Hikaru’s tiny dream-body convulsed. A scream lodged in his throat but never came out.

  His real body snapped upright in bed.

  He gasped—sharp, ragged inhalations that burned his lungs as if he’d sprinted through fire. Sweat drenched his night tunic, turning the thin fabric translucent and heavy; it clung to his skin like a second, suffocating layer. White hair plastered to his forehead and the nape of his neck in dark, wet strands that dripped cold trails down his back. His heart hammered so violently against his ribs he half-expected to feel cracks spiderwebbing through bone. Hands shook uncontrollably as he clutched the wool blanket to his chest, knuckles bleaching white, fingers digging deep furrows into the fabric as though it were the only tether keeping him from falling back into that golden, laughing void.

  The narrow bedroom remained stubbornly ordinary in the pale gray predawn light slipping through the high window slit. No searing radiance. No multi-layered, gleeful cruelty echoing inside his skull. Only his own breathing—harsh, uneven, too loud in the stillness—and the faint, familiar creak of the house timbers settling as the night cooled.

  He stared at the opposite wall, wide crimson eyes unblinking, chest rising and falling in frantic bursts. Fragments of the nightmare clung like smoke: trees exploding into splintered rain, a thunderous heartbeat vibrating through his infant spine, skeletal fingers clawing from graves in rotting waves, undead animals shambling with hollow moans—and that voice. Intimate. Victorious. Found you.

  Then a small, sleepy voice sliced through the haze from the doorway.

  “Wow. You look like you saw a ghost, big brother.”

  Hana leaned against the frame in her rumpled nightdress, pigtails lopsided from sleep, one small hand clutching a cloth-wrapped bundle. Her usual teasing grin flickered—then died the moment she truly focused on him: sweat gleaming on pale skin, eyes too wide and glassy, one hand still pressed hard over his heart as if physically holding it inside his chest.

  “Hikaru…?” The grin vanished entirely. Bare feet padded softly across the floorboards as she stepped inside. “You’re shaking. And you’re all wet. Did you have a bad dream again?”

  He forced a jerky nod, throat constricted. Swallowed once—twice. “Yeah. Just… a dream.”

  Hana tilted her head, studying him with that unnervingly perceptive stare she sometimes used on puzzle pages. “You look like you ran all night. Mom’s gonna be so mad if you’re late again. She already left for the well, but she said if you oversleep one more time she’s hiding your books under the floorboards.” She extended the bundle. “Your lunch is ready, though. I helped wrap it. Two rice balls and the last of the pickled radish. Don’t forget to eat it this time, okay?”

  Hikaru reached out with still-trembling fingers and took it. Managed a weak, grateful smile. “Thanks, Hana. You’re the best.”

  She beamed—for half a heartbeat—then frowned deeper, stepping closer to peer up into his face. “You’re still pale. Like really pale. Even for you.” Her small brow furrowed. “Was it the monster dream? The one with the big light and the scary wings?”

  He flinched—barely perceptible, but she caught it instantly. Her eyes widened to saucers.

  “…It was, wasn’t it?” she whispered, voice dropping to something fragile.

  He couldn’t lie to her. Not with her looking at him like he might break. “Something like it,” he admitted quietly. “But it’s gone now. Just shadows.”

  Hana bit her lip hard enough to leave a white mark. Then, without warning, she threw her arms around his neck in a fierce, clumsy hug that nearly knocked him backward. “Don’t let the shadows win, okay? You’re the smartest. You always figure stuff out.”

  The sudden warmth of her small body against his sweat-soaked tunic grounded him like an anchor dropped in storm-tossed water. He hugged her back—careful, gentle, mindful of how fragile she felt—and ruffled her messy hair. “I won’t. Promise.”

  She pulled away, nodding with exaggerated seriousness. “Good. Now hurry up and get dressed. I’m not covering for you if Mom comes back and you’re still in bed.”

  Hikaru exhaled a shaky laugh—the first real one since waking. “Bossy.”

  “Someone has to be.” She stuck out her tongue, then darted out, leaving the lunch bundle neatly on his desk beside his inkpot.

  He sat motionless a moment longer, staring at the cloth-wrapped rice balls. The nightmare still pressed at the edges of his mind—cold, watchful, patient. But Hana’s fierce little voice lingered too, small and trusting and utterly unafraid.

  He pushed the blanket aside, swung his legs over the bed’s edge, and stood on unsteady feet.

  Routine. Just cling to routine.

  Splash cold water from the basin on his face until his skin stung. Change into clean tunic and vest. Lace boots. Sling satchel over shoulder. Tuck lunch inside.

  He stepped into the main room—empty now, hearth embers banked low and gray, Aiko’s apron still draped over a chair back like a ghost. Makato’s heavy boots absent from their usual place by the door. The house felt quieter than usual, almost expectant.

  Hikaru pushed open the front door.

  The gate creaked behind him as he broke into a jog, then a full run down the mist-softened dirt road toward the academy.

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  Hikaru burst through the gate and hit the dirt road at a dead sprint.

  Low morning mist clung to the ground like smoke, turning the world soft-edged and gray. His boots slapped unevenly against packed earth—lungs already burning from yesterday’s sword drills, legs heavy with fatigue—but he didn’t slow. He wasn’t built for raw speed; Sora could leave him trailing dust without breathing hard. What Hikaru had was peripheral vision that never stopped scanning, a mind that mapped trajectories and obstacles three heartbeats in advance.

  The road curved gently past Widow Mara’s herb patch—rosemary sharp in the damp air—then straightened toward the first clustered houses. He read the path in rapid flashes: low stone fence on the right (potential vault point if blocked), narrow gap left between baker’s cart and cooper’s wall (tight squeeze but doable at speed), lone chicken pecking dead center ahead (dodge right, two strides, adjust left to avoid feathers).

  He leaned into the curve, shifted weight to his outside foot, cleared the bird without breaking stride. It squawked indignantly behind him.

  The first real surprise came at the bend near the mill stream bridge.

  Miller’s wife stepped out from a hidden side path without looking—arms overloaded with laundry baskets, humming absently. Hikaru was two strides from collision.

  He registered her peripheral shadow first. Instinct fired: plant left foot hard, twist hips right, drop right shoulder low. His body angled sideways in a tight, controlled arc, passing so close the edge of her top basket brushed his sleeve with a soft whisper of fabric.

  “Watch it, boy!” she snapped, baskets wobbling dangerously. “Be careful—nearly knocked me into the ditch!”

  “Sorry!” he called back over his shoulder, already accelerating. No time to stop. Heart rate climbed another painful notch.

  The road dipped, then rose toward the village square. Halfway up the gentle incline a small delivery cart—pulled by a single stubborn gray pony—darted out from a left alley without warning. The driver, a boy no older than twelve, yanked the reins too late. The cart cut straight across Hikaru’s path, wheels rattling, low wooden frame stacked high with flour sacks.

  No room to swerve wide. No time to skid safely.

  Hikaru’s eyes flicked: cart moving left-to-right at brisk walking pace, pony’s head low and ears flicking, gap above the load just wide enough if timed perfectly. He planted both feet, knees bending deep like coiled springs, then exploded upward. Leading with his right foot he vaulted clean over the cart’s bed—body stretched horizontal for a suspended heartbeat—boots clearing the topmost sack by a bare handspan. He landed rolling on the far side, momentum carrying him into a smooth forward tumble that popped him upright without losing a single stride.

  The boy gaped after him. “How—?!”

  Hikaru didn’t answer. Breath rasped harder now, but the square lay just ahead.

  Right at the edge where the dirt road opened into the main thoroughfare, Sora leaned casually against the stone well rim—bow already slung over one shoulder, arms crossed, grinning like he’d been waiting all morning.

  “Hurry up, genius!” Sora called, waving once. “You’re gonna make us both late—again!”

  Hikaru locked eyes on him. A stubborn surge of energy hit—defiance against the lingering nightmare chill. Head down, arms pumping, he charged straight at Sora like a breaking storm.

  A sudden wind rose behind him—sharp, unnatural—whipping dust into tiny spirals and tugging at Sora’s tunic. It felt almost alive, a low howl that chased Hikaru’s heels and ruffled his white hair forward like a defiant banner. Sora’s easy grin faltered for half a second, eyes widening at the sheer force of Hikaru’s approach.

  “Don’t get left behind!” Hikaru shouted, voice rough from exertion. He blew past Sora in a blur—sleeves snapping together with a crack—then kept going, boots pounding the packed earth of the main road.

  Sora laughed—bright, surprised—and shoved off the well to give chase. “Show-off!”

  They ran side by side for three exhilarating strides—Sora matching pace effortlessly—when the third surprise thundered from the blind corner ahead: the mill road junction.

  Hooves. Iron rims. Heavy load shifting wildly.

  Hikaru’s head snapped left.

  A merchant wagon exploded into view—two massive draft horses at full panicked gallop, eyes rolling white with terror, foam flecking their mouths. Barrels lashed high rattled dangerously; grain sacks slid sideways. The driver—braided southern-style beard, copper beads glinting in his hair—stood half-up in the seat, reins slipping through sweat-slick fingers, bellowing “Whoa—damn you, whoa!”

  The wagon was aimed dead center through the square. Dead at Hikaru.

  Time sharpened to painful clarity.

  Distance: ten strides. Angles: left blocked by spice merchant’s stall, right crowded with yoked oxen. Escape: drop and roll? Wheels too close—crushed. Vault? No height or run-up.

  He was fixated forward—on Sora just behind, on the academy spire rising beyond—when sharp teeth clamped the back of his vest.

  Hard. Desperate. Yanking with surprising strength.

  Hikaru’s feet left the ground. World tilted violently. He flew backward, tumbling hard across dirt—satchel skidding free, palms scraping raw bloody lines. The wagon thundered past in a deafening roar, wheels missing his legs by bare centimeters. A barrel cracked against the well rim with a splintering boom; ale sloshed dark and foaming across the cobbles.

  Hikaru gasped, chest heaving. Pushed up on scraped elbows.

  The white dog stood braced in the middle of the road—thin frame trembling, ears flat, hackles raised along its spine, injured front leg held gingerly off the ground. Panting hard. Tail gave one uncertain, shaky wag.

  Sora skidded to a halt beside him, eyes wide with shock. “What the—?!”

  Hikaru scrambled forward on hands and knees. Arms wrapped around the dog’s neck—tight, shaking. Face buried in matted white fur that smelled of earth, pine, and faint blood.

  “Thank you,” he whispered, voice cracking open. “You saved me. Again.”

  The dog leaned in slowly. One rough, warm tongue licked across Hikaru’s tear-streaked cheek. Tail thumped weakly once against the dirt.

  Sora crouched beside them, breathing hard. “That mutt just… yanked you like a sack of grain. How—?”

  Hikaru pulled back enough to meet the dog’s dark, soulful eyes. Tears pricked hot again. “I don’t know. But he did.”

  They stayed frozen like that for a long moment—dust settling around them, villagers beginning to murmur and point, the square slowly exhaling its held breath.

  Sora offered a hand. Hikaru took it, rising on legs that still shook. He brushed dirt from his torn vest, then looked down at the dog—who limped a few careful paces, then paused, glancing back expectantly.

  “I’m naming him Shiro,” Hikaru said softly. “White like me.”

  Sora snorted, but his grin was fond, almost proud. “Fits perfectly. Guardian dog for the guardian brain.”

  They started walking—side by side, steps deliberately slower now—toward the church spire rising ahead. The dog padded after at a cautious distance, limping but determined, tail low but wagging faintly.

  The wind had died completely. The square felt ordinary again—merchants righting barrels, children laughing, life resuming.

  But Hikaru’s pulse still raced unevenly.

  Today already felt irrevocably different.