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The morning of her offering dawned quiet and pale, as if the sky itself dared not weep.
The villagers gathered at the edge of Tsukihara-no-Mizu, their breath misting in the cold spring air. No drums, no chants, no celebration. Only the soft rustle of robes, the creak of an oar, the weight of unspoken prayers. It was not a festival, but a farewell.
Aika stood in the center of the temple, wrapped in nothing but a white linen shift. Her skin was cool beneath the open slats of the wooden walls, goosebumps rising along her arms. She did not tremble. Not yet.
Three priestesses approached her, their faces veiled, their movements practiced and slow. Without a word, they began to dress her — a ritual older than any scroll could record.
The first layer was white silk, smooth as falling snow. It clung to her like moonlight, whispering as it settled over her shoulders and down her arms.
The second was a red cord, looped three times around her waist and tied in a perfect knot at the back — the symbolic musubi no himo, the binding of the soul to destiny. It pulsed against her like a heartbeat.
The third was a hairpiece, simple and unadorned — a single silver pin carved into the shape of a coiling dragon. No jewels. No ornamentation. Just silver, elegant and quiet. One of the priestesses lifted Aika’s long, ink-black hair and twisted it into a low knot, sliding the pin through it until it held fast.
“You are ready,” one of them whispered.
Aika did not reply. Words would have shattered the stillness.
They led her down the stone path from the temple to the lake. The villagers parted silently. No one met her gaze. Not her mother, who clutched a rice charm in trembling hands. Not the children, who peeked from behind their mothers’ robes. Not even Lord Nakamura, who stood stiffly beside the village elders, his lips tight.
She stepped barefoot into the boat.
It was a small wooden skiff, carved from sacred cedar and lacquered with care. An old man rowed it — the last living mizu oshi, the water ferryman. His hands were cracked like driftwood, and he said nothing as he guided the boat away from shore.
Aika sat still in the center, her hands folded in her lap. The red cords lay heavy across her thighs. The lake mirrored the sky — colorless and vast. The surface shimmered faintly, disturbed only by the soft sound of the oar slicing through water.
As they reached the heart of the lake, the ferryman stopped. He did not speak. He did not bow. He simply set the oar across his knees and looked straight ahead.
The water was unnaturally still.
Aika stood.
She looked down, and for a moment — just a moment — she thought she saw something far below. A flicker. A shimmer of silver scales. Eyes like moons.
She closed her own.
There were no chants, no incantations. That was not the way. The offering must be silent. She must go willingly.
The silk shifted as she stepped to the edge of the boat.
The wind stilled.
The lake exhaled.
And Aika fell forward.
There was no splash. Only silence as the water embraced her, pulling her down with unnatural ease — like arms, like memory.
Down, down, down.
The red cord unwound slowly behind her, trailing like spilled blood in the blue darkness. Her eyes opened once, and she saw light — not from above, but below. A palace. A gate. A face.
Then the water closed over her completely.
And Aika was gone.
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