The journey hadn't taken long.
The carriage wheels creaked gently as they left behind the shadows of the forest and emerged onto the outskirts of Mahoken. The city rose in the distance like a weary sentinel, its broken spires catching the last rays of a sun bleeding into the horizon. The light filtered through heavy clouds like dying embers, painting the slums in a rust-colored melancholy.
The trio stepped out of the carriage after parking it in a designated space among a row of older, dust-covered vehicles. The streets were quiet, but not silent—filled with the murmurs of alleyway deals, the bark of stray dogs, and the rustle of thin curtains from crooked windows. A decaying elegance clung to the edges of Mahoken's heart, but here at the border, the rot was more evident.
Toki adjusted his coat and looked up at the pale orange sky.
"Still time before the show," he said.
Utsuki nodded beside him. Her long hair, tied simply today, brushed against the curve of her cheek as the wind blew. "We could walk. It's not far."
Tora made a face as she adjusted the strap of her glove. "I still think we should've just waited.
Toki laughed lightly. "What, you don't like the local color?"
"If by color you mean 'mud, smoke, and regret'... no."
They walked slowly along the edge of the cracked cobblestone path. The scent of wet stone and mildew hung in the air. Children peeked out from behind barrels, playing games with string and bottle caps. The people here wore time on their shoulders—hunched backs, hollow eyes, lips that rarely smiled unless business was involved.
It was then that Toki saw him.
Off to the side of the road, near the corner of a crumbling brick building, an elderly man in tattered clothes was struggling with what looked like a small, makeshift cart-shop. One of the back wheels had sunk deeply into a patch of mud—thick, dark, and almost swallowing the wooden rim whole. The cart leaned sideways, boxes of dried herbs and cracked glass jars clinking dangerously inside.
People passed him by.
A merchant in a silver cloak didn't even glance. A pair of nobles laughed and whispered something cruel behind a silk fan. Even a local baker, dragging a flour sack, crossed the road to avoid stepping near.
Toki slowed.
Utsuki noticed and touched his arm gently. "What is it?"
"That man," he said softly. "He needs help."
Tora raised an eyebrow. "Plenty of people need help in Mahoken. Most of them will pick your pocket for offering."
Toki didn't answer. He adjusted his cravat, took off his top hat, and stepped off the path, heading toward the old man.
Utsuki called after him, "Wait—what are you doing?"
He looked over his shoulder, smiling faintly.
"Just fulfilling my duties as a knight and a gentleman."
The old man looked up as Toki approached. His eyes were cloudy, but not blind. His beard was silver, long and tangled, and his clothes clung to his thin frame like second skin. When he saw Toki's well-tailored coat, his polished shoes, and his clean, noble face, he almost recoiled.
"I don't need charity, young master," the old man muttered. "Don't dirty yourself for the likes of me."
Toki bowed slightly, removing his gloves. "Nonsense. This is just mud. It washes off."
He knelt, placing his coat and shoes carefully on a dry patch of ground. Then, without another word, he stepped barefoot into the thick puddle, grimacing slightly as the cold muck squelched between his toes.
Utsuki and Tora watched from the road, stunned.
"Is he insane?" Tora asked.
"Yes," Utsuki said, but her voice was warm.
Toki leaned forward, placing his hands firmly on the back of the cart. "Alright, sir. On your mark."
The old man blinked. "You… really mean to push this thing?"
"I've done worse," Toki said with a wink. "You pull, I push."
The old man hesitated, then nodded. "Alright, then."
He grabbed the front handle of the cart. "One… two… three!"
Toki's muscles tightened as he shoved. Mud sucked at his feet, resisting every inch, but he gritted his teeth and pushed harder. The wooden wheel groaned as it lifted, rising from the muck like a sunken treasure. The cart lurched forward, and the old man stumbled a little before regaining his footing.
"Almost there…!" Toki growled.
With one final heave, the back wheels cleared the edge of the pit, and the entire cart rolled onto solid ground. The jars inside clinked again, but none shattered.
They stood there for a moment, panting. Toki's pants were soaked up to the knees, and his black shirt clung to his back with sweat and grime. But he smiled.
The old man looked at him with astonishment. "By the stars… You've got the strength of three men. I… I don't know what to say."
"No need," Toki replied. "There's a fountain nearby. I'll wash up before anyone important notices."
He reached down, picked up his coat and hat, and bowed again. "Have a peaceful evening, sir."
He turned to leave, but the old man called after him.
"Wait! Why did you help me?"
Toki paused, then looked back. His smile faded into something quieter, more honest.
"Because in my eyes, every person has worth. Status, clothes, titles—they're illusions. And besides…" He glanced at the mud on his legs. "A good deed a day never hurts."
The old man watched him go, eyes wide. Then he raised his hand in a small wave.
Toki returned to the girls, who stood by a marble fountain shaped like a mermaid with chipped features. Without saying a word, Utsuki took his coat and shoes from his hands, brushing a leaf off his sleeve.
"You're unbelievable," she said.
"I'm consistent," Toki replied, climbing into the fountain.
The water was cold, but refreshing. He scrubbed his feet and calves, humming a tune under his breath.
Utsuki sat at the fountain's edge, placing his coat neatly beside her. "You know… that was kind."
Tora rolled her eyes. "Ridiculous, but fine. It was noble. I guess."
"I'm not interested in being noble," Toki said. "Nobility didn't save that man. People did. Or rather, a person did."
He splashed water on his legs again.
"You're not like the others," Utsuki said softly.
He looked up. "Is that a compliment?"
"I haven't decided yet."
He grinned. Then, in a burst of mischief, he flicked a handful of water at her.
She shrieked, recoiling, but not angrily. Her laugh—soft, real—surprised even her.
"Toki!"
"It's hot," he said innocently.
To his shock, Utsuki didn't stop smiling. She slipped off her red shoes and, without another word, stepped into the water beside him. Her feet splashed lightly against his, and she reached down to scoop a handful of water and fling it at his chest.
"Revenge," she said with a smirk.
"Oh, it's war now, is it?"
Before long, water flew in all directions. Tora crossed her arms, watching them with narrowed eyes.
"You two look like children."
"Then come join us," Utsuki called.
"I don't—" Tora hesitated. She looked around, saw no one of import nearby, then sighed dramatically. "Ugh. Fine."
She kicked off her shoes, and climbed into the fountain.
Soon, all three were laughing, splashing water like schoolchildren in summer. Sarcastic jabs flew like arrows, but there was joy in their voices—an echo of something lost in their world of blood, fate, and duty.
A pause came as they stood, breathless, soaked, and smiling.
For a moment, time held its breath. The sky was darker now, stars beginning to bloom across its indigo canvas. The wind blew softer, and the city seemed to forget its sorrows.
They stood together in the heart of Mahoken's forgotten outskirts—three strange souls who had no place here, and yet belonged more than any noble ever could.
Toki stepped out first, shaking water from his arms. "Well. That's one way to spend a prelude to tragedy."
Utsuki stepped out next, wringing out her skirt. "Speak for yourself. I needed that."
Tora muttered something about "idiots and wet socks," but her smile betrayed her.
As they walked toward the theater—Toki looked back once.
The old man was gone.
But in his place, a small group of children had gathered around the cart, trading copper coins for dried lavender and glass beads. The city, for a moment, had remembered kindness.
And in Toki's heart, that was enough.
Toki pulled a pocket watch from his coat—nothing ornate, but refined enough to carry an air of dignity. He flicked it open, checked the time, and closed it with a soft click.
"We should hurry," he said. "The show's about to start."
The three of them made their way through the winding streets of Mahoken. The city's theatrical district rose like a forgotten crown—buildings with peeling gold paint, ancient posters flapping in the wind, and gas lamps flickering to life as the sky dimmed into a deeper indigo.
The theatre loomed ahead, old but proud, with cracked marble columns and red velvet banners announcing tonight's performance: Icarus: A Tragedy in Three Acts.
Toki approached the ticket booth and handed over a few crisp notes. "Three, please."
The woman behind the glass barely looked up. "Middle row. Left wing. Enjoy the fall."
Inside, the air was thick with age and perfume. Hundreds of red velvet seats stretched out in neat rows, leading to a stage framed by faded gold trim and heavy crimson curtains.
Toki found their seats and gestured. "Here we are."
They settled in. Utsuki sat beside Toki, smoothing her skirt, while Tora perched on the edge of her seat, eyes wide.
The lights dimmed.
A hush fell.
The curtain rose.
Music, slow and mournful, drifted from the orchestra pit.
Toki watched, but found his gaze wandering.
Utsuki was leaning forward, her eyes full of cautious curiosity—drawn in, but always watching for something to go wrong. Her hands, folded neatly in her lap, twitched every so often with tension.
Tora, by contrast, was utterly captivated. Her expression—normally guarded or sardonic—was open, vulnerable, alive. Her eyes followed every movement on stage, and her lips parted slightly in awe.
Toki's chest tightened.
He thought about how she'd grown up—on the fringes of a broken town, raised by a grandfather who barely had enough to feed them. She'd probably never been to a theatre before. When she first came to live at the manor, she rarely spoke, except to ask about her duties.
But he'd caught her reading once. In the garden. An old book of poetry.
She'd looked up, startled, and quickly tried to hide it under a pile of laundry.
He hadn't said anything at the time.
Now, he smiled faintly, watching her.
She really was clever. And strong. And so, so young.
Too young for the way she held herself—like someone who'd had to grow up far too fast.
Her cheeks, pale and slightly hollow, hinted at the kind of hunger that didn't go away with just one warm meal. Even now, after months of steady food and rest, she hadn't quite filled out. Her arms were thin. Her fingers trembled sometimes when she thought no one was watching.
Toki's gaze softened. She reminded him of a sparrow that refused to fall.
Tora suddenly turned her head, sensing his eyes on her.
He blinked and looked away, pretending to be invested in the monologue unfolding on stage.
The play reached its final act—Icarus, screaming as he flew too close to the sun, wings melting, voice breaking, and crashing into darkness. The curtain fell to thunderous applause.
The audience stood, clapping politely. Some wiped their eyes. Others checked their watches.
Toki turned to the girls. "Well?"
Utsuki nodded. "It was beautiful. Sad, but beautiful."
Tora clutched her program like a treasure. "They flew."
Toki smiled. "Yes. Even if only for a moment."
They exited into the cool night air, the sounds of applause still echoing in their ears.
As they walked down the avenue, Toki's eyes caught something in the distance.
Bright lights. Music. Laughter.
A small traveling circus had pitched its tent near the plaza.
Colorful banners fluttered. Children chased one another with glowing sticks. The smell of roasted nuts and caramelized fruit wafted on the wind.
Toki paused.
"A circus," he murmured.
Utsuki raised an eyebrow. "At this hour?"
Tora was already staring, transfixed by the colors.
Toki glanced at her, then at the girls. "Why not?"
They approached the gate, where a clown with bright pink hair and an enormous painted smile twirled in place, performing exaggerated bows.
"Three brave souls for a night of marvels?" he crooned.
Toki handed him a few coins. "Three tickets."
The clown gave them small, glittering stubs and gestured grandly toward the tent. "Right this way, my luminaries! Right this way!"
The inside of the tent was alive with noise and color. Strings of lights crisscrossed above, casting a warm golden glow on the straw-covered floor. Rows of benches formed a semicircle around a circular stage.
The crowd was thick.
Children perched on shoulders. Couples leaned together. Vendors shouted.
Tora looked around, trying to see. But her small stature made it difficult.
Toki noticed.
Without a word, he knelt, picked her up gently, and hoisted her onto his shoulders.
"There," he said. "Better?"
Tora blinked in surprise.
Then nodded. "Yeah. Thanks."
Utsuki smiled, covering her mouth with a hand.
"That's something a big brother would do," she teased.
Toki gave her a sidelong glance. "She deserves to see."
The show began with a fanfare of trumpets and spinning fire.
Acrobats soared above them, flipping and twisting through the air. A juggler danced with knives. A magician pulled glowing cards from thin air.
Tora gasped at every new act, her hands clutching the top of Toki's head for balance.
"Did you see that?" she whispered excitedly.
"I'm holding you. Of course I did," Toki chuckled.
Utsuki leaned over. "She hasn't smiled this much in weeks."
Toki nodded, silent for a moment.
"She's allowed to be a child tonight."
The final act featured a massive white lion leaping through rings of fire. Tora's mouth hung open in astonishment.
When the curtain fell, and the lights began to dim, the crowd burst into applause.
Toki lowered Tora carefully.
Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes glowing.
"I've never seen anything like that," she whispered.
"You'll see more," Toki said. "I promise."
They stepped out into the night once again. The air smelled of rain and sugar.
Toki stretched, looking up at the stars. "Well then… what now?"
Utsuki looked at him, her expression soft. "Now? Now we walk. Slowly."
Tora yawned but smiled. "And maybe get something sweet."
Toki laughed. "Done."
Toki lingered just outside the glowing perimeter of the circus tent, his eyes drifting to the flicker of a nearby lantern. Beneath it stood the clown who had greeted them earlier. Gone was the exaggerated smile painted across his face; in its place was a quiet, natural expression—tired yet serene. He leaned against the iron post, holding a violin tucked beneath his chin, bow gliding gently across the strings.
The melody he played was soft and mournful, the notes flowing like whispered memories into the night. The audience now consisted of only a few children, perhaps too poor to afford admission earlier. Their clothes were worn, shoes patched or missing entirely, but their eyes were wide with wonder, soaking in every note as though it were light in a dark world.
Toki watched in silence, his heart caught between admiration and a strange, creeping melancholy. The music reminded him of something from long ago—a lullaby without words, sung by a mother whose face he could no longer clearly remember.
Then, from the shadows, movement.
A figure crept forward, half-hidden by the rim of the tent's canvas, slipping closer with each step. A man, thin and hunched, with ragged sleeves and darting eyes. He moved like a rat in a grain store, hands twitching toward the violin.
Toki opened his mouth to warn the clown, but he never got the chance.
In a blur of motion, the clown spun on one heel, bow still in hand. With a movement that was almost dance, he struck the thief across the jaw with the curved wood of the violin—not enough to break bone, but enough to drop the man to the ground.
The children gasped. Toki blinked.
The thief scrambled up and fled, limping into the dark.
The clown sighed, dusted off his coat, and turned back to the children with a lopsided smile.
"And thus ends tonight's surprise act," he said gently. "The violin must rest its strings."
The children murmured in protest. "One more song!" a girl cried, her braids swinging.
"Please, mister!" another boy said, gripping the hem of the clown's coat.
The clown looked down, hesitant.
Toki stepped forward. "I could try," he said quietly.
The clown turned, studying him. Then, with a nod, he held out the violin.
"Be kind to her. She remembers everything," he said.
Toki accepted the instrument carefully, holding it like something sacred. He tested the strings with delicate fingers, then lifted it to his chin and drew a breath.
The first note was clear, rising into the night like a bird startled into flight.
He played a song from his youth—an old tune, wistful and slow, soaked in the kind of sorrow that doesn't scream, but waits in silence. The melody curled around the lanternlight, turning it golden.
The children went still. Even the air seemed to hush.
The clown's eyes widened.
Toki's fingers moved with practiced grace, every note a thread in a tapestry of memory. His mind filled with faces he hadn't seen in years, voices long gone, promises broken and kept. As the melody continued, he noticed some of the children swaying. A few began to mimic the rhythm, their feet shuffling uncertainly.
Smiling softly, Toki shifted the tempo.
The song transformed into a gentle waltz, the three-beat rhythm catching like a breeze. With his free hand, he motioned gently to the children, guiding their steps with small corrections—a lifted arm, a turned heel.
The children giggled, clumsy but happy, circling around him like leaves in the wind.
Then, without pause, he turned to Utsuki, who had been watching from a short distance, a curious expression on her face.
He extended his hand. "Would you honor me with a dance?"
She blinked. Then, with a graceful smile, she placed her hand in his.
"I thought you'd never ask," she said.
He led her into the center, feet gliding easily over the rough earth. The children parted to give them space, watching in wonder.
The clown, smiling now, took the violin from Toki as they passed and resumed the tune seamlessly.
Utsuki and Toki danced slowly at first, then with growing ease, circling each other with steps that felt both rehearsed and spontaneous. Her hair floated like silk in the night air. His coat flared with each spin.
Their eyes met. For a moment, the world disappeared. It was just them, dancing in the firelight and shadow, hearts beating in rhythm with the music.
The children danced around them, laughing. They copied the movements, turning clumsy twirls into pure joy.
When the final note faded, the two bowed to one another, breathless, glowing.
Applause erupted. The clown clapped with both hands and bow. The children cheered.
Toki turned to Utsuki, then gestured toward a brightly lit shop just down the road. "Would you and Tora fetch something sweet?" he asked in a conspiratorial whisper. "I have a surprise."
Utsuki raised an eyebrow. "Something involving fire?"
"Only metaphorical this time," he said, smirking.
She nodded and took Tora by the hand. "Come on. Let's see if they sell candied plums."
As they walked away, Toki watched until they were out of earshot. Then he turned back to the clown, who had sat down on a nearby bench, the violin cradled against his chest.
"Mind if I join you?" Toki asked.
The clown looked up. His expression was gentle but guarded. "You already have." He patted the bench beside him.