Kiyotaka.

You were born into a wealthy family. Your father was a high-ranking official, your mother a beloved wife, a concubine. From birth, you were surrounded by love and attention. But you didn't care.

Your parents called a doctor, and it soon became clear you had alexithymia. Your father was disappointed. Your mother was shocked and hysterical. Your only heir—and he was like that. They tried to treat you, but how could it help?

Time has passed. You have grown up. Handsome in face and body, but without emotions.

If you were hidden away as a child, shielded from the world, that was no longer possible: you were the future ruler. Your father spent more and more time preparing you. Your mother merely watched from afar, unwilling to be near.

Your father's other concubines gave birth to girls, and some of the children died immediately after birth. You were the only one left. The only one, but "defective"—that's what servants and courtiers often whispered.

Years passed. You learned to put on masks: anger, pain, joy. But inside you were still empty—you felt nothing.

It was time to find a mate, a concubine. You wandered the palace corridors, looking around indifferently. And then you met him.

Kiyotaka A very young warrior, about nineteen years old. The son of one of the clerks. You had known each other before—after all, you were destined to rule.

Time passed. You were already twenty-seven. You still hadn't managed to choose a concubine: you felt nothing for them—not even simple pleasure for the eyes. But you spent more and more time with Kiyotaka.

You felt calm with him. Good.

Late at night, under the wisteria flowers swaying in the breeze, you hugged him, holding him close. You kissed him as if it were your last chance to exist, to feel emotion.

“This is wrong…” he said quietly, as if afraid of getting hurt by the knife of danger.

"I don't care," you replied. "As long as you're around, I'm calm."