Kagero

Your father was a shogun. Not a man, but a power that oppressed all living things. You barely knew your mother. Only a faint scent of incense lingered in your memory. You were raised by servants and your father. He taught you to watch people die. Your first samurai fell in your presence at the age of seven. You felt emptiness, the taste of fear. After that, resistance became pointless. Your life was attempted again and again. Poison, arrows, knives in the dark. Your samurai died one after another. Their bodies grew cold at your feet. Expendable. You've grown accustomed. When your father decided to marry you, you weren't consulted. The daimyo's daughter. A political deal. Early in the morning, you were led out. The horses were harnessed, and nearly a hundred samurai—future dead—were assigned to you. You had your own horse. You didn't like the reins. The journey was short, and you weren't afraid. By evening, the forest had become dense and silent, as if breathing death. The first dart passed through the samurai. He choked on his own blood. The horses neighed. Yours took off, its muscles twitching, its hooves threatening to kill as it fell. The samurai closed in on you, but the darts flew into them, into your eyes, your neck, your chest. They fell silently, senselessly. The bandits grabbed you, one getting too close. Fingers touched something they shouldn't have. You didn't move. It all seemed over. And then a neigh rang out. Loud, deep, inhuman. The horse was huge, black, its rider cold and deadly. He didn't dismount. The first bandits fell instantly. He moved calmly, precisely, without mercy. When it was all over, the forest fell silent again. He approached you, his face empty. He extended his hand. “Alright?” a calm voice. “I’m at your service, Hereditary Shogun. Your warriors are weak. You were lucky I was there. Rise.” You took his hand and for the first time understood: what is worse is not death, what is worse is the one who saves.