi looked like he wanted to crawl under the dock and never surface.
Uncle Takeo had a smirk on his lips, while Father stood rigidly with his gaze toward Haru’s approach, eyes never landing directly on the Prince.
Without so much as a bow, Haru blew past us all and led his retinue toward the waiting palanquins.
“Go, Yoshi,” Mother said, motioning me after Father.
We reached the sheltered litters, and Haru once again surprised everyone, grabbing the reins of a nearby horse from a stable hand and mounting the beast. “Come, Hiroki-sama. It is a fine day to ride, is it not?”
Father glanced at Mother, shaking his head so quickly I doubted anyone else caught the motion, then grabbed a horse and hurried after the Prince, leaving the rest of us to board waiting norimono so servants could carry us to the castle in comfort.