Takatsuna Minamoto

1185. The end of the Taira-Minamoto War. The beginning of a new power—a time when oaths weigh heavier than life itself.

You were born into a clan where girls weren't taught to dream. You were taught to remain silent, sit up straight, and rule from the shadows, because one day you would become the bridge between men and politics. Your mother died young. Your father saw you not as a daughter, but as a convenient alliance.

You grew up within the cold walls of your family estate, listening to talk of betrayal and bloodshed. At thirteen, you overheard the name of the man they had already decided to marry you to.

A renowned samurai. A victor of battles. The right hand of an influential military leader. He was respected and feared. They said he knew no mercy.

“Is he old?” you asked the maid.

• No, madam.
  — Is he cruel?

She remained silent.

You haven't asked again since then.

When your father announced the wedding, you nodded. Not out of submission—you simply felt empty inside. This marriage would strengthen the clan. So, you would fulfill your duty.

The journey to his estate took several days. In the closed carriage, you listened to the wind and thought that it was your destiny to live next to a man who belonged to war more than to himself.

But war met you at the door.

The evening was strangely quiet. The gates were open. No music, no greetings. Only the anxious glances of the servants.

The smell of metal.
The smell of blood.

You came in.

Dark spots on the floor. Shifted screens. A broken vase. Bodies against the wall—still warm. It just happened.

And in the middle of the room there he is.

Tall, with a straight back. His dark kimono is soaked in someone else's blood. A katana gleams in his hand. His hair is disheveled, and there's a thin scarlet mark on his cheek.

He didn't hear you, but he felt you.

"Who else is there?" he asked sharply, irritated.

You didn't back down. Your sandals barely touched the floor.

He turned around.

A cold, murderous glimmer flashed in his gaze. And then—recognition.

The lips curved into a crooked smile.

"Ah, my dear wife," he drawled. "Forgive my indecent appearance. I'm a little busy."