The Festival of Light ended as it had begun—uneasily and in darkness.

  At the edge of the crowded courtyard, Hino watched the last of the flowers of fire bloom over the Kōmyō Temple. Vibrant reds and oranges and yellows erupted with loud pops against the evening sky. Those final petals lingered, a bright reminder of what they had come to celebrate, and then fizzled away without a sound. At the same time, the ceremonial drums thudded to a stop, plunging the unsettled onlookers into both shadow and silence.

  No clapping or chatter or laughter followed as they might have in times past. Now, there was nothing but a year’s worth of dread, measured in cold earth and failing daylight. The villagers had not come to walk among the stalls or listen to the drums or watch the flowers of fire—they had come because they were hungry, and not just for the handful of rice they’d be given as they left. They had come because they were scared.

  They had come because the sun had not risen that morning.

  Across the sea of heads, a single lantern flared to light from atop the Sunrise Pavilion, gleaming off the polished brass hull of the Shining Bell. A ripple of expectation moved across the congregation. Even as far away as she was, Hino could make out Grandfather’s unsmiling face; hard as ice above the warm glow of the lantern. Somehow, those that had gathered grew even quieter at the sight of him, quieter still as he addressed them with his stony eyes.

  Unconsciously, Hino shrunk back, though she knew that Grandfather would not be able to see her at this distance. Not that it would matter if he did. After all, it had been years since Grandfather had really looked at her. Clenching her fists, she forced herself to straighten, rising to her toes to get a better view.

  Cowering in Grandfather’s wake was Teru, her twin brother. Head and shoulders taller than Grandfather already, he still looked like a child in the dim light. Yet, he wore the clothes that had been meant for Father; the deep gold kimono beneath the red hakama, and the white, fur-lined stole. It was too small for him, and at the same time, far, far too big.

  Hino grit her teeth. There was no way Teru could do it. They had dressed him for his own funeral.

  Calm and quiet, Grandfather spoke—managing to be heard, in that way he had, without ever raising his voice, “The long night has come upon us once more. As it has before, in the lifetime of our grandfathers’ grandfathers. As it will again, in the lifetime of our grandchildren’s grandchildren.” A rustle passed through the crowd, like reeds bending in the breeze.

  At the far corners of the Pavilion, a second lantern woke, and then another—illuminating the young, tense faces of Hino’s little brothers. Almost ghostlike in their white hakama, they glided forward, following the cadence of Grandfather’s speech, “Since the first morning, the sons of the Kōmyō have been guardians of the Red Moon Shrine; loyal servants of the Dawn Dragon that we might guide Him in rekindling the sun.”

  Grandfather paused, regarding his rapt listeners emotionlessly. There was not even a murmur out of place. “As our ancestors have done before,” he promised, nodding to Teru, “so we do now, obediently.”

  Every muscle in Hino’s body stiffened as Teru came to stand beside Grandfather, the lantern light painting his face a sickly yellow. The two boys reached him, one on either side; the younger of the two, Kira, was visibly trembling.

  Teru turned first to the other, Haku, who offered him a carrying stick. Already dangling from its end was a modest parcel, wrapped in cloth bearing the Kōmyō family seal. Taking it in hand, Teru’s voice rang out, thin and reedy with youth and fear, “I accept this food, that I may fulfill my duty as a son of the Kōmyō.”

  A collective breath was held, then, as Teru turned—slow and deliberate, to little Kira.

  In hands still thick with baby fat, Kira held up a necklace of heavy beads—luminous white and shining red. Hino squeezed her eyes shut, unable to watch as Teru ducked his head to receive it.

  A moment later, Teru’s voice announced, “I accept the Dawn Dragon’s Blessing, that I may fulfill my duty as a son of the Kōmyō.”

  Blessing! Deciding she’d had enough, Hino spun, making her way swiftly toward the towering red columns of the Earth Gate—the boundary of the Kōmyō Temple’s grounds. Still, Grandfather’s words reached her ears; the tenets he had lived by and the ones he would send his grandson to die by.

  “As our ancestors have done before, so we do now,” he intoned.

  The sweeping red arches of the Earth Gate passed overhead as Hino hurried away. Not long after, the Shining Bell sang; a deep, resonant song that chased her off the winding stone steps and into the forest.

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  It was meant to signal an end. Or, perhaps, a beginning.

  For Hino, it would be the beginning.

  At least, that was what she told herself as she waited, flipping restlessly through the little booklet that Grandmother had made for her. Wrapped in fine cloth and hand-bound with fading thread, many of the thin pages held charcoal illustrations. The earlier ones, the ones she sought out now, were Hino’s favorites; delicate plants and flowers and faces that had been Grandmother’s contributions.

  Some of Hino’s impatience dissipated as the faint, red light of the moon fell upon one of the drawings. A portrait of Father peered back at her; his easy smile calling forth her own. It would be okay, he seemed to tell her. Father had always believed in her.

  Reassured, Hino tucked the booklet into her sleeve. Below her, steep mountain steps cleaved a path through barren branches and yellowing ferns. The wind was cold and sudden this night, raising voices from the dying forest as it pushed between the cedar and the bamboo. Gooseflesh pimpled her skin, and not simply from the chill. She knew this land well, but only in the last few months had she begun to venture through it without the company of daylight.

  Squinting down the moonlit steps, a silhouette appeared. Tall, lanky, and ascending slowly, a carrying stick slung over his shoulders. From her other sleeve, she produced a tiny sandclock, checking it and then returning it promptly. It had taken Teru longer than she’d anticipated, but of course it had. Squaring herself, she picked her way down the stairs toward him; the telltale wheeze of his breath greeting her long before she called out to him.

  He halted, looking up at her with wide, startled eyes. “You really meant it,” he forced out after a moment, panting with exertion. “You really mean to go through with it.” He swallowed thickly, trying to steady his breaths and failing.

  “Sit,” Hino ordered gently, reaching his side. Sweat dotted his brow in spite of the cutting wind. She lifted the carrying stick from his shoulders, setting it on the ground a few steps above, and he let her guide him to a seat on the smooth stone. Hand on his back, Hino caught a glimpse of their childhood; of the many times she had crouched beside him in exactly this way, waiting for his struggling lungs to catch up.

  Teru’s breathing calmed, after a time. “Let me come with you,” he said simply, though the tightness had not left his voice.

  Hino shook her head. “I am the eldest.” She said nothing of the fact that he would hinder her—he would already know.

  “Not according to Grandfather,” Teru argued.

  “According to Grandfather, I don’t exist,” Hino scoffed. She drew a deep breath, easing her tone, “That,” she gestured to Teru’s neck, “is as rightfully mine as it is yours.” The bead necklace—the Dawn Dragon’s Blessing—gleamed, each orb shimmering with the rise and fall of Teru’s chest. It had been born with them, as a shell covering their bodies, and fashioned so that it might be worn.

  For a great while, Teru was silent, head bowed. What clouds veiled the moon behind them parted, driven away by the strengthening winds, and its reddish glow cast their shadows on the steps before them—brother and sister huddled together.

  Finally, Teru shifted to face her. His eyes were dark and serious. “Hino,” he motioned his head toward the carrying stick and the cloth-wrapped bundle fastened upon it, “there’s not enough in there to make the journey back.” Hino’s stomach clenched at his words—whether from anger or sorrow, she could not tell at first. But he grabbed her hand firmly, and she knew it to be both. “I can’t lose you, too, Hino.” His voice was quiet, pained.

  “I will return,” she assured him, twisting her hand to lace their fingers together securely, “No one else will be lost.” Her eyes stung, but she refused to let her tears fall. “I promise you, Teru.”

  Blinking back his own tears, Teru attempted a grin. “Knowing you, you’ve already planned it all out,” he joked half-heartedly.

  “I have, actually,” Hino said, with a sniffle and a weak smile. She reached into her sleeve, pulling out her sandclock for his perusal. “Right down to the hour. I’m still early.” Teru shot her an incredulous look, and, despite the wetness on their lashes, they shared a short chuckle. Composing herself, Hino added, “All you have to worry about is staying out of Grandfather’s sight.”

  “No easy task,” Teru remarked, drily.

  Hino shrugged. “I planned for that, too. The old shed below the Earth Gate; I’ve readied it for you. Should hold you over until the sun finally rises.”

  Teru sighed, nodding in a kind of surrender.

  A small, triumphant smile spread upon Hino’s face. She eased back upon her elbows, looking up at the inky night sky, the red-tinged clouds, and the distant stars peppered among them. She pointed upward, directing Teru’s gaze as well. “Grandmother always wondered what it looked like up there,” she recalled fondly, smile widening. “After the Dawn Dragon rekindles the sun, I’ll make sure to take a good, long look at the stars. So, I can tell you both about it when I get back. I’m sure even Haku and Kira would sit still for that story.”

  “I’m sure they would,” Teru agreed, his words weighted with emotion.

  As it sometimes does just before a goodbye, time lost meaning. They were, at once, their younger selves, picking out constellations from the garden veranda—feet swinging, fingers sticky with summer fruit. Yet they were, too, the versions of themselves aged by duty and loss, leaning upon each other’s shoulders for comfort on a night with no end. But the moment, unlike the night, could not last. And it didn’t.

  They did not say much at the end. Teru slipped Father’s fur-lined stole off, wrapping it warmly around her. The Dawn Dragon’s Blessing came to rest upon her collarbone, and Hino hefted the carrying pole onto her shoulders. Teru managed a smile to send her off, and Hino offered one in return.

  Hino counted the steps as she climbed. She looked back only once, after she’d taken more than twenty—her aching heart leading her eyes. Teru still stood where she had left him, staring after her; a cloak of darkness now shrouding him. She turned away quickly, wiping tears from her cheeks.

  It was the beginning, she told herself again. Even if it felt like an ending.