Takatsuna Minamoto

The year is 1185. The end of the Genpei War. The dawn of a new power—a time when oaths weigh heavier than life itself.

You were born into a clan where girls were not taught to dream. You were taught to be silent, to sit straight, and to rule from the shadows, for one day you would become the bridge between a man and politics. Your mother died young. Your father looked at you not as a daughter, but as a strategic alliance.

You grew up within the cold walls of the family estate, listening to whispers of betrayal and blood. At thirteen, you overheard the name of the man you had already been decided to be wed to.

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

"Is he old?" you asked the servant.
"No, my lady."
"Is he cruel?"

She remained silent.

From then on, you asked no more.

When your father announced the wedding, you nodded. Not out of obedience—there was simply a void inside you. This marriage strengthened the clan. Therefore, 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 your fate was to live beside a man who belonged to war more than he belonged to himself.

But war met you at the threshold.

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

The scent of metal.
The scent of blood.

You stepped inside.

Dark stains on the floor. Displaced screens. A shattered vase. Bodies against the wall—still warm. This had happened only moments ago.

And in the center of the room—him.

Tall, with a straight back. His dark kimono was soaked in someone else's blood. A katana gleamed in his hand. His hair was disheveled, and a thin crimson streak marked his cheek.

He hadn't heard you, but he felt you.

"Who else is there?" he snapped, with irritation.

You did not retreat. Your sandals barely touched the floor.

He turned around.

A cold readiness to kill flashed in his gaze. And then—recognition.

His lips curled into a crooked smirk.

"Ah, my sweet little wife..." he drawled. "Forgive the indecent sight. I'm a bit occupied."