Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 154368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 772(@200wpm)___ 617(@250wpm)___ 515(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 772(@200wpm)___ 617(@250wpm)___ 515(@300wpm)
I'd been performing confidence I didn't fully feel.
I'd been making an entrance.
But that was before.
Before the pyre.
Before the ash.
Before I learned that fire could be beautiful and horrifying in the same breath.
Now I was standing here in a phoenix gown, about to walk into a room full of weapons and war strategy, and I had no idea what waited on the other side.
Girl. . .just open the doors and see.
I pushed them open and entered.
Okay.
The war room was dark.
For one disorienting moment, I thought the women had made a mistake. Wrong room. Wrong doors. Because the space I remembered—the chaos of men, the smoke, the shouted commands—was gone.
Then the lights began to rise.
Slowly.
Softly.
And I saw.
Oh my God.
The massive 4D display of Tokyo dominated the room just as it had before—but everything else had changed.
Instead of harsh tactical brightness, soft golden uplighting traced the miniature skyline from below, turning three and four-foot skyscrapers into glowing sculptures. The buildings cast long shadows across the marble floor, creating a city of light and darkness that took my breath away.
I stepped further inside.
The eight flat screens on the far wall were all dark now. No news footage like the first time I’d come in here.
No bombed buildings burning in Tokyo.
No war.
Just black glass that reflected the hundreds of candles scattered throughout the massive space.
And the candles were everywhere.
Floating in the miniature rivers that wound through the 4D Tokyo. Clustered on the stone ledges along the walls.
The whole room hummed with warm amber and gold light.
The crimson banners still hung from the black-beamed ceiling—silver dragons eating their own tails—but tonight they looked less like war flags and more like decoration.
Like this had always been a ballroom waiting for its queen.
"Tora." Kenji’s voice—low, warm, unhurried— drifted from somewhere inside the 4D city.
I froze.
My eyes swept the miniature skyline. Buildings rose all around the display—some to my waist, many to my shoulders, a few past my head.
But no Kenji.
I called out, "Where are you?"
"Come find me, Tora." The words curled through the city, scattered between rooftops, and dissolved before I could trace their direction.
He was in there.
Somewhere inside Tokyo, hidden among the buildings and the candlelight, my Dragon was waiting.
I smiled.
Alright. Let’s find the Dragon.
I stepped onto the raised platform of the display, moving carefully between structures. My gown brushed against tiny intersections.
I was an elegantly dressed giant walking through a sleeping city.
A goddess dressed in fire, hunting her dragon.
Up close, the craftsmanship was even more staggering than I remembered. Miniature Tokyo stretched before me. Many of the buildings rose to my shoulders. Others rose higher. They were super detailed down to the tiny windows, the rooftop gardens, and the billboards advertising products in Japanese characters.
I recognized Shibuya first. The famous crossing, frozen in miniature replication. Tiny figures no bigger than my fingers, caught mid-step.
The Shibuya 109 building with its cylindrical shape.
The Hachiko statue, barely visible near the station entrance.
Then Roppongi, with its cluster of nightclubs and towers. Roppongi Hills rising proud, its observation deck detailed with tiny railings.
Tokyo Tower glowed to my left—a soft amber tonight, lit from within.
And everywhere—the markers.
Dragon heads with curved horns and gold-tipped teeth sat on rooftops throughout the display. Dozens and dozens of them.
Maybe more.
Each one no bigger than my hand, but carved and claiming territory.
Fox heads were placed too, sleeker, more cunning in their design, and clustered in certain districts.
In fact, I noticed many of the Fox heads were concentrated near Ginza, near Shinjuku.
And then I spotted the Lion heads.
Only a few.
Maybe eight or nine total. But they were there—placed on buildings near the ports and certain intersections.
Continuing forward, I tore my eyes away from the markers and followed a path that wound between buildings.
The Sumida River curved through the display, a ribbon of actual water glowing with submerged lights.
Cherry blossom petals floated on its surface, pale pink against the blue.
Bridges arched over the river in miniature. Asakusa rose on one bank, the famous Senso-ji temple detailed down to its red lanterns.
The Tokyo Skytree pierced upward on the other side.
And there, in the center of it all. . .a low table had been set up in a clearing near the river. Silk cushions in deep crimson surrounded the table. White flowers I didn't recognize spilled from small vases.
But I barely saw the table.
Because Kenji was there.
Waiting.
And God, he was devastating.
He wore a tuxedo. Black as midnight, cut so precisely it looked painted onto his body.
The jacket hugged the broad expanse of his shoulders, tapered along the narrow line of his waist, and fell in clean lines.
The lapels were satin.
His white dress shirt was crisp beneath, the collar sharp, but he'd left the bow tie undone. In fact, the black silk hung loose around his neck as if Kenji were saying, “Yes, I'll give you the fairy tale. But I'm still the Dragon underneath.”