The parade was glorious for almost six minutes.
Aki rode on a flower-covered platform shaped like a fox. Their new tail had been brushed to such absurd volume that it practically required its own seat.
Children ran beside the float copying the heroic pose printed on the festival banners.
Aki filled the air with tiny foxfire rabbits, birds, and one miniature dragon that became confused by its own tail.
They sent a glowing butterfly down toward the child from the ceremony.
It landed on the child’s nose.
Then one of the float’s wheels came loose.
The platform lurched.
Court attendants shouted.
Aki jumped down and threw both hands toward the axle.
A beautiful turquoise support appeared beneath it.
The wheel passed straight through.
Aki stared at their projection.
“Right.”
The projection shimmered.
“Still not furniture.”
Two porters strained to hold the platform upright.
The cheering crowd waited farther down the street.
Aki could have made another version of themself to wave from the float.
They looked at the waiting children.
Then at the wheel.
Aki dropped onto their stomach and crawled beneath the platform in full ceremonial robes.
“Wrench!”
A porter handed them one.
Aki hammered the wheel pin back into place.
Their second tail immediately found a puddle of grease.
“Of course you did.”
They emerged covered in oil and petals.
The porters bowed.
“Don’t tell anyone the Guardian used a wrench,” Aki whispered.
“Guardian-in-training,” one porter corrected.
“Especially don’t tell anyone that.”
Aki climbed back onto the float.
The glowing butterfly was still sitting on the child’s nose.
Aki stopped.
They had forgotten about it completely.
The butterfly opened and closed its wings.
Steady.
Real enough to persist, if not to touch.
Aki smiled.
Then the miniature dragon flew directly into their new tail and vanished.
“Progress,” Aki said.
◆ ◆ ◆
The true shape of guardianship became clearer that afternoon.
The Guardian Pavilion contained no shining weapons on pedestals.
It contained weather reports.
Bridge permits.
Petitions.
Irrigation disputes.
And a stack of formal complaints from offended moss spirits.
Tsukine placed a bundle of papers tied with red cord in front of Aki.
“What is this?”
“Your first exercise in public accountability.”
Aki untied the cord.
One roof tile.
Two laundry poles.
One rain barrel.
Twelve paper citizens.
Aki frowned.
“The citizens were mine.”
“Then their families may accept your apology directly.”
Aki dropped into a chair.
Their second tail knocked over an ink pot.
Tsukine caught the falling ink in a curl of silver foxfire before it hit the floor.
“I thought responsibility would feel more luminous,” Aki said.
“It does.”
Tsukine guided the ink back into its bottle.
“From far away.”
Her hand trembled.
Only once.
Only slightly.
But Aki noticed.
Their joking expression disappeared.
“You saw it too.”
Tsukine recapped the ink.
“Yes.”