He is a small man, dressed in the opulent robes of the Crane, and carrying a golden mask, held aloft on a delicate stick. "An affectation," he often says carelessly, "picked up from the Scorpion in Winter Court last year." His robes drape around a thin torso, his almost effeminate gestures displaying a courtier's grace. Within the hallowed halls of the Crane, he walks, greeting long-time friends and whispering polite courtesy to those he has yet to meet.

He is a traitor.

 Within his mind, the roar of a Lion is contained. Behind the soft words and lowered eyes, he holds back his anger at the opulence which surrounds him. His notes to a 'sickly mother' near Garden Under Shadow City are encoded, carefully hidden truths among webs of glass lies. I do not yet know to whom he sends them. 

He is a traitor, and I am his wife.

I was given in marriage to Osen upon his return from the Emperor's court in the spring. He was a nobleman, honorable and loyal to the mon of the Doji, subservient to his elders and compassionate to those he rules. I was honored to bring my lineage to his side, that our Kakita brothers would lend their support to his valiant efforts to rebuild our burned fortresses, our devastated homes.

I cannot speak against him. For two years, I have lived with him, kept his home and his monies, and in that time, I have grown to love him. This is my tale - my last story for the Artisans. A silent prayer to the Fortunes. May they . .

The pen scratched into silence as the shaded door opened, its rice-paper moving softly in the wooden frame. The soft smell of jasmine drifted through the garden to the dark surface of the porch, awakening the senses in the early morning glare.

"My wife?" Osen's voice called. It held a soft, caring resonance, and his footsteps were gentle and sure. "The dawn is coming, and I wished to share it with you."

Carefully, the lady set aside her quill and ink-stone, sealing the chalky black clay with a soft piece of wax. She lowered her hand to her obi, resting against the delicate glass vial given to her by the Agasha. It had been a magnificent evening, colors and hues of night against the bright pallette of the stars.

With a bow, she set aside her small writing table as the light began to brighten, sending the first creeping shadows across the garden wall. "I am happy to see you, my husband," she whispered softly, and truth shone in her voice.

As he knelt by her side, his hand brushed her arm, the skin rippling the fabric of her dark blue kimono. A tiny smile painted itself upon her features, and above them, the clouds turned a delicate shade of pink.
"How lovely . . " He murmured, but if his words were for his wife, or for the dawn, the singing sparrows did not tell. On the branch overhead, a bird lighted, chirping to the rising sun. The couple paused in commemoration of the dawn, no words required to fill the contentment between them. Yet, the lady's hand strayed idly to her obi, and her thoughts were distant.

"Osen-san," she murmured, "Do you remember the day of our marriage?"

He laughed, his kind face crinkling at the corners of his eyes. "Our wedding day, my lady? I've relived it a hundred times. Your parents were so proud of the match you had made, I am surprised they ever stopped telling the story." The lady's smile parted the clouds.

With a thought, he brushed a fingertip against her fan. "We were married in the early summer, when the flowers had ended their first bloom. I saw you first as those buds rose from the ground, and by the end of their life, you were my own." Osen paused as the sun's light shone across her skin, the color of ancient ivory. "You were magnificent. The most beautiful creature I had ever seen, Sasumiko, so simple, so untouched - a perfect, unset diamond among ornate jewels. Let the others have their gaudy colors and flashing battles of wit. I prefer your elegance to their strutting tea-bird's feathers."

She lowered her head then, her face catching the clean, bright light of the rising sun. Her features were plain, perhaps a bit too long in the nose and too wide through the brow. Unremarkable. A lock of hair, touched with the faintest hint of curl, fell from its clip and touched her neck softly. As the sun crested the hillock and illuminated the thin wooden porch, a single tear trickled down Sasumiko's cheek. Osen could do nothing save watch as the shadow of the jasmine hovered, as if to brush it away.

"My only regret is that we cannot have a daughter, to carry your soul's life through the ages. But the monks say it is our kharma" Osen's voice was low and soft, but Sasumiko turned away. As she did, he looked up into the reddened dawn, the bloodstained sky widespread above them. "I know it is not your fault that we are childless. It is the will of the Fortunes."

"Husband," she whispered, her voice soft and broken, "I am with child." Her body straightened as she spoke, and a deep, abiding faith crossed her features. "And I am dying."

Osen's eyes widened, but his cultured face did not change. "Lady what is this news?"

"Only the passing of truth, husband." A moment passed, then another. "I know your heart," she smiled, her skin turning to chalk as the sun lifted its face above the mountains. "And I cannot endure it."

She held her palm above his frozen chest. "I will not bear the child of a Lion."

"Who" he cried softly, his veneer beginning to break. "I am a Crane, my lady who dares condemn me?"
"You betray yourself, Osen-san. With every whisper in the night - in your sleep, you speak to me. You tell the truth you have hidden." Her eyes fell as she pulled her hand away. "I know your dreams."

He caught it, pressing her palm to his lips in a dangerously personal gesture.

"No, Osen, it is too late." Her voice shook, and her red lips shone as she smiled. Her other hand clutched at her obi, the hard surface beneath the silk pressing into her fingertips. "I thought I would turn against you, send your spirit to its death but do not fear for yourself. I am your loyal wife. I will not betray you.

"But I also will not betray my clan."

As she spoke, her face grew paler, and the shadow in her eyes was more than sadness. Her hand slipped from his, and fell like an autumn leaf upon the hard wood of the porch. As her body slumped, Osen grasped her thin waist, watching aghast as a thin glass vial rolled from beneath her obi. "My wife!"

She smiled faintly as she died. "Our child would have been born in the winter, when the snow rolled across the mountains of the Doji"

The pen rolled slowly across the surface of the inkstone on the table, scratching faint, windblown lines against the rice-paper as the tears of a traitor stained the newly made dawn.