There was no evening sunlight to slant across the painted screens, but they could feel the waning of the day, nonetheless. As if an unspoken tremor moved across the golden sky, ageless night was descending gently around them.

Too disciplined to sigh, Naaza lowered his snakeheaded swords, blades going still at his sides. They fought without armor, here in the long otherworld afternoons; fought with their weapons alone, and the formal traditional clothing of their mutual past. Armor was for the human world, another layer of skin to protect them from the dying air of mortality. Here, their yoroi slept folded in on themselves in their armor orbs, thrumming with latent power, cool to the touch like mountain snow.

Rajura, who had been his sparring partner, let fall his crafted illusion, and the match between them ended without a victor. There was no blood spilled between them, not this day; they were too closely matched for that, all of them.

The sash tied close around Naaza's waist was damp with exertion, though, and Rajura's hair hung heavily around his face. The Gen Masho tilted his chin that his hair might fall back from his good eye, granted his opponent a careful smile.

Their audience stirred, Anubisu cross-legged and careless on the mat, Sh'ten on one elbow, at his side. Anubisu laughed his jackal-laugh, with a smile that showed his teeth. His katana was unsheathed, hungry for battle, but his poise was motionless, content with waiting.

It was Sh'ten who spoke, his red hair like a smooth fall of blood, brushing the thirsty edge of Anubisu's blade. "She's singing again."

And in that unchanging land, they could hear her: Lord Arago's new favorite, singing a song of nightfall with a voice as sweet and terrible as her swift and starlight swords.