Chapter One

Michael Mazure stood on the bow of the narrow clipper, savoring the sensation of ocean spray misting his face. He held his hand up, and the wind whipped playfully through his calloused fingers, danced and billowed through his clothes, filling the sails above him, delivering them at speed toward the harbors of Japan.

“Beg’n yer pardon, ser,” the ship’s captain said, cutting into Michael’s elation. He wrung the leather tricorne in his hands before donning it once again on his bald head.

“What is it…Captain.” Michael laced the peon’s title with enough derision to make the insignificant man wince. Had this been the man his superiors deemed worthy of his time?

The captain wrung at the laced cuffs of his jacket, forgetting that he’d placed his tricorne back on his head, eyes fixed on the oaken deck. “Far be it from me to question yer judgment, excellence; but do ye think it wise to dock outside o’our intended port of entry? I don’t mean to offend, yer grace…” the captain held his hand up disarmingly, seeing and sensing Michael’s ire. His crew, who initially looked on with intrigue, now busied themselves, fearing they’d become Michael’s next victim. “Jus’ wanna to have me story straight if we’re detained by any iron dogs along the coast.”

Japan’s new iron steamships were becoming more common on the open water. According to reports from Faction hierarchy, the authorities of these vessels had taken to confiscating smuggled goods like rabid dogs, keeping most of its captured contents for themselves, leaving few alive to report their mutinous ways.

“Your concerns have been noted, Captain…” Michael waved his hand dismissively “…continue to Hakodate as directed.” He waited, then barked “CAPTAIN!”, causing the nervous shipmaster to jump. His crew froze. All that could be heard was the wind beating the canvas sails against the mast. Michael wove between kegs of gunpowder and stacks of rope, stopping within inches of the trembling man’s face. The captain stank of jerkied salmon, sea-sweat, and rum.

Michael hissed softly, straightening the captain’s stupid cravat. “If you ever so much as utter another word to undermine my station in front of this crew again, I will personally feed you to them… feet first. Have I made myself clear?”

The captain winced, and pissed himself in fear. He bowed. “Yes, Commander Vell…”

For two months, through luxury rail car, steam ship, and royal clipper, the Faction high syndicate had grumbled his way across the pacific with these dregs.

To pass the time, he’d taken to terrifying the crew in his free hours.

Michael had used reason, of course: the oversalting of a meal sent the first cook over the rails, then the cabin boy was “lightly” skinned for staining his best waistcoat. By the time he’d had the first mate keel-hauled for insubordination, the crew avoided interacting with Michael at all costs. The acts of violence were unnecessary, but they were entertaining and effective; the crew no longer questioned his purpose in travelling to Japan, nor did they inquire about the box he kept securely under his bed.

In truth? He couldn’t have cared less. Michael relished the fear in the captain’s voice when using his name; he adored his Faction moniker.

Vellkarn—Flayed Eagle, in the old tongue—had been a well-earned title as a first-generation Faction elite. The sacrament—a standard Faction initiation dealing in blood, pain, and tradition—had lasted longer than any previous rite his superiors had performed. He had an innate ability to withstand physical pain, unsurpassed by any other in the veiled organization. It had taken the flaying of Michael’s upper back to elicit the response they’d craved, giving him the scarified wings that he lovingly flexed at the captain’s evacuation of his bodily functions.

The peasant flitted away, screaming at his crew to get back to work, to hoist the mainsail, and take the ship hard to starboard. Michael smiled, relishing his station and title. He’d come a long way from his origins as a fur-trader on the banks of Lake St. Clair, scavenging what little meat he could muster while operating as a skinner at the local market, conning unsuspecting rich men out of a few extra greenbacks… taking pleasure in the sounds of pelts coming free from muscle and tendon. He returned to the bow, reminiscing fondly on his youth as the ocean resumed its salt-soaked kisses.

They entered the harbor at dusk, the sun setting behind a veil of mist on the horizon, casting that same urine-tinged dread of the captain from earlier in the morning, and Michael smiled. Shouts to drop anchor were relayed from bow to stern, and the sails were stowed; they would travel the rest of the way to the harbor by dinghy. Michael retreated to the captain’s quarters—unapologetically occupied on day-one with little protest from the captain himself—and stuffed his belongings in his duffel. He’d refused servants, all deemed incapable of doing what the man could do for himself. It was the ingrained pride of his previous life, and he knew it, but some things just felt better to accomplish when done yourself.

He’d removed the fineries from his person, choosing austerity over opulence, hoping to disarm the local populace by looking slightly humbler than the average aristocrat. These people disliked westerners. Their unease was justified; the barbarity his people had shown since Japan’s emperor opted to open its shores to outsiders was evident in the glares and muttered curses.

Michael wasn’t interested in them, however…

He wanted to see their demons.

They debarked, Michael’s bag nearly crushing a midshipman when he tossed it overboard. It landed with a thud—and without apology— before they sloshed their way to shore. The oars rhythmically slapped at the water, reminding him of the pails of blood carried in his youth as a skinner. His eventual upgrade to people would be the attention his master’s needed to bring him into the fold, but not before he’d added nearly an inch of sanguine life to the body of St. Claire’s waters. He felt his heart drumming in tandem to the rowing, thinking ahead to the task at hand, mind going to the ornate box at the top of his duffle.

It was, supposedly, strong enough to hold a god.

The sun lost its sway over the waking world, disappearing fully into the maw of the west, leaving the water and mists to swirl in a smoky gray twilight. As light descended, shapes began to manifest on the horizon. The silhouette of a dock came into view, one lone figure standing out against the bustle of activity in the monochrome silver of dusk.

This must be my guide…

Michael’s superiors had informed him that a local ronin would be his travelling companion for his journey north. They’d tasked him with assisting a local transient—a faction term for beings from beyond their stars—with returning some missing property. He’d obliged—grudgingly—to the support, wishing to catch the local bandits and would-be thieves off guard with his… talents. Now he was sidled with this inky outline of robes and baggy trousers that transitioned to the fully fleshed details of a man in his early forties, heavily scarred, and stern. Michael was instantly drawn to him.

“Ka-nee-chee-wa.” Michael forced the words, feigning the ignorance of the standard westerner with a vague approximation of the language. He was fluent in Mandarin, Korean, Cantonese, and a multitude of other languages. Japanese to him was the silk kimono of eastern language; to butcher it so hurt his pride.

“Ya.” Michael’s guide returned, never uncrossing his arms or breaking his wide stance, scowling at the rabble that broke around him. He spoke in rapid fire Japanese “Do not start our meeting with lies, Syndicate… I know who you are.”

Michael tried to keep his surprise from showing, but a sly, nearly imperceptible smirk pulled at the corner of his guide’s lips.

“Very well…” Michael started over, surprising the crew with his mastery of the language. “…would you prefer to speak in my native tongue, or yours?”

 “I have always had an affinity for your dialect.” The stranger smiled. “It is so—”

“Unrefined?” Michael finished for him.

His guide shook his head. “Barbaric.”

Michael laughed, further terrifying the crew. He bowed slightly. “Very well. I am Vell: Faction Syndicate of the Great Waters.”

The guide returned the bow. “I am honored, Commander Vellkran of the Nibiishan.  I am Kageyama of the Arakumo clan.”

Michael nodded in approval. Mountain Shadow was a fitting name for this subdued stranger. Further, Michael had chosen to omit nibiishan—the Algonquin word for great lakes—in case the mystery man was unaware of the translation. It would appear that this ronin had secrets of his own.

Kageyama sneered hatefully at the dull eyes of Michael’s party. “Will the rest of these cretins be joining you?”

Michael felt the sailors bristle at the words of a supposed savage, yet he found himself growing fond of the stranger’s blunt delivery. “They will not. They are quite lucky, in fact; I have left orders to set their ship aflame upon my exit from this dinghy.” He turned to the captain, who paled and shook visibly. “Thank you for your hospitality captain… send my regards to your superiors.”

The captain sputtered. “Th-Thank ye ser.”

Michael was out of the boat and on the dock when the explosion sounded. "Come, Kageyama, let us find some food and drink to wash away the stink of dogs."