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The first time they met didn’t end exceptionally well. 

Kazuha was just a young boy, then. No older than eight. The arrangements between him and prince Kunikuzushi had just been settled, their marriage only recently finalized. As a child, Kazuha didn’t understand the full extent of what that meant — all he truly knew was that it allowed him to go on a trip to the palace, and it gave him the chance to make a lot of new friends. 

As a kid, he had little to no clue as to why he was betrothed to Kunikuzushi. How did someone like him belong with someone like the prince? Kazuha wasn’t anything special, at least, not to his knowledge. Kunikuzushi was a divine being, one of utmost royalty and pristine; how would they ever properly match? How would their souls intertwine? 

But as he grew older, he realized: it wasn’t about matching their souls together at all. It was about politics, connections, and monetary benefits. The Kaedehara clan was one of the most refined in all of Inazuma. They were well-known samurais, bred for generations. Kazuha’s blood flowed with their nobility, and so his heritage enabled him to be passed off to Kunikuzushi. 

It was a necessity. The clan was bordering on utter ruin; they were at risk of falling apart if something didn’t change. That ‘something’ meant selling off their only child to the highest bidder — in this case, it was the Shogunate.

Kazuha supposed he should consider himself lucky. It was better than anyone else, right? After all, the Shogunate ruled over all of Inazuma — they were quite literally the best of the best. 

Still, Kazuha didn’t deem himself fortunate at all. 

The day he met prince Kunikuzushi was a sunny one. The clouds that rolled across the sky were fat and puffy, and they seemed so soft and wispy to the touch. Kazuha attempted to make shapes out of them, creating eccentric scenarios within his mind. He always had an overactive imagination, something his family looked down upon. He didn’t need to have an imagination; creativity simply wouldn’t prove useful to him. 

At first, he needed to be strong. He was born to become a samurai, training ever since he could walk. He never knew what a ‘break’ meant. He had to be tough, so that one day, he could take up the mantle of the Kaedehara name. However, that all changed when the clan fell into debt. Then, he needed to be something else — no, someone else.

He had to be perfect. Pristine and proper, with only the best manners at all times. He had to look elegant and composed, and he could never raise his hand against another person. He was arranged to be the prince’s beloved, after all, and princesses certainly didn’t fight or spill the blood of others. 

It was all confusing, especially for a child, but Kazuha did his best. He wanted more than anything to make his parents proud. He sought their approval, chasing after their praise much like how a dog would chase its own tail. His efforts were meaningless; in the end, it would all amount to nothing. He could never truly make his parents proud, because in the end, nothing was ever enough for them. They always required more from him. 

When they gave birth to Kazuha, they did not view him as their son, let alone as a person. They considered him a stepping stone, a mere tool to manipulate and use. Kazuha was only seen by them when he could prove to be useful; otherwise, his existence was ignored. 

Maybe that would change with the Shogunate. Maybe the royal family would look at him and actually see him, not just the skills which he could do and the benefits his existence provided. 

Kazuha had entered a flowing courtyard filled with a variety of brightly colored flowers. He always loved nature and its scenery, but never was permitted to properly explore its bounties. He was constantly locked off inside, training at first to become a samurai, and then to become a princess. Samurai and princesses didn’t care about the outdoors, and so neither could he. 

That didn’t stop him from secretly enjoying it, though. 

As he wandered the grounds, a light breeze blew, ruffling his hair. Pale strands escaped from the ponytail his servant had styled for him, billowing around his face. His parents would probably scold him severely for such imperfections, but he found that at the moment, he just couldn’t bring himself to care. Their wrath was not foreign to him, and it was something he had learned to handle. 

For the moment, the boy had merely allowed himself a lapse of calm, smiling up at the sky. That was until a voice called out to him. 

“Who the hell are you?” 

Kazuha perked up, a pang of alarm coursing through him. His senses were especially keen, yet even he hadn’t noticed this new presence. He turned in a hurry, bowing quickly. His head brushed against the ground, his bangs obscuring his vision. “Forgive me.” His voice came out soft, perhaps just a bit sheepish. “I’m Kaedehara Kazuha, I was simply searching for prince—”

“Oh. It’s you. You can rise. Groveling at my feet makes you seem pathetic.” The boy speaking to him sounded so disdainful, Kazuha couldn’t help but feel hurt. How had he already messed up so severely? He’d barely been here for an hour. He couldn’t keep making silly errors; Archons forbid that he brought dishonor to his family. 

In a flourish, Kazuha straightened up, perfecting his posture. He smoothed down the kimono he wore, clearing his throat timidly. He tried to make conversation, but all words died upon his tongue once he saw just who stood before him. He hadn’t recognized him at first — they’d never met before, after all. But after seeing him— 

This is the prince. 

Cold violet eyes observed Kazuha, colder than the most frigid winter. It felt as if a bucket of freezing cold water had been dumped directly over his head. His limbs were frozen, locked painfully into place beneath the intensity of that stare. 

“They say the prince isn’t human. That’s why his eyes are violet. When he was created, they were dark blue. Yet as he grew older, his inhuman ways slipped from their restraints, seeping out into his appearance. It also explains why he’s so abnormally cruel. When his eyes begin to glow, anyone around him should make haste to flee.” 

Kazuha remembered the gossiping he’d heard from some of the maids back at his estate. He wasn’t one to pay it any heed — after all, gossip was just that. Gossip. Why should he believe baseless rumors? Yet rumors always began on a foundation of the truth, and now, he couldn’t help but believe what the maids had said. They certainly seemed correct; the way Kunikuzushi looked at him was utterly bone chilling. 

He wore the attire of the Shogunate. A flowing purple kimono, adorned with small bells and bows. Various electro insignias were printed across the fabric. When he walked, his heels clicked against the ground, echoing his every step. He was tall — taller than Kazuha. Did that mean he was also older? It seemed like it. His face was fair, chiseled and mature; he was more handsome than anyone else Kazuha had ever seen. 

Though Kunikuzushi appeared older, Kazuha assumed it wasn’t by much. He figured it would be rude to ask his age — and he didn’t want to dig himself into a deeper hole, so he kept his mouth carefully shut. From the talks about the prince which Kazuha had heard, it was extremely easy to anger him. He had a short temper, and Kazuha didn’t want to trigger him. He had to remain respectful. 

Long dark hair billowed down Kunikuzushi’s shoulders, his choppy bangs spilling into those unusual violet eyes. When he regarded Kazuha, the boy couldn’t help but feel helpless, like a specimen being surveyed underneath a microscope. Even though he was fully clothed, he felt utterly naked. Was this how a rabbit felt when under the gaze of a wolf? Was he a human, or simply prey? 

“At least you aren’t a complete eyesore like the other hags they brought to me.” Kunikuzushi’s voice was filled with disdain. He sounded so patronizing; so mocking and cruel. Kazuha didn’t know what he should do. He’d never been faced with someone like Kunikuzushi — someone who regarded him with a fierce sense of judgment. 

“. . . Forgive me, my lord,” Kazuha began, “but I don’t understand. What does the word ‘hag’ mean?” 

Kunikuzushi’s brow raised, and then he laughed, the sound echoing throughout the courtyard. Unlike most laughs Kazuha had heard, this one was not cheerful or friendly at all. It was bitter and mean, filled to the brim with a cunning sense of amusement. He laughed because he found Kazuha funny, he found the boy pitiful. His nativity was entertaining, and that was a good thing. 

“Ah, you are so naive, it kills me!” Kunikuzushi rested his hands on his knees, his chuckles eventually dying away. Kazuha tried not to feel too alarmed — he was killing the prince? He was worried then that at any moment, Kunikuzushi might slump over dead as a door nail. He was debating on whether he should fetch help or not when Kunikuzushi finally chose to answer him. 

“You know. The other potential wives they offered me.” Kunikuzushi walked towards him, coming to pause in front of a mystified Kazuha. He gripped tightly onto the boy’s chin, tilting his head up. He shifted Kazuha’s face from side to side, observing him closely. “They were all pathetic, ugly things. When I looked at them, it was as if I simply stared into an overflowing pile of trash. Just being in their presence caused bile to rise into the back of my throat. That’s what a hag means.” 

“I mean, you certainly don’t compare to me, but no one does. You are the best I will ever get, so I’ll keep you.” Kunikuzushi’s nails dug into Kazuha’s skin, and he suppressed a gasp, noticing that the prince’s nails were painted a jet black color. 

“T-thank you.” Kazuha stammered. He figured Kunikuzushi had directed a compliment towards him, even if it was quite backhanded. He would rather feign gratitude than have himself come off as ungrateful. Luckily enough, Kunikuzushi didn’t seem interested in his manners, merely rolling his eyes. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered. “No need to sound like a squeaky mouse. Then again, you do seem young. How old are you, brat?” 

Kazuha blinked, snowy lashes fluttering against his cheeks. “I turned eight in October, my lord!” He stated, fiddling nervously with his fingers. It was a bad habit which, despite many harsh punishments, he just couldn’t seem to let go of. Whenever he felt anxious, he tended to squirm and writhe. 

“Eight?” Kunikuzushi’s lip curled into a sneer. “Yeah, no. I’m fourteen. I don’t care what Mother says; I’m not getting married to you until you’re eighteen. So you can tell your parents that I accept you, but not anytime soon.” He released Kazuha quickly, shoving him aside rather roughly. 

The boy stumbled, catching himself only barely. He peered up towards Kunikuzushi, managing a small nod. “Oh . . . Alright then, my lord. Thank—”

“Don’t thank me. Just get out of my sight already. I’m sick of talking.” 

❛ ━━･❪ ♛❫ ･━━ ❜

Towards the end of October, Kazuha couldn’t help but experience a sense of dread. 

He would be turning eighteen in merely a few days. 

He would be married to the prince in merely a few days. 

Throughout the years of growing up, nothing had changed. Kazuha was still engaged to Kunikuzushi, who didn’t so much as acknowledge his existence. After their initial encounter in the courtyard, they never met again, which Kazuha couldn’t help but feel both relieved and disappointed over. He would like to know Kunikuzushi more, but at the same time, he wanted to maintain space. 

It was a frustrating contradiction, one which Kazuha could never shake. He had the feeling there was more to Kunikuzushi than his cruel exterior and the menacing rumors, but the prince simply forbade anyone from getting close enough to find out. However, since Kazuha was to become his spouse soon, he supposed Kunikuzushi wouldn’t be able to hide anything from him for too much longer. 

But what if there wasn’t anything deeper within the prince? What if he was just an empty husk like the gossip foretold? What if he had no heart? Kazuha tried not to let the intrusive thoughts get to him. He reminded himself that he paid no mind to rumors. When the time came, Kunikuzushi would reveal his true colors, Kazuha was sure of it. 

That day came sooner than Kazuha originally thought. 

“Psst. Pssst! Kazu!” A pebble hit the noble’s window, causing him to look up from the book he had been reading. His head tilted, and he marked his page carefully, moving to answer the sudden disturbance. 

Kazuha rolled open his window slowly, trying not to cause too much noise. He leaned against the sill, the fabric of his loose kimono slipping down his shoulder. “Tomo.” Kazuha stifled an exasperated sigh. “What are you doing here? I told you that you can’t sneak over here anymore. If my parents were to find out, they would have you executed—”

“The Musou no Hitotachi!” Tomo blurted out. Those wide lavender eyes of his were filled with excitement, the smile on his face rivaling the glow of the sun itself. Seeing Tomo so genuinely happy was rare, and it caused some of Kazuha’s annoyance to slip away, ebbing like mist beneath the sunshine. He couldn’t stay mad at his friend for long. 

“What about it?” Kazuha took the cleverly offered bait, deciding to humor Tomo. His friend was unhealthily obsessed with the sword art, and Kazuha didn’t like to talk about it much. After all, the art was something specially used by the Shogunate, a family which he was meant to marry into. He didn’t want to hear about their limitless power, immense strength, and deadly precision. He didn’t want to be reminded. 

“A duel before the throne took place,” Tomo rambled, his eyes shimmering with a foreign glow. “The defeated foe is sentenced to be executed, in front of everyone. We can’t miss it! This is our chance to see the Musou no Hitotachi ourselves, without dying. And rumor has it that the prince will be there. Some even say he will perform it himself!” 

Kazuha’s breath hitched. His fingers dug into the surface of the sill he rested upon, searching for a fragment of stability. Kunikuzushi was going to perform that sword art? He knew the prince was exceptionally skilled with his blade, but he hadn’t properly calculated just how skilled he might be. And of course his mother would teach him their family’s art — it was only natural, after all. 

Still, the thought of Kazuha’s future husband being that powerful . . . A chill rippled up his spine. He understood that as royalty, as the leaders of a nation, the Shogunate would sully their hands with blood. It was only natural. And yet he dreaded the day he would see innocent blood upon the Shogunate’s hands. They walked a fine line; one simple misstep, and they could slip into tyranny. 

And Kazuha refused to marry a tyrant. 

His thoughts were interrupted by Tomo, who waved towards him. “Come on! You’re not going to miss your darling husband’s big moment, are you? We’ll be in and out! It’ll only take an hour or two at most. Your family won’t even notice your absence, I’m sure.” 

Of course they won’t. Kazuha dipped his head. Even Tomo knew that Kazuha’s parents neglected him, ignoring his existence unless they needed something from him. Was it that painfully obvious? He stifled the throb of grief he felt, instead allowing a soft sigh to ease past his parted lips. If Tomo was right in the end, then he might as well agree with him. After all — this couldn’t hurt, could it? 

“Allow me to get ready. I’ll be there shortly,” Kazuha murmured, and Tomo cheered, clapping his hands together excitedly. 

Kazuha disappeared from the window, moving to change. He slipped into a simpler kimono, one less expensive and fine-looking. He didn’t need unnecessary eyes upon him. He grabbed a straw hat from his closet, one which he usually used to shield himself from the sun whilst gardening or training — but now this could serve other purposes for him. It would protect him from any prying gazes. 

As an extra method of caution, Kazuha locked his door just in case. He doubted his parents would seek him out, but it was better to be safe than sorry. If they inquired anything of him, he would simply say that he had been asleep and accidentally locked his door. A poor lie, but it was the best which he could generate on the spot. Besides, he probably wouldn’t need to fib, anyway. 

Moments later, Kazuha was climbing down from his window, Tomo helping him jump to the ground. As Kazuha’s feet touched the soft grass, he couldn’t help but smile — it was a relief to be outside again after spending so long cooped up indoors. It was liberating to get a breath of fresh air, and he allowed the wind to brush freely against his cheeks, relishing in the sweet sensation. 

“Let’s go, slowpoke.” Tomo grabbed onto Kazuha’s hand, squeezing briefly. Kazuha couldn’t help but smile; it was difficult to be anything but cheerful when he was outside. He felt so free, as if he were a bird which had just escaped its cage. He wanted to spread his wings and fly, and Tomo helped him do just that. With him, Kazuha felt as if he could finally be his true and unashamed self. 

He wasn’t a samurai, or a future princess, or Kunikuzushi’s bride, he was just Kazuha.

Together, the two friends ran off into the distance, sticking carefully to the shadows. By now, they knew how to be stealthy, and they knew exactly how to avoid the watchful eyes of any guards. After countless times of sneaking out, they got quite good at it — Kazuha even liked to consider himself an expert. Tomo joked about them both being ninjas, and Kazuha liked to humor him. 

Tomo led the way, seeming to know the path already. Kazuha trailed after him, struggling to keep up with the frenzied pace. Since Tomo’s legs were so much longer than his, he had to practically jog to catch up with him, his breaths coming out in soft pants. Kazuha wished, for a brief moment, that he could have been born with a strong and tall body, like Tomo had been. Instead, he was granted a short, smaller and more fragile frame. 

Luckily enough for him, Inazuma City wasn’t too far off from his home. It couldn’t have been, considering he was to live within that city one day as the princess and future queen. Just the thought of that made him shudder; he didn’t like the idea of ruling a nation. It didn’t appeal to him at all. He would much rather prefer a quiet, peaceful existence. 

However, not everyone could live the life they wanted. He supposed that was just the way the world worked. Things weren’t always fair, and he had to accept that. Maybe once he was reborn, in a different life, he could live the way that he truly wanted to. But for now, he had to follow the path laid out for him. It was his duty as a Kaedehara. 

As they traveled, groups of people began to appear, all talking and murmuring. They seemed excited and perturbed about something — no doubt the duel. Kazuha tried to listen in on their conversations, catching bits and pieces of what they were saying. Apparently, the challenger was a man with an unknown name, who disagreed with the Shogunate’s harsh taxes. If he won, he planned on using the victory to free his family from some of the debt that they faced.

Of course, fate wasn’t kind to him. Anyone who challenged the Shogunate didn’t emerge victorious. It was a suicide attempt, really. A commoner was no match for the Shogun, let alone any of her soldiers. Kazuha wished people could understand that; or maybe they did, and simply didn’t care. They were obviously desperate, on their very last whim. They were willing to do anything. Anything. Even willing to sacrifice their own lives, just for a chance at success. Kazuha pitied them. 

Tomo suddenly came to a halt, and Kazuha skidded to a stop behind him, barely avoiding colliding with Tomo’s back. He couldn’t properly see past the throngs of people around; they obscured his view. He didn’t have Tomo’s height, and so he was stuck staring at nothing, just a sea of bodies. He frowned, tugging lightly at Tomo’s wrist, but his friend was paying him no attention. 

Kazuha tried to make out what was going on to no avail. He sighed in exasperation, tugging his hat further over his eyes. Perhaps coming here was a mistake. He should have just stayed home, continuing to read. Instead he was forced into a situation which he couldn’t even properly assess. Strands of hair fell into his gaze, but he didn’t bother pushing his bangs away. He merely sighed once more, his shoulders drooping. 

“Here.” Tomo finally turned towards him. He grabbed ahold of Kazuha’s hand, yanking him through the crowd. Kazuha could do nothing to object, his protests drowned out by the clamor of the citizens around him. He did everything he could to focus on Tomo, not wanting to get swept away by the crowd. 

Somehow, Tomo managed to push and shove his way to the front, Kazuha stumbling to a pause beside him. He hid himself partially behind Tomo, not wanting to be noticed. If anyone recognized him, he wouldn’t be able to explain himself. He was meant to be reading a book in his room, not witnessing a public execution. What would the citizens of Inazuma think if they saw him out and about like this? 

His thoughts trailed away when a familiar presence arrived — a presence he hadn’t acquainted himself with for years. 

Kazuha gripped tightly onto the sleeve of Tomo’s haori, digging his fingers into the rough fabric. He was grateful for Tomo’s broad frame; it hid him well as he cowered, shying away from the prince’s scathing gaze. Kunikuzushi stood watching the crowd, clearly disdainful of them, and the public knew well enough to fall relatively silent. 

So the rumors had been true. Kunikuzushi really would be the one performing the execution. Kazuha clung tighter onto Tomo out of sheer instinct. A chill rippled up his spine, and he couldn’t shake a menacing sensation of dread. It washed over his body in waves, rendering him nearly motionless. 

“You will be inlaid upon this statue.” When Kunikuzushi spoke, he sounded almost robotic — as if he had rehearsed the words over and over, which Kazuha supposed he probably had. He moved forward with an angelic grace, his every step poised and precise. He walked with purpose, heading steadily towards the trembling man who cowered on the floor of the Tenshukaku. 

“Please, no! Wait! No!” The man exclaimed. He seemed to have second thoughts, but there could be no going back. Once a duel was lost before the throne, it was pointless to try and save yourself. Execution was imminent, and it was an honorable death. Still, it was death regardless, and Kazuha couldn’t imagine meeting his doom publicly. He couldn’t do a single thing to help this man; all he could do was sit back and watch. 

His chest tightened, his throat closing up. A stifling sense of electricity entered the air, and he knew it was coming. The glorious sword art that only the royal family could do—he was about to witness it firsthand. He was about to see just what made the prince and the Shogunate so deadly to begin with. 

There was a reason they ruled Inazuma for all of eternity. Anyone who challenged them never lived to tell the tale, and over the years, people stopped daring to try and overthrow them.

Kazuha clenched his jaw so hard it ached; his grip on Tomo was the only thing that kept him from losing his composure. He didn’t know why he felt so scared — it wasn’t like him, and besides, he wasn’t the one being executed. Nonetheless . . . He was frightened. 

To witness divine power at its source—it was mystifying. And that divine power originated from his future husband, someone Kazuha was meant to spend the entirety of his life with. His stomach churned as if he’d eaten something terrible, but he swallowed back the bile that surged his mouth, grimacing. 

It was all over within seconds. If Kazuha hadn’t been paying attention, he would have missed it. If he had even blinked, he wouldn’t have seen what unfolded. He supposed it made sense — this was probably child’s play for Kunikuzushi. Disposing of this feeble man must have been nothing more than a game for him, or perhaps a meager chore. 

Zaps of electricity filled the air, casting an eccentric purple glow over Tenshukaku. Kunikuzushi’s hands formed over his chest, and Kazuha covered his mouth with a hand. The hair on his arms rose, and the stifling scent of electricity plagued his nostrils, nearly smothering him. His keen senses were reacting to this power negatively, and he felt so overwhelmed, bordering on growing faint. 

A flash of crackling energy appeared, and then Kunikuzushi had drawn a sword in a swath of electro, brandishing it in a flourish. Kazuha could hear the crowd gasp around him, in awe at the display of power and elegance Kunikuzushi presented. He too found himself transfixed, unable to turn his head away as Kunikuzushi dove forward. 

The man had tried to run, but he could not escape his own fate. Kunikuzushi’s sword severed him, cleanly down his center. Kazuha watched in suspended horror as a blinding flash enveloped the city from the blow. The raw power . . . His head felt light, and everything became distorted, his surroundings beginning to blur around him. Tomo had to hold him up, supporting his weight as Kazuha’s knees buckled. 

The man’s final cry was cut off, his body disintegrating into nothing but ash. The stench of burnt flesh filled the air, making Kazuha nearly retch. He wanted to leave — he desired nothing more than to go home and sleep for as long as he could. He didn’t realize that he was trembling until Tomo steadied him, gazing at him with concern. 

“Kazu—Kazuha. It’s okay. You’re alright. It’s over. Let’s get you home now, okay?” 

Kazuha couldn’t form a response. He was too busy staring at Kunikuzushi, who was walking calmly back up the steps of Tenshukaku. He paused, ever-so-briefly, to glance back at the crowd. When he did, Kazuha could have sworn their gazes met. 

Kunikuzushi’s lips curled upwards slightly into a grin, one that nearly made Kazuha collapse. He gripped tighter onto Tomo, who was still speaking to him. He could only concentrate onto Kunikuzushi—those violet eyes were burned into his mind, driving deep through the center of him, into his very core. All he could do was shiver, shaking with relief when Kunikuzushi finally moved away. 

When the prince was gone, Kazuha at last snapped back into reality. He turned to look up towards Tomo, who fixed him with a worried stare. “You good, Kazuha?” Tomo inquired, and Kazuha nodded meekly. It wasn’t like him to lose his grip like that; he needed to practice maintaining his composure. If he was ever going to be Kunikuzushi’s wife, it was a necessity. 

“I’m fine. Let’s just go home.” 

❛ ━━･❪ ♛❫ ･━━ ❜

It was October twenty-ninth. Kazuha’s eighteenth birthday, and the day he was finally married off to prince Kunikuzushi. 

It had been mere days since that occurrence at Tenshukaku, and Kazuha couldn’t erase it from his mind no matter how hard he tried. Each time he slept, each time he closed his eyes, the horrors of that moment plagued him. It shouldn’t faze him. After all, he was originally meant to be a samurai, wasn’t he? Honorable deaths and duels should have been second nature to him, and yet . . . 

“Kazuha.” 

The voice of his father dragged the boy from his reverie. After his day out with Tomo, he’d managed to sneak back into his room without a hitch. As he predicted, his parents never even realized that he was gone. They didn’t bat an eye over his disappearance — would they have even noticed if he died? Such dark thoughts were too grim to dwell much upon, especially since he already knew the answer. 

“Coming, Father.” Kazuha moved from his place sitting at his bed, transitioning towards his door. He opened it quickly, bowing respectfully, but his father didn’t seem interested in exchanging pleasantries. 

“Are you ready?” His father demanded, seeming impatient. Of course he would be — he was probably restless, eager to rid himself of his only child. Kazuha’s presence was just a hindrance, a stain upon his peaceful life. Once his son was gone, bargained off to the Shogunate, he could live the rest of his days in luxury. Kazuha tried not to feel bitter. 

“Of course.” Kazuha smiled, a close-lipped and forced gesture that didn’t reach his eyes, but that didn’t matter. As long as he seemed polite enough, no one would cast him a second glance. He tried to foresee the rest of his life — would he live out every day wearing a mask, feigning happiness? Would he ever truly feel content with his existence? Would there ever be anything more for him? 

His father surveyed him closely, eyeing him up and down. If there was even a thing out of place, it was likely he’d lose his cool. Kazuha had to look utterly perfect — if he couldn’t impress Kunikuzushi, they’d lose everything. He had to look spotless, a pristine doll, or else Kunikuzushi might not want him anymore. And that was all that mattered: Kunikuzushi’s opinion. Not Kazuha’s. 

“I guess the stylists did a good job,” his father muttered after a moment. “Come on. Hurry along, we don’t want to be late.” 

Kazuha trailed after his father, recalling a conversation he’d had with Tomo, the night before his birthday. 

“Hey, Kazuha.” Tomo had appeared before him when he definitely shouldn’t have. He was breaking the rules again, but Kazuha couldn’t bring himself to be angry at all. This could be the last time he ever saw or spoke with his best friend; he wanted to savor this moment to the fullest. Once Kazuha left for the palace, he’d likely never leave its chambers. 

Any remaining freedom he had would be snuffed out. Princesses couldn’t roam throughout nature, they couldn’t associate with commoners, and they definitely couldn’t stroll throughout the public. He would be locked away, hidden under lock and key, and he was powerless to stop any of it. 

“Why don’t you try to run away?” Tomo peered up at him sadly, a forlorn look in those purple eyes. Even though he joked about Kazuha’s marriage with Kunikuzushi, it was obvious he didn’t approve. Tomo was the only one who understood him — Tomo was the only one who knew what Kazuha wanted. He wished to travel the world, to live a life free from responsibility. 

“I wouldn’t make it far,” Kazuha murmured. “And my family would be punished.” He couldn’t become a coward, he couldn’t flee from his destiny, and he couldn’t leave his family behind. Even if they wouldn’t do the same for him, and even if they didn’t deserve any of his compassion. 

“Screw them.” Tomo scowled. “They’re just a bunch of assholes. Why should you care for them when they’ve never cared for you? Come with me, Kazuha. Let’s get out of here. We can leave this place behind and start a new life for ourselves.” Tomo offered him a hand, and Kazuha wanted so badly to take it — but he just couldn’t. 

Refusing Tomo had hurt, but he had to. He had no other choice. This was his fate, and who was Kazuha to argue with the stars? The gods had this planned for him, right from the beginning. Besides, he had to be rational. Even if they did run off together, they’d never make it out of Inazuma. They’d be tracked down and killed. 

Tomo was saddened, but he understood. When Kazuha had to do something, he’d do it — he’d see it through until the very end. This was no different. Still, it upset him that his best friend was sentencing himself to a life of nothing but suffering and sadness. He wanted to see Kazuha happy, but he hadn’t witnessed the boy smile genuinely in ages. 

“At least take this. We might not ever be able to talk again. This is my birthday present to you.” Tomo passed Kazuha a small hairpiece, styled into the shape of a maple leaf. Kazuha leaned down from his window to accept the present, his eyes wide with amazement. It was beautiful, shimmering beneath the moonlight — it must have cost Tomo a generous amount of mora. 

“Tomo. Thank you . . .” Kazuha had smiled genuinely for the first time in months, but it was laced with sadness. Around them, reddened leaves fell, cascading gently to the ground and signaling their final departure. 

Even now, Kazuha wore the hairpiece. It pinned his hair back into a ponytail. Loose strands framed his face, surrounding his cheeks just right. Every last detail of his appearance had been planned out; nothing could be amiss. Everything had to be to Kunikuzushi’s liking, or else disaster would surely entail. Kazuha had to act just the way the prince wanted, had to look how he wanted, had to be what he wanted. 

The pressure was stifling. To become a whole different person, to live as someone you weren’t, was challenging. The mental strain was immense, but Kazuha could manage. He’d struggled his whole life, so what was one more burden? His plate was already full, more stress certainly wouldn’t affect him. 

The white kimono that Kazuha wore brushed against the ground, billowing around his feet. The sleeves were too long for him, fully encompassing his hands, which he folded neatly behind his back. Each step he took was precise and careful; after all, the last thing he wanted to do was trip or stumble. He didn’t think he could ever recover from such a humiliation if that were to happen. 

When Kazuha exited his estate, he was greeted by the sight of the Shogunate. They waited to take him away to the palace, where the marriage would take place. He couldn’t help but feel as if a bomb had been dropped directly upon him, exploding his insides. This was happening — this was happening. 

The prince, of course, was nowhere to be seen. He wouldn’t escort Kazuha to his new home. It was bad luck to see the bride before the actual wedding, and besides, Kazuha doubted Kunikuzushi cared enough to even give him a second thought. He was on his own; he’d have to fend entirely for himself. 

The valuable belongings that Kazuha wished to bring with him had already been transported to the palace, and presumably deposited into his new room. Kazuha was just glad he was even allowed to take his personal items; he knew other people weren’t as lucky when being married off. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing his poems or books, or worst of all, Tomo’s gift to him. 

When it was time for Kazuha to leave, his parents seemed excited. They didn’t hug him or wish him luck or good fortune. They didn’t cry, they didn’t shed a single tear over their son. Why would they? To them, this was a glorious day, and yet to him it was the end of all he’d ever known. All he could do was clench his jaw and try not to cry. 

Tears burned at the back of his eyes, but he refused to cry. He steeled his face into a shroud of nonchalance, appearing entirely at ease, even when inside he was a mess. He was losing all he had ever known, being cast far off into a bottomless ocean. Who knew what terrors awaited him? It was especially hard not to be nervous after witnessing the Musou no Hitotachi mere days ago. 

“Goodbye, Kazuha. Mind your manners and make us proud.” His mother smiled at him, positively beaming, and Kazuha couldn’t find the strength to smile back. She wasn’t even coming to his wedding — his own mother didn’t care enough about him to see him seal his life with someone else. She’d rather just send him away where he couldn’t be her problem any longer. He was simply a pawn. 

“I will.” He kept his tone light and sweet, exactly what everyone would want to hear, when internally he just wanted to break down. He shouldn’t feel this way, he shouldn’t even feel at all. He didn’t act like how a good bride should. Shouldn’t he be more excited? Shouldn’t he be more hyper and enthusiastic? And yet all he knew was dread, coiling up like a snake within his stomach, creeping slowly throughout his veins, ebbing through him like poison. 

And that was that. Merely a simple exchange, and Kazuha was gone — his parents were gone, disappearing from his life as if they’d never even been there to begin with. 

He shouldn’t feel sad. Throughout the eighteen years he was alive, they never expressed true care for him. Despite that, grief still clawed at his heart. Perhaps that was his problem. Even though he tried not to, he still grew attached to people who couldn’t care less about him. He needed to learn to change, so he could protect himself better for the future. He had to prepare. 

The trip to the palace was silent. No one spoke to him, and he didn’t talk, either. Usually, Kazuha would have made small conversation, simply out of politeness, but he just couldn’t. Not this time. He felt as if he were a ticking time bomb, and at any moment, he would explode, bursting for the entire world to see. He just had to keep focusing on keeping himself together. 

When the palace finally appeared to him in the distance, Kazuha dug his fingers into his palms. Small crescents appeared across his skin from where his nails pierced his flesh; he hoped the imperfections wouldn’t earn Kunikuzushi’s disapproval. Would the slightest mark send the prince into a fit of disgust? Kazuha could still recall their very first conversation, all those years ago. 

Kunikuzushi had called his past suitors hags. He’d spoken with such blatant arrogance, and it was clear his ego wasn’t small. He bordered on plain narcissistic, and Kazuha figured anyone in his position would be. He was a divine being, fairer than any other, and everyone knew it. He viewed himself as a superior entity, and he was. No one could refute him, and he knew that, he took advantage of that and he enjoyed his power. 

Kazuha didn’t know how he’d manage. 

When the Shogunate soldiers escorted him towards the palace, he felt faint. His surroundings were distorted, blurred around him. Walking up the steps of Tenshukaku made him nauseous—the recent execution was burned into his mind. Someone had died here, and now he was meant to live in this empty place, full of darkness and secrets. 

Despite his grim future, the people that greeted him all seemed bright. At least they were excited for the wedding. They were all mere workers for the palace, maids and cooks and guards — no one who Kazuha would probably interact with frequently, much to his disappointment. He needed some cheer in his life, he needed some positivity. 

All around, people murmured, calling out his name. They called him princess, and all Kazuha could do was smile and wave.

He didn’t talk, keeping his lips pressed firmly shut. He didn’t want to risk speaking—what if that was not allowed? Instead, he opted for silence, since that was the least likely option to get him into trouble. He had to remain polite, he had to make his parents proud no matter what it cost him.  

He assumed that he wouldn’t have a proper conversation with anyone, at least not until the wedding properly came along, but those hopes flickered and died when a voice called out his name. He paused, stealing a curious glance over his shoulder. He didn’t recognize whoever was shouting his name, but he figured that he should probably wait for them, just in case they were important. 

“Kazuha!” A figure staggered to a halt at his side, panting slightly. “I had to haul ass just to make it over to you in time.” 

Kazuha didn’t bat an eye at the foul language; after all, his best friend was Tomo, someone who swore much like a sailor. He did find it a bit improper to curse at the palace, but he wasn’t one to infringe on someone’s freedom of speech. Instead, he simply dipped his head, offering the man a tight smile.

“My apologies, but you are . . . ?” He had no idea who this person could be; he didn’t recognize them, and they didn’t appear to be familiar. 

“Childe! The name is Childe.” A hand was offered to Kazuha, and he took it, shaking slowly. Childe beamed down at him, looking awfully eccentric, and Kazuha couldn’t seem to match his enthusiasm. “Forgive me for my lack of manners. I don’t have much tact, as you can see.” He rubbed the back of his neck, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Ah, anyway—let me quickly explain things to you! I’ll fill you in on as much as I can.” 

Kazuha waited, listening patiently as Childe began talking. He was someone who seemed able to ramble on and on about nothing for hours on end — and once upon a time, Kazuha was able to do the same, but not anymore. Princesses didn’t talk too much, they didn’t speak out of turn, they only spoke when spoken to. His chest tightened uncomfortably, and he hid the way his fists clenched, gripping tightly onto his kimono. 

“I’m your bodyguard. I used to be the prince’s, but since you’re to be married to him, he decided to assign me to you instead. To protect you and whatnot. Truthfully, I think he only did it since I annoy him and he wanted to get rid of me, but hey! Oh well. I needed a change of pace, anyway. You seem much nicer than Sca—Kunikuzushi, so I have the feeling working for you will be pleasant.” 

Kazuha noticed the subtle slip-up, but he didn’t comment on it. Childe had been ready to address Kunikuzushi by a different name, but what? And why? In the end, he decided that now was not the time to pry. He hated unanswered questions, but the world was filled with mysteries. Some of them he’d just have to accept and leave as unsolved. 

Besides, more pressing matters filled his mind at the moment. He was to have a bodyguard? Perhaps he should have been anticipating this, but even when he was at his family’s estate, they didn’t guard him so closely. But back there, he wasn’t a princess. Here, he was royalty by marriage, so obviously he would have a target over his head. He wanted to protest— he could protect himself. He was a Kaedehara, not a mouse. 

He’d been trained to fight, he’d been trained in all the matters of self-defense, but he supposed no one cared about that. They only viewed him as something delicate and fragile, someone meant to be shielded from the world. That wasn’t what he wanted, but then again, he couldn’t be selfish. He was probably expected to smile and act grateful. 

So that was what he would do. 

He waved a hand lightly, beaming up at Childe. “Oh, is that so? How kind of the prince to think of my safety, and how kind of you to offer me your services.” Well, it wasn’t as if Childe had a choice—this was his job, after all, and he’d received orders. Still, Kazuha feigned ignorance, hoping his lessons on proper etiquette could save him during this conversation. 

“I trust that we will get along just splendidly.” He sure hoped so; having a bodyguard he disliked would be dreadful. Having a bodyguard at all, though, was dreadful in itself. The last lingering remnants of his independence shattered and fell away from him, breaking apart like glass beneath his touch. He was powerless to stop his freedom from slipping away; instead, all he could do was smile and nod plainly. 

“Oh, of course, of course!” Childe grinned. There was something strange about him—he didn’t seem all right.

Kazuha considered himself to be observant, and when he studied Childe, there was just something off about him. Something that made Kazuha’s defenses rise, something that screamed wrongness at him. When his gut warned him of danger, Kazuha tended to listen to it. After all, the only person he could truly trust was himself. 

But Childe wore official clothing from the Shogunate, and all of the other employees seemed to recognize and know him. So why was Kazuha the only uneasy one? Perhaps it was just his nerves. He was about to get married — everything was new and scary to him. He didn’t like the idea of a bodyguard, and so as a result, he didn’t like Childe either. That was what his mind came up with, fumbling for a semblance of reassurance, something to calm him down. 

Yet gazing into Childe’s eyes, Kazuha couldn’t deny the dread that curled within him. Those eyes were dead, empty and devoid of any and all light. It was like staring into the depths of the ocean at night; bottomless and murky and devoid.

Kazuha suppressed a shiver, inhaling sharply. Childe’s scent was relatively normal, but for someone like Kazuha, small details weren’t missed. Childe carried the underlying reek of metal on him. 

Blood. Kazuha couldn’t hide his grimace. 

“Come along now, Kazuha! We don’t want to be late to the wedding, now do we?” Childe smiled down at him, and Kazuha figured it was meant to be a reassuring gesture. However, to him, Childe looked like a monster out of one of the fantasy books he’d read. Were his teeth pointed, too? Maybe at any moment he’d turn and devour Kazuha. 

Childe grabbed onto his wrist, tugging Kazuha off, further into the palace, and further towards his doom. 

❛ ━━･❪ ♛❫ ･━━ ❜

Walking alone down the aisle was probably one of the worst moments of Kazuha’s life. 

All around him, people stared. He wouldn’t be surprised if they took pictures of him as well. He couldn’t show how nervous he was, he couldn’t show how scared he was. He had no one around to support him, no one around who would be his shoulder to lean on. He was entirely alone, and he needed to learn how to fend for himself. He could be strong. 

Still, it stung. Having no one to rely on was brutal. This was meant to be the most important day of his life, wasn’t it? Instead, all he could feel was a dreadful sense of loneliness. He had been abandoned by his family, now forced into a situation he loathed, and he could do nothing to change it. Not a single thing. He wondered how many other people suffered like him; how many other people endured what he was enduring? 

People clapped and whispered whenever he appeared, they waved at him and exclaimed various compliments. All the while, he would smile and wave — just keep smiling. That was what his mother had taught him, and so that was what he would live by. If he smiled all of his pain and insecurities away, maybe one day that smile would finally become genuine. 

He couldn’t let anyone know how he truly felt. He couldn’t let anyone know that their princess-to-be would rather be anywhere but here. He had to maintain his mask, which felt more like his face than anything else at that point. If he slipped up, even in the slightest, then everything would come crumbling down, falling apart just like dominoes would. 

Every little thing he did would be judged. Every small action, every single word. There was nothing he could do that wouldn’t be judged. People were waiting for him to mess up, they were waiting to call him out on something— anything. They were looking for an excuse to gossip. If they could get something juicy to talk about, it was worth it, even at his expense. His feelings didn’t matter, not to them — not to anyone. 

He couldn’t give them anything to work with. He couldn’t give them an excuse to bring him down. Every single thing he did had to be flawless. He needed the public to like him. He needed the public to respect him. He needed to gain their good favor, otherwise, what would be left of him? He had to make sure that every person within Inazuma cherished him. He had to be a good princess.

The stress nearly made him faint, but he maintained his composure. He smiled towards the faces that peered at him, offering waves to whoever spoke to him. He only paused when his gaze drifted towards a familiar presence, his heart leaping from his chest into his throat. His palms grew slick with sweat, so he discreetly wiped them off on his kimono, continuing to smile. 

Prince Kunikuzushi waited patiently for him at the end of the aisle, staring towards him expectantly. Kazuha suddenly felt exposed, as if the mask he’d been wearing didn’t work at all. Kunikuzushi could surely see right through him — surely he knew Kazuha’s deepest and darkest secrets and fears. But no; that was impossible. Kazuha was merely overreacting from the stress of it all. 

When he stopped in front of Kunikuzushi, he made sure to never stop smiling. He had to let the masses think that he was happy. He was overjoyed. This was the greatest day of his life. He repeated the mantra over and over to himself, wondering what was wrong with him, wondering why it couldn’t be true. 

Kunikuzushi regarded him evenly. Kazuha couldn’t read his expression, but at least it wasn’t one of blatant repulsion. That was reassuring in itself. As long as Kunikuzushi could tolerate him, that was all which mattered. Kazuha just had to be good enough. He just had to keep trying — he had to keep fighting to maintain a pretty picture. 

Like Kazuha, Kunikuzushi wore formal clothes, although he was dressed in all black instead of the white Kazuha adorned. Kazuha also noted that his hair was cut — now patterned into the style of a mullet. His bangs, as chopped and messy as ever, fell into those violet eyes as he studied Kazuha, who tried not to feel like a fish out of water. 

Distantly, he could hear the priest beside them recite their vows. Kazuha had never been to a wedding before; he didn’t know exactly how things worked. He’d read stories, of course, but nothing could prepare him for the real thing. Everything was so foreign to him—he felt entirely out of his element. Did he stick out like a sore thumb? Maybe it was obvious that he didn’t know what to do. 

To keep himself preoccupied, he simply stared at Kunikuzushi, hoping his gaze seemed loving enough. And perhaps it would have been, if only they had enough time. Kunikuzushi was certainly handsome, and Kazuha was definitely attracted to him, but yet . . . Not enough to already be getting married. Things were moving far too fast. 

There was nothing he could do about it, though. He just had to sit back and accept things for how they were. It could always be worse. Other people had it much harder than he did; he should be grateful. His life was easier than other people’s, and so he shouldn’t be complaining. I should be happy. 

So why do I feel so sad? 

Why do I feel like my life is over, when it’s supposed to just be starting? 

His thoughts were interrupted when he realized that it was time for the vows to be shared. He needed to recite his devotion to Kunikuzushi, even if it was all nothing more than some high-strung, well-fabricated lie. 

“I, Kazuha, take thee, Kunikuzushi, to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part.”

The words tasted like bile on his tongue. When he spoke, the sentences came out chunky and robotic — to him, it was painfully obvious that he was lying, and yet to the world he seemed painfully in love. He kept the same sickly sweet smile on his face throughout it all, praying that no one looked too closely at his expression, praying that no one saw through the cracks in his composure. Luckily, no one did. 

Till death do us part. Kazuha repeated the saying over and over to himself. He would be at Kunikuzushi’s side until death separated them. He would only be free from the prince once he was dead. A shudder rippled up his spine, encompassing his whole body in a frigid chill. The only way he could achieve the freedom he so dearly desired was if he died. Was that a price worth paying? 

When it was Kunikuzushi’s turn to recite his vows, he seemed placid. Bored, even. He probably didn’t want this, either. He was most likely in the same sinking boat as Kazuha, forced into a situation he hated for the good of their public image. Perhaps they could relate to each other, then. Maybe, just maybe, they could truly grow closer. 

“I, Kunikuzushi, take thee, Kazuha, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part.”

Staring into Kunikuzushi’s eyes as he spoke was something strange. Kazuha didn’t know if he should feel frightened or mystified; perhaps both? All he could do was stand there silently, just praying for this all to end. 

“. . . You may now kiss the bride.” 

Kazuha’s heart jumped at the words. Right — they were meant to kiss. In front of everyone. He’d never kissed another person before. Of course not. He never had the time, and he was never allowed to explore any potential romance. Perhaps he could have entertained the idea of a relationship with Tomo, but they were best friends more than anything. 

And so that left him painfully inexperienced. Painfully pure. He was a blank slate, an untouched piece of parchment meant for Kunikuzushi to stain and defile. He wanted to throw up, but he forced the dissatisfying feelings aside. If he vomited during the kiss, he would likely be executed on the spot. There was nothing he could do besides suck up his emotions, just like he always did. 

If he closed his eyes, then it would surely be over in a flash. If he just followed Kunikuzushi’s lead, then everything would be fine. The public would surely understand his inexperience, it was only natural. He didn’t need to worry so much, and yet how could he not? He wasn’t used to not worrying. 

His jumbled thoughts were intercepted by Kunikuzushi himself. The prince grabbed onto him, pulling him closer roughly. He seemed eager to just get everything over with, which Kazuha was grateful for. All he wanted was some privacy, somewhere he could finally be alone, yet that wasn’t happening anytime soon. Maybe not ever. 

Kunikuzushi’s lips pressed onto his, and Kazuha hid the way his breath hitched. He was rendered speechless, entirely motionless as Kunikuzushi kissed him. Eventually, he forced himself to kiss back — that was what was expected of him, after all. He tried to seem invested and earnest, tried to ignore the way his heart raced and skittered inside of him. 

Kunikuzushi tasted like smoke. His lips were deceivingly soft, for Kazuha was caught off-guard when the prince sunk his teeth into Kazuha’s bottom lip, drawing blood. The metallic tang flooded Kazuha’s mouth, and he did his best not to tense. He didn’t want anyone around him to notice his discomfort; it was probably what Kunikuzushi wanted. Was he hoping for Kazuha to lose his cool? 

Kunikuzushi intensified the kiss, and Kazuha couldn’t keep up. This was too much, too fast, and he couldn’t match the rushed pace. Things were spiraling farther and farther out of his control. He tried not to panic, stifling a whimper when Kunikuzushi trailed slim fingers through his hair, tugging roughly. The ponytail that Kazuha and his stylists had worked so hard to maintain came undone, his hairpiece nearly falling from his head. 

“Kunikuzushi. Enough. Save it for when you both are in private.” The stern voice caused Kazuha’s blood to chill, and the temperature within the room seemed to drop a few degrees. It was as if winter had arrived early. 

This person was the only one Kunikuzushi would listen to. He pulled away from Kazuha, wiping away the string of saliva that still connected their lips. He glanced back at the queen with disdain, eyeing her scathingly. “Of course, Mother.” Though his words were respectful, his tone was anything but. He seemed vehement, barely disguising his blatant repulsion towards his own mother. 

The queen of Inazuma, Ei, regarded them both calmly. When she caught Kazuha’s gaze, she smiled at him. Kazuha didn’t know why, but the gesture calmed some of the crippling anxiety he felt. Ei was menacing, almost more than Kunikuzushi, but she had a surprising soft side. Could the same be said for her son? Kazuha would have to find out. 

After Ei’s interruption, the wedding continued as normal. The guests talked and clamored, desperate to speak with the newly-wedded couple. Kazuha was glued to Kunikuzushi’s side the whole night, simply because he had nowhere else to go. Besides, if he didn’t seem completely attached to his husband, the public would grow suspicious. 

They were interviewed — though Kazuha felt as if it were more like interrogated — and he tried not to falter. Kunikuzushi did most of the talking, luckily, and no one seemed too interested in what Kazuha had to say. Still, if he was ever asked any questions, he made sure to keep his gaze lowered, maintaining a soft and professional tone of voice. It worked well enough, since no one doubted him. 

Kazuha was fed a variety of foods — mainly desserts — and while it was all nice, he couldn’t stomach anything properly. Still, he forced it down, not wanting the masses to catch on. If someone saw him refusing to eat, they might assume he was sick and unfit for his position. That was the very last thing he needed. If he really had to, he’d simply throw up what he’d eaten later, once he was alone.

Kazuha was aware of Childe’s presence, nearly constant at his side or behind him. Childe was discreet, Kazuha could give him that, but he wasn’t invisible. Kazuha still knew he was there. He was like a gargoyle, always standing guard. Or perhaps a grim reaper fit his description better; Kazuha figured Childe’s presence should be reassuring, but instead, it was just gruesome. 

It didn’t help that Kazuha noticed someone else at his side. Another man, with some of the strangest hair Kazuha had ever seen. It was an odd blue color, falling in disheveled curls around his face, which was shrouded in a mask. Evidently enough, the mask wasn’t a sign of suspicion, since not a single person batted an eye at the bizarre stranger. 

In fact, they merely moved around him, ignoring his presence entirely. His red eyes were wild, eagerly assessing the scenery around him, and Kazuha could occasionally hear him talking to Childe. Probably making idle conversation. The fact that the pair followed Kazuha and Kunikuzushi everywhere made him believe that they were both bodyguards — and the one Kazuha didn’t know must have been Kunikuzushi’s. 

Frankly, Kazuha didn’t know if he trusted either of their bodyguards. There was something menacing about Childe, but his companion seemed even more brutal than him. While Childe’s eyes were empty, the stranger’s were too full. His dark eyes were nearly crazed, bordering on maniac. That stare was filled with a sick fascination, a curiosity akin to a child’s lighting up his face. When that gaze rested on Kazuha, the boy instinctively tensed, his body going rigid. 

He quickly looked away, praying that he hadn’t been caught staring, but he figured he had. That was fine — the blue-haired maniac wasn’t his bodyguard, after all. He only had to worry about Childe. Perhaps he should feel pity for his husband, having to deal with such a crazed individual. However, Kazuha felt no such thing. In fact, he figured Kunikuzushi’s bodyguard had to be insane in order to put up with someone like him. 

When the wedding finally —after countless hours—drew to a close, Kazuha couldn’t decide if he felt relieved or disappointed. After all, the wedding ending meant Kazuha would finally be alone with Kunikuzushi. 

Reality at last started to set in when Kunikuzushi stood up, dragging Kazuha away from the various guests who were still trying to speak with them. Kazuha was too flustered to protest, struggling to keep up with Kunikuzushi’s brisk pace. Considering the fact that the queen didn’t stop them, she was allowing this to happen. No one could help him now, then. He was all on his own. 

. . . Well, maybe not entirely. Glancing briefly over his shoulder, he noticed Childe and the blue-haired man following them. They kept a reasonable distance, but were still noticeable nonetheless. Kazuha quickly turned away again, praying they didn’t notice him constantly staring at them. 

Kunikuzushi guided him throughout the palace, walking with a purpose. He knew his way around these halls, probably like the back of his hand. He’d grown up here, after all. Kazuha, however, was stupefied. He was constantly looking around, his gaze wide with wonder. While his estate had been big, it never came close to the vast expanse of the Shogunate’s palace. This place was like a maze. If he wasn’t careful, he’d get lost. 

Eventually, after what felt like an eternity, Kunikuzushi halted in front of a set of marble doors. He didn’t release his grip on Kazuha, however; his touch felt like a vice, something Kazuha just couldn’t free himself from. He remained still, keeping his gaze trained on his feet. He could still feel the ghost of Kunikuzushi’s teeth, sinking harshly into his lip. He was sure there were bruises on his mouth from the prince’s roughness. 

“You’re dismissed. Both of you. Fuck off.” 

It took Kazuha a moment to realize Kunikuzushi was talking to their bodyguards. He looked up hesitantly, eyeing the two men who stood like shadows in the distance, watching them with the steady gaze of a hawk. For a moment, neither of them moved, until deranged laughter filled the air. Kazuha suppressed his frown, hiding the way his skin crawled at the sound of such maniacal laughter. It was coming from the masked man, Kunikuzushi’s personal bodyguard. 

“Of course, my prince! Please forgive our rudeness. It’s obvious you’d want to be alone with your dearest wife.” The words weren’t insulting, but for some reason, they certainly felt insulting. Kazuha said nothing, merely watching as the masked man continued to laugh and giggle to himself. Childe seemed just as amused, but at least he didn’t laugh. 

“If you’re done pissing yourself, Dottore, then get out of my sight. Just looking at you makes me want to vomit.” Kunikuzushi waved a hand impatiently. “I don’t like to repeat myself.” He smiled plainly, but it wasn’t a smile of kindness — it was a warning. Kazuha prayed that Dottore and Childe would take the hint, lest something bad happened to the both of them. 

Childe promptly turned on his heel, walking off down the hall. Dottore trailed after him, continuing to snicker and chuckle to himself. Was there an inside joke Kazuha was missing? What was so funny? Was something that hilarious to Dottore, something that he just didn’t get? He glanced towards Kunikuzushi, but the prince wasn’t bemused.

“Shitty ass guards,” he muttered crossly, throwing the doors in front of them open. He practically shoved Kazuha inside, the doors promptly closing behind them again with an echoing clang. Kazuha, to his credit, didn’t flinch. He merely dusted himself off, glancing towards the prince expectantly. If he stayed calm, maybe things would be fine.

“Stop staring at me like that.” Kunikuzushi rolled his eyes. “You’re like a damn dog, constantly following me and waiting for orders. Can’t you do shit for yourself? Do you need me to wipe your ass for you, too?” Kunikuzushi glared at him, his lip curled into a sneer, and Kazuha simply blinked. 

Such blatant disrespect should fill him with anger, and while he was offended, he couldn’t bring himself to be mad. Instead, he folded his hands in front of his chest, smiling plainly — smiling like he was told to do. “I don’t believe you’d particularly enjoy it if I made my own decisions, dear husband.” 

Kunikuzushi’s gaze flashed, and Kazuha briefly wondered if he’d gone too far. But then Kunikuzushi grinned; he didn’t seem annoyed enough to lash out at Kazuha, thankfully enough. Instead, he merely waved a hand dismissively, chuckling dryly. “Fair point. At least you can actually talk back to me, but learn to watch your tongue all the same. I won’t just let you say whatever.” 

“I understand.” Kazuha turned, looking away. He stared down at the ground, instinctively tensing up as Kunikuzushi approached. His footsteps felt too loud, echoing throughout the room almost obscenely. Kazuha just longed for some peace and quiet, but he doubted he’d have any time to himself. At least, not soon. Perhaps in a few more months, once Kunikuzushi grew bored of him and tossed him aside like old news. 

“You know what people do on their wedding nights. Don’t you?” Kunikuzushi leaned against his bed frame, fixing Kazuha with an expectant gaze. He looked completely casual as he spoke, as if the topic didn’t faze him at all. Kazuha hoped that he was the same; he prayed that his mask remained intact. The last thing he wanted was for Kunikuzushi to notice just how anxious he really was. 

Since of course Kazuha knew what he was referring to—his parents had taught him how to behave at this moment. They wanted him to offer himself up, but he refused. His pride restrained him from doing such a thing. He just couldn’t bring himself to. 

To sleep with the prince . . . He knew that was going to happen eventually, at one point or another. After all, they’d be married; it was inevitable. However, he didn’t want it to be so soon. It had been the first time they’d properly seen each other in years, and they were expected to have sex? Kazuha didn’t understand why everything was so rushed. He valued taking things at a slower pace. 

“My lord . . .” Kazuha kept his voice quiet, fearing any raise in volume. He cleared his throat, trying to speak past the racing of his own heart. “If I may be so bold as to suggest something?” He paused, and when Kunikuzushi merely stared at him, he took that as a sign to continue. “Why don’t we save . . . Those activities for later? There really is no hurry. It would be much better to wait, so that we may enjoy it properly—”

“Don’t make me laugh.” Kunikuzushi pushed himself off of the bed frame, stalking towards Kazuha. The boy froze, remaining rigid beneath the prince’s piercing stare. “You’re just trying to stall since you don’t want to sleep with me. I’m not stupid. There’s no need to act like a frightened rabbit, dearest wife. Taking me won’t kill you.” Kunikuzushi sneered down at him. “Unless your body is that fragile? If you break after one night, then you’re not a suitable wife.” 

Kazuha didn’t respond. He didn’t trust himself to answer. He didn’t want to do or say anything which he might regret. Instead, he practiced self-restraint, clenching his jaw until it ached. He met Kunikuzushi’s gaze evenly, trying not to get lost within those violet eyes. It was a shame he was so beautiful. His personality just didn’t match. 

“If I don’t take your virginity tonight, and if you don’t take mine, it’ll make our wedding useless. I waited how many years for you?” Kunikuzushi rolled his eyes. “Why would I wait any longer? Just because you’re suddenly getting cold feet . . . It’s almost pathetic. Then again, what can I expect from a Kaedehara? Your whole clan is useless. Can’t you prove your worth at all? I’m giving you a chance here, and yet you want to waste it.” 

“Being anxious is only natural. Do you think I’m not nervous?” Kunikuzushi placed a hand on his chest, feigning hurt. He was a good actor. An excellent one, actually. He could manipulate his expressions better than Kazuha could ever hope to, and when he spoke, his words really did seem genuine. But Kazuha was observant — he knew better. 

“. . . I apologize, my lord.” Kazuha dipped his head, strands of hair falling into his eyes. 

“Uh huh.” Kunikuzushi scoffed. “You sure sound pretty sorry.” He shook his head scornfully. “You know what? Whatever. Just go fuck off already. You need to shower. I’m not touching you if you aren’t clean.” He waved a hand dismissively, pointing towards a door to Kazuha’s left. “Go in there. Don’t bother changing into anything. It’ll be pointless since you’ll be naked soon anyway.” 

Kazuha blushed. He could appreciate Kunikuzushi’s blunt nature, but still, it never failed to catch him off-guard. He hid his face with a hand, nodding silently. Leaving to the bathroom sounded quite appealing — it would allow him some much-needed time to think, and some well-deserved moments of privacy. 

Kazuha slipped away, closing the door quietly behind him. To his disappointment, it didn’t lock, which left him feeling a bit vulnerable. Nonetheless, he pushed his unease aside, beginning to strip. Undressing from his formal attire proved to be a bit complicated, taking him quite a few minutes to complete. But in the end, he managed to cast his clothing to the side, folding it neatly. 

Kazuha reached his hands up, slim fingers curling through his hair. He plucked out the hairpiece Tomo had given him, carefully setting it down onto the sink in front of him. The last thing he wanted was for this precious gift to get lost, or worse, broken. He didn’t need to wear it in the shower or afterwards, lest it got accidentally destroyed. 

Starting the shower was therapeutic, but actually stepping inside was a relief. The warm spray didn’t fail to soothe him, relaxing his tense muscles and easing his nerves. He ran his hands through his damp hair, which fell in gentle waves down his shoulders. He probably needed to get it cut soon, but there was no way he could do such a thing without Kunikuzushi’s approval. 

The fact that he didn’t even have the freedom to trim his own hair frustrated Kazuha. Every little thing he did and said had to be overlooked by someone else. He couldn’t even safely shower without the fear of someone intruding on him. Was this really a life he wanted to live? Was there a way he could escape? He’d never heard of someone slipping away from the Shogunate’s grasp. 

Knowing Kunikuzushi, he’d never let Kazuha go. Not unless he wanted to. The only way Kazuha would ever be set free is if Kunikuzushi suddenly grew disinterested with him. Perhaps that was a likely chance; but even then, what if Kunikuzushi simply killed him instead of setting him free? What stopped the prince from ending Kazuha’s life at any given moment? Nothing and no one.

Kazuha shivered. Suddenly, the water hitting his back didn’t feel as warm. Knowing he lived on a thin sheet of glass unsettled him. At any moment, his life could shatter and fall apart — it all depended on the prince and his mood. Kazuha felt as if he were a mere puppet, being tugged around and danced on thin strings. His entire existence was a simple game to Kunikuzushi; he was just a plaything rather than another sentient human being. 

Shaking his head, Kazuha sighed. It would do no good for him to dwell on all of the negatives of this arrangement. If he allowed himself to mope and wallow in self-pity, nothing would ever get done. He had to look towards his future, however dim it might be. 

Maybe things wouldn’t be so bad. 

Kazuha had only just started to lather his hair with soap when a knock pounded at the door, causing him to flinch. He stifled a sigh, frowning to himself. Was he really taking that long, or was Kunikuzushi merely impatient? He didn’t know why the prince was in such a hurry. Did he want to get things over with that badly? Kazuha wasn’t even stalling — well, not much at least. 

“Hurry up, would you?” Kunikuzushi’s voice called out to him. “How dirty could you possibly be? Or what, are you trying to flood the entire bathroom?” Kazuha really didn’t need Kunikuzushi’s endless sarcasm, but nonetheless, he quickened his pace. He didn’t want to aggravate his husband any more than necessary; it wasn’t a good idea, especially with what they were about to do. 

“I’m almost done,” Kazuha replied, his voice soft even to his own ears. The water nearly drowned him out, but he didn’t bother raising his volume. If Kunikuzushi didn’t hear him, then oh well. He could wait. It certainly wouldn’t kill him to express just a little bit of patience. It was their very first night together, so he could at least make an attempt at being kind. Or just a bit nicer. 

When Kazuha finally stepped out of the bathroom with only a towel wrapped around his dripping body, he found Kunikuzushi sitting on the bed, watching him irritably. Kazuha’s damp hair clung to his face, hanging in strands over his shoulders. The room felt chilly all of a sudden; he was far too exposed, and he wanted nothing more than to slip into some comfortable pajamas. 

The towel was much too short, barely covering his thighs, which were still covered in droplets of water. Kazuha noticed Kunikuzushi’s gaze lingering on his bare legs, and he discreetly attempted to cover them, fighting against the way his cheeks ignited with a blush. He wasn’t used to being so vulnerable in front of another person. It made him uneasy; he was so barren, all of his insecurities and weaknesses laid out for Kunikuzushi to see. Would he be ridiculed? 

Growing up, Kazuha was always complimented on his beauty. On his slim figure, his lithe and small build, his pretty face, and yet he couldn’t help but feel self-conscious whenever Kunikuzushi looked at him. What if he wasn’t enough? What if his body wasn’t good enough? What if he wasn’t desirable enough? Then Kunikuzushi would cast him aside, and he’d be discarded. 

His heart skittered within his chest, hammering like a jackrabbit, and he found it difficult to breathe. Whilst his face remained a shroud of nonchalance, inside he felt as if a tornado had hit his brain, tussling his mind. He forced a small smile, trying to keep the situation light, but he couldn’t prevent the smile from falling when Kunikuzushi spoke. 

“Not bad. I knew I picked you for a reason. None of those other whores could compare to you, now could they?” Kunikuzushi grinned at him, dark strands of hair falling into those violet eyes, and Kazuha’s mouth parted into a silent gasp of shock. He knew Kunikuzushi to be bold and harsh with his words, but such insults were shocking to hear, coming even from him. Kazuha didn’t remain speechless for long, however. As an aspiring poet, he always had something to say. 

“That’s not very kind of you to say . . . My lord.” Kazuha gripped the towel tighter, pulling it more securely around himself. “Your past suitors would not wish to be disrespected in such a way, and nor do I—”

“I don’t care.” Kunikuzushi rolled his eyes. “Does it look like those other fuckers are here to listen in? No. They don’t have a clue about what I’m saying. Even if they did, I don’t give a shit. It’s the truth.” Kunikuzushi gestured him closer, and with no other choice, Kazuha reluctantly approached him. “There’s no shame in admitting it,” Kunikuzushi went on. “I won’t judge you.” 

Kazuha halted at his side, peering down at Kunikuzushi with a furrowed brow. “Judge me for what, my lord?” He asked, and Kunikuzushi smiled plainly. “For being a whore,” he retorted evenly, causing Kazuha to stiffen. “I am no—” he began, only to be interrupted. “I don’t like being cut off,” Kunikuzushi snapped. “Shut up, would you? Let me finish what I have to say.” 

Kazuha fell silent, allowing Kunikuzushi to continue speaking. “If you’re to be my wife, then you’re also to be my whore. That’s how it works. Didn’t you know that?” The grin Kunikuzushi sent Kazuha bordered on maniacal, rivaling even Dottore’s. “You’ll do whatever I want, whenever I want, wherever I want.” Kunikuzushi reached out, gripping tightly onto Kazuha’s wrist. He tugged the boy’s hand away from the towel, causing it to slip and fall away from his body. 

Kazuha tensed, but he didn’t move to cover himself. He knew even trying would just set Kunikuzushi off. So he allowed himself to be completely naked in front of the prince, digging his teeth into his lip to console himself. He comforted himself with the fact that this had to happen sooner or later. It was better now than some other time; he could just get everything over with quickly. It was almost like ripping off a band-aid. 

Kunikuzushi’s gaze swept over him, up and down. Kazuha couldn’t help but feel as if he weren’t a person, but rather a piece of meat. He cleared his throat tensely, glancing down at Kunikuzushi’s hand, which still held his wrist. “Don’t you think that’s a bit unreasonable, my lord?” He tried to speak carefully, keeping his tone light. “Marriages are all about compromise and fairness.” 

Kunikuzushi laughed, the sound echoing eerily throughout the room. His laughter was so menacing, so brutally sardonic it made Kazuha’s knees wobble. He kept his face neutral, refusing to reveal his internal conflict. If there was one thing he could do, it would be to remain strong. He wouldn’t let himself falter, not after all this time. 

“You’re funny, Kazuha. I’ve never met someone like you. Or maybe this isn’t humor. Maybe this is just your stupidity. But that’s okay. Even if you’re as dumb as a doorbell, it’s cute, so I suppose I’ll let it slide.” Kunikuzushi suddenly tightened his grip, and Kazuha couldn’t suppress his wince. Kunikuzushi was holding him in a vice-like grasp, bruising Kazuha’s pale skin.

The prince leaned closer, yanking Kazuha towards him. Violet eyes met red, and Kazuha’s breath hitched, his heart skipping a beat as he stared into Kunikuzushi’s piercing gaze. If the room had dropped a few degrees when Ei spoke earlier, the entire palace became frigid under the intensity of Kunikuzushi’s expression. Kazuha had never been so frightened of another person before, but maybe that was it. Maybe the rumors were right. Maybe the prince wasn’t human. 

“My patience only extends so far, however,” Kunikuzushi murmured. “I’m sure you understand that. So I advise you not to test me. I hate chatty humans the most. Their talkative nature always gets on my nerves. They always have something to say, all of the time. I find great satisfaction in finally shutting them up. Silencing their chatter is just so delightful. I won’t hesitate to do the same for you, my dear wife. So watch your tongue.” Kunikuzushi’s nails dug fiercely into Kazuha’s sensitive flesh, drawing blood. 

Kazuha hid his grimace, watching beads of crimson drip down his wrist. He swallowed past the lump forming within his throat, nodding mutely. The threat was obvious. He needed to mind his manners and stay in his place, lest the prince snap on him. He hated having to walk on eggshells — he felt uncomfortable just breathing beside Kunikuzushi. The pressure weighted on his shoulders was immense, his chest feeling far too tight to be normal. 

“What’s the matter? Suddenly you can’t talk?” Kunikuzushi was mocking him. “I won’t know that you’re agreeing with me if you don’t speak.” He moved closer, using his free hand to tilt Kazuha’s head up by his chin. “Go on, you can talk.” He seemed amused. At least he wasn’t annoyed anymore.

“I understand, my lord.” Kazuha inhaled sharply before exhaling, composing himself swiftly. “Forgive me for my silence.” 

“You can stop calling me that.” Kunikuzushi scoffed. “I’m sick of all the titles. Everyone else calls me my lord, I don’t need you saying it too. Just call me Scaramouche when we’re alone, or anything else other than that.” 

Kazuha blinked, snowy lashes brushing against his damp cheeks. “. . . Oh. I see. Alright my—Kuni-sama.” The words came out instinctively; he just barely stopped himself from accidentally saying ‘my lord’ again. Kazuha hoped Scaramouche wouldn’t mind his new nickname, but luckily enough, the prince didn’t seem pressed. In fact, he looked fascinated, studying Kazuha closely. 

“Kuni-sama? That’s a new one. Whatever. You can call me that, just make sure to only say it in private.” He sighed exasperatedly, but Kazuha brightened by a fragment. Being able to call Scaramouche something which no one else could — it made him feel special. It made him feel like he actually mattered to the prince, as if he were someone of importance. 

“Okay.” Kazuha smiled down at the prince, who glared up at him. “Why are you smiling?” Scaramouche deadpanned. “It makes you look absolutely fucking ridiculous.” Kazuha wasn’t phased by the insult; in a way, he’d almost grown used to them. Scaramouche often liked to sling derogatories at people, but Kazuha didn’t let it bother him. Not most of the time, anyway. 

“I’m smiling because I am happy,” Kazuha explained patiently. Scaramouche regarded him as if he’d grown two heads. “Happy?” He ground out. “The hell are you happy about?” 

“I can call you something which no one else can.” Kazuha’s lips curved upwards, and he laughed softly, the sound echoing melodically, almost akin to the chiming of a church bell. “I feel as if I should be honored.” 

Scaramouche blinked, as if caught off-guard, before he shook his head. “Whatever. Stop spouting nonsense. Let’s get this over with already so that I can go to sleep.” He suddenly straightened up, shoving Kazuha down onto his bed—which, Kazuha noted, was rather large and with a fine mattress. He figured it was only suitable, since Scaramouche was royalty and all. 

Kazuha was sent spiraling on top of the sheets, unable to stop himself from blushing. His entire backside was completely exposed to Scaramouche, who gripped roughly onto his hips. This was happening all so fast yet again; he struggled to keep up, but thankfully enough, he was good at adapting to nearly any situation. This skill enabled him to move with the flow of events without difficulty. 

Or at least, without too much difficulty. 

Scaramouche seemed impatient, and he did comment on just wanting to sleep. Perhaps he was tired; the wedding preparations and arrangements must have tired him out. Kazuha knew that he was in no mood for these activities, but coitus for them seemed just like a chore. Something that had to be done, that they couldn’t avoid putting off. Not something they really wanted to do. 

Kazuha supposed that in the end, he was fairly lucky. Other people didn’t fare as well as him. He could have been like others he knew of, sold off into a ring of trafficking. He shuddered to imagine such a fate. At least with Scaramouche, there was some level of respect and understanding. If Kazuha made a conscious effort to think positively, then his situation didn’t seem as grim and bleak. 

Although becoming a docile wife still didn’t sit well with him, in the end, what was there left for him to do? He couldn’t escape this. He was stuck, trapped in this endless cycle, stuck together with Scaramouche. They were meant to be the future rulers of Inazuma. 

The concept made Kazuha nearly balk. Of course, he wouldn’t be running Inazuma—that would be left entirely to his husband—and yet he’d still be the queen. How could someone like him, someone meant to become a samurai, someone from a crumbling clan . . . How could he ever be destined for royalty? A shiver rippled up his spine, and he wished he could express his concerns, but he knew Scaramouche wouldn’t care. He’d merely call him weak. 

“Kazuha.” Scaramouche’s voice interrupted Kazuha from his thoughts, and the boy startled, blinking in alarm. He forced himself to respond, inclining his head back slightly. “Yes?” His voice emerged soft and breathless, far too quiet for his own liking. 

“I’m going to prepare you now. Try not to tense too much. If it hurts, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Scaramouche sighed, as if this whole process was tedious, which Kazuha supposed it was. He spoke and acted as if he had experience; Kazuha however, had none. He was painfully naïve, though he hoped that with time, he’d lose some of that naivety. 

He could only pray that Scaramouche took pity on him and didn’t hurt him too much. 

❛ ━━･❪ ♛❫ ･━━ ❜

After that fateful night, Kazuha couldn’t walk properly for a handful of days. Admittedly, it was embarrassing to stumble around the palace like a newborn deer. 

The staff didn’t bat an eye at his battered state, but he couldn’t help but scent the faint tang of judgment wafting from them. They probably assumed he was nothing more than a tool; something to be used as a trophy or for pleasure. It filled him with something foreign: bitterness. That wasn’t what he was. 

Scaramouche had left him in a disarray. He, in all honesty, looked as if he’d been mauled by a wild animal. Bruises and bitemarks covered his body. His neck was a mess, his thighs were black-and-blue, his collarbone and chest were no different. He looked as if he’d survived some kind of turbulent accident, which he supposed in the end wasn’t too far-off from the truth. 

When he tried covering up the marks, Scaramouche scolded him severely. It was the most enraged Kazuha had seen him—and though he didn’t want to admit it, he had been frightened. The furious look within the prince’s violet eyes struck a chord within Kazuha, igniting instincts buried deep within him. The instincts that warned him of danger.

Once Scaramouche was done berating him, Kazuha made sure to walk on eggshells around him. He didn’t wear concealing clothing, and he didn’t make any more attempts to cover his marks up with bandages. While it was humiliating, it was better than having his husband positively livid with him. He could swallow his pride in favor of escaping Scaramouche’s wrath. 

As the days drifted by, Kazuha realized that Scaramouche was an exceptionally busy person. They barely saw each other, save for the evening when they settled in to sleep. And even then, Scaramouche stayed as far as possible from Kazuha, as if his very presence were toxic. It stung, only slightly, but Kazuha quickly got over it. If Scaramouche needed his privacy, then so be it. It was understandable, Kazuha supposed. 

Kazuha spent his time settling into his new life. He arranged all of his belongings into their proper places, and he tried to help around the palace whenever and wherever he could. He cleaned, he cooked, he ran errands. He felt more like a worker than the princess. At least it made the staff gain more respect for him; they marveled at his abilities, and seemed to genuinely enjoy his company.

Childe always followed Kazuha around like a dark shadow, however, putting a slight damper to his mood. It was unnerving to have someone constantly trailing him. He had no true privacy, save for the night-time. Childe was constantly there, those empty eyes boring into him. Kazuha eventually couldn’t take it anymore; being stuck with a stranger for hours on end was positively maddening. 

One afternoon, Kazuha decided to change things up. Talking to his bodyguard couldn’t hurt, could it? They should form a good relationship. He figured strengthening their bond would only benefit them both. 

(Even if Childe unsettled him, even if he didn’t fully trust the other, it would do him good to at least try.) 

He was sitting in the gardens, his back pressed against one of the various benches. A gentle breeze blew past, ruffling his hair. A leaf blew towards him, the songs of nature in the distance calling out to him. He caught the golden leaf in between two slim fingers, a small smile weaving its way onto his lips. Being outside always lifted his spirits. 

“The wind is blowing,” Kazuha announced. His voice broke the otherwise silent atmosphere, and Childe didn’t respond. Kazuha didn’t expect him to. “The leaves rustle in rhythm . . . To nature’s heartbeat.” He concluded his haiku proudly, twirling the leaf around idly. It had been a while since he’d last constructed proper poetry. It was nice to finally regain touch with literature. 

“Did you enjoy my haiku, Childe?” Kazuha released the leaf, and almost instantly, the wind picked up, swirling the foliage away. Kazuha watched it drift past, his heart twisting within his chest. He folded his hands neatly within his lap, trying to ignore the sudden bitter nostalgia which he felt. 

For a moment, there was nothing but a prolonged quiet. When the silence had passed on for far too long, Kazuha assumed that Childe was merely ignoring him. But then the ginger seemed to make up his mind about something — had he been debating on answering Kazuha or not? He leaned closer, strands of hair falling into his dead eyes. 

“To be honest, I’m not good at poetry, my lord. But I’m sure your haiku was wonderful.” The grin Childe sent Kazuha was crooked, one dripping with mischievousness. Kazuha couldn’t stop himself from smiling in return, a brief sense of amusement overtaking him. He appreciated Childe’s blatant honesty. He knew that to most people, his poetry sounded like a mere bundle of jumbled-up words. 

“Perhaps I could teach you. We could exchange haikus while you perform your duties.” Kazuha shrugged lightly, and the offer hung heavy within the air. Childe hummed, as if he was genuinely considering Kazuha’s proposition; and that was better than nothing. Eventually, the ginger glanced down at him. “Maybe later, my lord,” he said. “For now, I’ll simply listen to your poetry.” 

“Hmm. Very well, then.” Kazuha turned away, closing his eyes. He was content with how the conversation had gone. The silence that stretched out afterwards was peaceful. There wasn’t a hint of tension between them. Not anymore, at least. Kazuha was satisfied enough to relax, the tension easing from his posture. The breeze that brushed against his face helped lull him into a state of calm. 

“Childe,” Kazuha spoke suddenly, a thought springing into his mind. 

“Hmm?” Childe craned his head down to look at Kazuha, who turned to face him. 

“Please tell me something, if you can. This should stay between just the two of us.” Kazuha pursed his lips into a thin line. He hoped Childe would obey his wish and stay quiet about this. In a way, this was a test of his bodyguard’s loyalty. Who was Childe more devoted to—him, or the prince? 

“Of course, my lord. Please ask away. I’m at your humble service. I’ll answer to the best of my capabilities.” 

“The prince . . . He has intricate tattoos. What do they mean?” Kazuha frowned. “There is one at the back of his neck. The electro insignia. The others are swirls in the patterns of lightning. All on his chest, abdomen, and back. Does the queen have these marks as well? Do they symbolize anything, or are they merely for show?” 

It was a strange question to ask, but Kazuha was curious. He knew Scaramouche wouldn’t tell him the truth, and so Childe was his best bet. If there was anyone who knew Scaramouche, it would be him—he was the prince’s former guard, after all. 

Kazuha had seen the tattoos, naturally, on the night of their wedding. Once Scaramouche had undressed himself, it was impossible for him not to. There was no way to hide the tattoos forever. Kazuha just wondered if they held any relevance or symbolism. He found them beautiful, but he couldn’t voice those thoughts to Scaramouche, so he’d tell Childe instead. 

Childe tilted his head, blinking rapidly for a moment. He seemed startled, as if Kazuha’s inquiries caught him off-guard. He glanced away, as if he were thinking long and hard. Eventually, he responded, his tone abnormally light — as if he were forcing himself to keep his voice that way. 

“Those aren’t tattoos, Ka—my lord. They’re birthmarks.” Childe’s reply hit Kazuha like a truck, and the princess blinked, his mouth parting for a moment. 

Such detailed and defined patterns — he was born with them? All of them? Kazuha couldn’t believe it. It was impossible, surely! His mind reeled, and he found that for once, he was speechless. What a unique case, a rarity which he’d never seen or heard of before. He wanted to ask more about it, but Childe didn’t seem willing to elaborate further. 

Is he hiding something? Kazuha wondered, but he buried his doubts, sealing them away inside himself. Instead he straightened up, steeling himself into composure. “Oh. I see. Thank you for telling me,” he murmured. Childe could have easily lied to him and gone with Kazuha’s original assumption, but he chose to tell the truth. Kazuha couldn’t smell any deceit on him. He was being genuine. 

Maybe Childe really was trustworthy, after all. If only in the slightest. 

“Of course, my lord.” Childe smiled down at him, and Kazuha forced himself to smile back, his lips twitching dully. He knew the smile probably seemed painfully fake, but he couldn’t bring himself to properly maintain his typical mask. Upholding his public image constantly grew tiring. He wanted to unwind for once, and if Childe saw the real him, then so be it. It would have happened sooner or later. He preferred it now over later on. 

As Kazuha stared up at the sky, he wondered what such birthmarks could entail. Did it mean that Scaramouche was special? Marked by the gods themselves? Or even worse—did it mean that he was cursed? What if such marks entailed bad fortune? What if that explained the coloring behind his eyes, as well? Everything about him was so strange. The prince was shrouded in mystery.

Perhaps the explanation was simple. Perhaps Kazuha was reading far too much into this. His imagination was getting the better of him. He needed to stop reading so many fantasy novels, and yet reading was one of the few things which he could still freely do. 

Of course, he always knew that Scaramouche wasn’t entirely normal. As a member of the royal family, he possessed powers foreign to any ordinary person. He could manipulate electricity however he pleased; he could summon storms and torrents of rain if he really wanted to. It was due to the blood which coursed through his veins. No one else harnessed such abilities — no one else besides the members of the royal family. 

The tales varied on how the Shogunate gained such powers. Some said they were simply blessed from the gods since birth. Others said they stole the power from the heavens. And a few even suggested there was dark magic behind it. Kazuha didn’t know what to believe, but he could focus on what he knew was real: Scaramouche held remarkable strength, and possessed techniques almost no other person had. 

Escaping him would be impossible, but Kazuha already understood that. Why was he still entertaining the idea? He needed to get his head out of the clouds, and yet he couldn’t help but continue to dream of freedom. It was a far-off goal, something he knew he could never hope to ever attain. 

Still, it didn’t hurt to fantasize. 

❛ ━━･❪ ♛❫ ･━━ ❜

Kazuha never thought he’d see the day where Scaramouche actually grew jealous. He didn’t believe that the prince was capable of such an emotion. In fact, the only thing he seemed properly able to express was sheer anger or varying forms of disgust. But Scaramouche was full of surprises, and he never failed to bless Kazuha with new realizations everyday. 

It had been perhaps two months or more since Kazuha’s initial conversation with Childe about the prince’s tattoos. Over that time, Kazuha liked to believe that they’d grown closer. They talked more often, and even joked with one another. Once, Childe even tried to form a haiku, all for Kazuha. It admittedly caused the princess to smile, giving him a foreign sense of happiness. 

With Childe treating him in such a friendly way . . . Well, it reminded him of Tomo. If he closed his eyes and pretended well enough, he could almost imagine Tomo was with him, sitting peacefully at his side. He could picture things as if nothing had ever changed. He was still content with his best friend, talking about nothing and everything all at once. Of course, that illusion was always shattered, but it was nice to pretend. 

Never once did Kazuha picture Childe as anything but a friend. Sure, his bodyguard was admittedly attractive — Childe was definitely aesthetically pleasing to look at. Kazuha was sure he could spew countless poems based off of his beauty, but the point was that he just didn’t see him that way. He assumed that Childe felt the same towards him; they had a mutual sense of friendship. 

Admittedly, Childe seemed like the type to get with anyone he found intriguing enough. A part of Kazuha reasoned that if he expressed romantic interest in Childe, it would probably be recuperated — just to see how things turned out. But Kazuha was married, and even if he hadn’t wanted to be, he was still taken. He had a husband and his gaze wasn’t meant for anyone else but him. 

Scaramouche, however, didn’t seem to understand Kazuha’s loyalty. Either that, or he underestimated just how loyal Kazuha was. It was obvious that the prince didn’t trust him. Or perhaps he was just possessive? 

Still, it caught Kazuha off-guard. Before, Scaramouche barely paid him any heed. Kazuha reasoned he was nothing more than an afterthought to him, someone who was just there, a background character within the theatrics of Scaramouche’s life. Apparently though, he’d been wrong. That realization shocked him. Did Scaramouche truly care about him, even if it was ever-so-slightly? 

He would get his answer soon enough. 

He was sitting with Childe in the gardens; he spent most of his free time there, after all. The grounds were always so still and peaceful, and it was the closest he could get to nature without actually being there. He was on one of his many spiels, casting various haikus out to the wind, when a cold chill overtook him. He shivered, pulling his thin kimono tighter over his shaking frame. 

“Are you cold, my lord?” Childe inquired. 

“Childe, please. I told you to just call me Kazuha.” Kazuha sighed softly, glancing back over his shoulder with a small smile. “I’m quite alright, but thank you. I’m used to the weather, whether it be pleasant or harsh.” 

“Okay my—Kazuha. I just wouldn’t want you to fall ill. I’d be failing at my job if I let you catch a cold.” The grin Childe sent Kazuha was lopsided, and he shifted, slinging the coat he wore off of his shoulders. “Nonetheless, take this. I insist. I don’t need it. I grew up in Snezhnaya, so the cold is nothing to me. I can handle it, you can’t.” 

Kazuha went to argue, but Childe didn’t give him the chance. Childe’s coat was draped over Kazuha’s slender shoulders, nearly dwarfing him. Their obvious size difference was now made even more apparent, and Kazuha couldn’t help but feel embarrassed. He always grew flustered when he was reminded of how pitifully small he was. He buried his face into the sleeve of Childe’s coat, trying to hide the blush on his cheeks.

“. . . Well, thank you,” he murmured, and Childe laughed. “No problem, Kazuha. It’s my pleasure.” Kazuha didn’t respond; instead, he inhaled sharply. The coat smelled exactly like Childe, which was to be expected. The fabric carried the scent of snow, frost, and the ocean. Kazuha blinked, his lashes brushing against his heated cheeks—he went to say something, when he paused. 

A new presence had caught his attention, one he didn’t expect to see. Not so soon, at least. He turned abruptly, his lips curving upwards by a fragment, greeting his husband with a cheerful expression. It was rare that Scaramouche had the free time to stop by the gardens, let alone to actually approach them. 

“Oh, Kuni-sama, you’re back! How did the meeting with the Snezhnayan diplomats go?” Kazuha peered towards the prince earnestly, though his eagerness ebbed like mist beneath the sunlight once he garnered Scaramouche’s foul mood. It was hard to remain positive when Scaramouche’s anger simmered within the air — literally. Electricity crackled around him, strands of his dark hair raising slightly without him seeming to even realize it. 

“Is something the matter, my lord?” Childe piped up, staring curiously towards Scaramouche, who fixed him with a glare. 

“Get your stupid fucking coat off of him.” Scaramouche threw his arm out. “Now.”

It was an order. There was no room for any questions or arguments. Childe stepped forward without protest, retrieving his coat, and the chill of the evening air graced Kazuha once more. He didn’t dare express his disappointment; he had the feeling that even the slightest slip in his composure would send Scaramouche spiraling into a rage. 

“Kuni-sama, what’s wrong?” Kazuha finally expressed his concern, and Scaramouche stationed cold violet eyes onto him. Kazuha tensed up instinctively — he felt pinned, as if he were a mouse who had accidentally stumbled right in between a cat’s paws. He had the distinct feeling he was nothing more than prey, being eyed up by his predator. 

He dug his nails into his palms, small crescent marks forming onto his pale skin. He forced himself to remain calm, but it was hard not to grow alarmed at the reek of electricity within the air, and the overwhelming sense of utter danger. All his instincts were urging him to turn and run, but how could he flee from his own husband? 

“Shut the fuck up.” Scaramouche’s tone was cold. Carefully measured and controlled. Kazuha bit his lip, tilting his head to gaze at the ground. He fell silent as expected of him, ignoring the way his chest ached dully. When would he ever be allowed to speak freely? 

“Childe, you’re dismissed. Fuck off.” Scaramouche waved a hand, and Childe hesitated, seeming uncertain. At Scaramouche’s warning stare, Childe quickly dipped his head and retreated, vanishing without another word. Kazuha supposed he had no other choice. It wasn’t his place to defy the prince. He was foolish to think that Childe could ever defend him, he was naïve to think Childe would stick up for him. 

He can protect me from everyone but the prince, but the prince is the biggest danger to my safety. 

“Come with me.” Scaramouche was addressing him, now. Kazuha rose to his feet, his kimono brushing against the earth as he walked. Scaramouche led him off, into the castle, and Kazuha couldn’t help but feel as if he were marching right towards his own grave. Perhaps they should call the nearest funeral parlor; he was certain he was doomed. The aura Scaramouche exceeded was so menacing; it oozed with utter malice. 

Reaching their shared room felt like the end of the world. Kazuha didn’t know why he felt so terrified, his veins thrumming with a sense of fear he hadn’t experienced in years. His body was entirely tensed, poised to flee at a moment’s notice — the slightest noise startled him, and the most subtle movement caused him to flinch like a startled rabbit. He found himself pathetic, yet he couldn’t help it. His nerves were strung up by a wire. 

Trailing inside their quarters, Kazuha kept his gaze trained on his feet. When the door closed behind him, he mustered up all of his willpower not to flinch. He didn’t need to be so scared — what was there to be scared of? It was just Scaramouche, it was just his husband, his beloved husband. 

Kazuha suppressed a shudder. 

“I underestimated you.” Scaramouche’s words made Kazuha pause, his brow furrowing with confusion. Underestimated me? He wondered to himself. Was that meant to be a compliment? He couldn’t hide his puzzlement, risking a glance up towards the prince, who stood as still as a statue, simply watching him. Kazuha met his gaze with slight difficulty, forcing himself to remain confident and hold Scaramouche’s stare. 

“Kuni-sama, I don’t understand. Please tell me what you mean.” Kazuha figured he had a good understanding of hidden meanings and metaphors, and yet reading Scaramouche was more difficult than anything else. Predicting the weather was easier than predicting his husband’s drastic and varying mood swings. 

“You don’t understand?” Scaramouche echoed incredulously. “Are you that fucking stupid?” Within the blink of an eye, Scaramouche was upon him. It happened so suddenly, Kazuha didn’t have the slightest chance to react. One moment, Scaramouche was standing across the room. The next he was nothing more than a blur, too fast even for Kazuha to properly respond to. It was frightening. 

Scaramouche pressed Kazuha against the wall, pinning him there painfully. The hard surface dug into his back, but he willed himself not to grimace. He didn’t dare express his discomfort, easing his expression into one of neutrality. “I don’t like it when you play dumb with me.” Scaramouche scoffed. “I saw the way you looked at Childe. You’re someone else’s bitch now, is that it? Even wearing his coat, too.” 

For a long moment, Kazuha was too stunned to speak. His mouth parted, and his neutral expression chipped away and dissolved, falling apart like sand against waves. How was he meant to answer that? What Scaramouche said made no sense, what he was saying bordered on pure insanity. Perhaps the prince was far more unstable than Kazuha originally assumed — maybe there were not a few, but a lot of screws loose.

“Kuni-sama, please. You’re being unreasonable. Childe and I are just friends. I am no one’s . . . Bitch.” Kazuha tried to choose his words carefully, hesitating slightly, but it wasn’t enough. Scaramouche’s gaze flashed, and he clenched his jaw. 

“I’m not being unreasonable,” Scaramouche hissed out. “What do you think the other staff members would say if they saw you in Childe’s coat? They would start talking. They’d start spreading rumors. Even if you are being truthful, that doesn’t matter. They won’t care. People are naïve — humans are fickle creatures. They will see whatever they want to see, and if they want to see you and Childe having an affair, then they will.” 

“I won’t let my reputation be tarnished. To think that I— me, of all people —would let my wife cheat . . . It’s laughable!” Scaramouche’s grip tightened on Kazuha’s shoulders, his touch already leaving the faint blossoms of bruises across the boy’s pale skin. “I don’t want you getting all friendly with Childe. If I see it happen again, he will be removed from his position as your guard. Do you understand? You’re mine, so act like it.” 

“I can’t have friends?” Kazuha didn’t mean to voice his inquiries aloud, but his tongue got the better of him — just this once. It was a slip-up, something he would certainly regret, and yet . . . The question rang true. Why wasn’t he allowed to have a friend? He couldn’t even message his family or Tomo. He felt as if he were being positively smothered, suffocated beneath Scaramouche’s grip — both literally and figuratively. 

“Why do you need friends?” Scaramouche’s tone was accusing. “You don’t need friends. They will only disappoint you. They’ll let you down, time and time again.” He leaned closer, those brilliant violet eyes burning into Kazuha’s retinas. “I’ll let you in on a secret, darling. I won’t disappoint you. Friendships come and go — they will fade. Think of friendships like bubbles, drifting slowly across a pool. Eventually, they will pop and deflate. It will never last for far too long.” 

“But what we have . . .” Scaramouche smiled, and though Kazuha figured it was meant to be comforting, it only served to be positively menacing. “What we have is eternal. We’re married. It’s a bond that can’t be broken. We can never be severed from one another. For as long as we exist on this earth, we will be intertwined, and even after our souls have long since eroded . . . The memories of what we shared will remain for an infinity.” 

Scaramouche brushed slim fingers against Kazuha’s cheek, trailing his thumb beneath the boy’s wide eyes. “I picked you because you were special,” Scaramouche murmured. “We had a connection. We are connected. I do everything out of concern for you. Even if I don’t show it, I care about you. I want to keep our connection strong, I never want our bond to weaken. You understand, don’t you?” 

“And if someone risks coming between us and that bond, well, I just won’t allow it.” Scaramouche leaned closer, trailing delicate kisses along Kazuha’s neck. Kazuha barely registered his touch; his words were far more mind-shattering, sending his brain short-circuiting. He was having trouble processing things, his heart skittering wildly. 

Scaramouche cared for him? He never showed it, not usually at least. Kazuha felt like nothing more than a necessity to him — something he didn’t want, merely needed. If it weren’t for the requirement of a queen, Kazuha doubted Scaramouche would ever try to get married to begin with. He just didn’t seem capable of experiencing emotions such as care or love. It wasn’t within his nature. 

When Kazuha was around Scaramouche, he didn’t sense any love from him. There was none of that. Only mild annoyance or irritation. Kazuha just felt like a source of frustration for his husband. Was that not the case? He tried testing Scaramouche’s claims, inhaling sharply, and yet—he couldn’t scent even a hint of deceit. Either Scaramouche was excellent at lying, or he was truthful. 

Kazuha’s brow furrowed, and he kept his gaze trained on their ceiling. Scaramouche seemed to value their bond and the meaning of eternity quite highly. Then that really meant that there was no chance of him escaping. Scaramouche would never let him go, not for the rest of his life. His heart plummeted, sinking down into his stomach. Perhaps over time, he’d gain more freedoms. Enough to satisfy himself with, at least. 

Maybe he should be flattered. The prince just gave Kazuha the closest thing to a love confession he’d probably ever get. And while his heart did flutter, skipping a few beats within his chest, he couldn’t help but feel doubtful. That little seed of doubt remained planted inside his mind, refusing to subside. How could anyone care for someone like him? How could anyone love someone like him? He just found it hard to believe. 

But he shouldn’t be ungrateful. Scaramouche had practically laid his heart upon his sleeve. This was perhaps the longest they’d ever talked at once, at least with a serious conversation. Considering the fact that Scaramouche never expressed vulnerability, Kazuha should be leaping with joy. And he was happy; he was happy that slowly but surely, Scaramouche seemed to be opening up to him. It was a good sign for their marriage, a good sign for their relationship. 

“Kuni-sama . . . I’m sorry,” Kazuha whispered. “I’ll stop talking to Childe.” 

Scaramouche peered up at him, seeming to consider his words for a moment. He studied Kazuha closely. (Did he think the boy was lying?) When he seemed satisfied with what he’d seen, he smirked. “I knew you would, darling.” He leaned closer, capturing their lips together into a kiss. It was rare Scaramouche initiated anything like this. 

Even though they were married, they hadn’t done anything since their wedding night. Occasionally, Scaramouche would mark his skin with bruises and bitemarks. Sometimes they would kiss before bed. But that was all. Nothing more and nothing less. Would that start to change? Kazuha found that deep down, maybe he did want that to change. 

All too soon, however, Scaramouche pulled away and the spell was broken. Kazuha glanced away, and Scaramouche caressed his face with an odd amount of tenderness. “Let’s go to bed now, darling,” he suggested, and Kazuha nodded hesitantly. 

He doubted sleep would come easy to him, but he might as well try. It was better than displeasing Scaramouche, anyway. 

❛ ━━･❪ ♛❫ ･━━ ❜

That night, as Kazuha predicted, he couldn’t rest. Even after his husband had fallen asleep, Kazuha remained awake, staring dejectedly up at the ceiling. He listened to the steady rise and fall of Scaramouche’s breaths, finding comfort in his breathing. 

He didn’t fancy the idea of staying up all night drowning in his own thoughts. Being a groggy, sleep-deprived zombie in the morning definitely wasn’t on his to-do list. Usually, sleep came easily to him; after all, he loved to sleep. He’d nap nearly whenever and wherever. But since his mind was so muddled, there was no way for him to relax. 

As cautiously as he could, Kazuha slipped out of bed. He took great care in measuring out all of his movements, making sure that Scaramouche wouldn’t be disturbed. The last thing he needed was for the prince to wake up; he would probably accuse Kazuha of an affair again. Obviously it wasn’t true, but Kazuha couldn’t argue back much whenever Scaramouche got into one of his moods.

Navigating his way through the darkness, Kazuha slowly inched open the door, his heart racing erratically within his chest. If he was discovered, he’d merely say he was heading to the kitchens for a snack. It was a blatant lie, and he doubted Scaramouche would believe him, but it was better than saying he needed a walk to clear his head. 

The door creaked for only a moment, but Kazuha was certain that his stealth was disrupted. His cover was surely blown, and any moment Scaramouche would be sitting up, regarding him angrily, and everything would fall apart. However — none of that happened. Scaramouche continued to sleep, his breathing perfectly even, and Kazuha found that the tension slowly eased from his body, his rigid posture going loose. 

Without another moment to ponder his decisions, Kazuha slipped outside. He crept off into the winding halls of the palace, practically tip-toeing everywhere he went. He felt almost like a criminal slinking around in such a way, but he didn’t want to be caught. If anyone saw him, the princess, out and about at such ungodly hours . . . Like Scaramouche mentioned, people would talk. 

Kazuha made his way towards the gardens, his go-to place. It was where he spent almost all of his time these days. His steps fell too loudly against the floor, and he inwardly cringed. While he knew his footsteps alone wouldn’t wake anyone up, it still put him on edge. What if someone noticed him? What would they say? Would they tell Scaramouche? Would they fabricate rumors? 

Just as Kazuha found the gardens drawing closer, he heard it. He wasn’t alone. Another presence approached him. Their steps were so light, he almost missed them, but nothing slipped by his keen senses. He was far too alert, especially now, to miss anything. 

Kazuha hurriedly pressed himself against the nearest wall, attempting to hide. It was a poor concealment, but under such short notice, he had nowhere else to go. He wondered who could possibly also be awake at such a time. Maybe someone else was just like him? Maybe they were having trouble sleeping and simply needed a walk around. 

“You know, trying to hide from me is a bit rude, don’t you think? Do you really want to avoid me that much? Is my presence that unbearable for you?” 

Kazuha didn’t recognize the voice. It took him a moment to put the pieces together, but when he did, his stomach churned, his heart dropping far into his gut. Ice flowed through his veins in replacement of his blood, and he swallowed, forcing himself to calm. He couldn’t grow alarmed now. He couldn’t show just how uneasy he really was. 

Kazuha turned, moving away from the wall to come face-to-face with Dottore, Scaramouche’s bodyguard. Kazuha didn’t see Dottore often, but whenever he did, the man was almost always a menace. He just carried a dark aura around him. He wasn’t someone Kazuha wanted to be around. The look in those red eyes bordered on near animalistic.

“Pardon my poor manners,” Kazuha murmured, praying that his heart would cease its frantic beating. “I was restless and decided to take a walk around, simply to try and clear my frazzled mind. I wasn’t planning on socializing tonight, you see. The wind is at rest and so I should be, as well.” 

Dottore leaned closer, humming to himself. “Yeah, yeah, totally. I wonder what’s troubling you? You can tell me. I promise I’ll listen.” He reached out, but Kazuha stepped away immediately, dodging his grabbing hands. His skin practically crawled, but he forced the discomfort aside, lifting his chin. “No, it’s okay, really,” he insisted. “I have no need to express anything. I’m fine now.” 

“Right. It’s because your precious husband got mad, isn’t it?” Dottore clicked his tongue. “Pay the bastard no heed. He gets jealous and whiny all of the time, it’s just a part of his nature. If you ask me, he’s too damn fragile.” 

Fragile? Kazuha never once imagined Scaramouche as fragile, of all things. Dottore’s description made his brow furrow, but before he could respond, the guard continued, leaning casually against the wall. 

“You, however— you don’t seem fragile. You won’t break easily. That’s what makes you so interesting. You’re special, even Scaramouche could see that. The things I’d do to you . . . The experiments I’d run . . . The results I would get to conclude . . . !” Dottore’s voice oozed with excitement, but Kazuha wasn’t excited at all. On the contrary, he was rather unnerved, his chest tightening. 

What is he even testing? Kazuha wondered. What in the world would he need me for? 

Kazuha moved away, finding that he didn’t want to continue the conversation any longer. “I need to be heading back, now,” he murmured. “Have a good night, Dottore.” 

“Goodbye, Scaramouche’s plaything!” 

Dottore’s laughter followed Kazuha as he walked away, haunting him. The sounds of his maniacal cackles reminded Kazuha of a mockingbird. The boy shuddered; he could feel Dottore’s gaze lingering on his back, all the way until he finally vanished from sight. What was wrong with that man? Why did Scaramouche keep him as a bodyguard? There was just something wrong with him. 

Kazuha wondered why Dottore was out and about in the middle of the night, but he figured it was because he was merely performing his duties. He was probably patrolling the palace. As a guard, it was his duty to do his rounds. Kazuha just wished they hadn’t crossed paths, but everything happened for a reason. He could only hope that their encounter didn’t provoke anything further. The less he saw Dottore, the better. 

Besides, Kazuha didn’t like the way Dottore referred to him. He wasn’t Scaramouche’s plaything — that was far from the truth. Wasn’t it? He faltered, beginning to doubt himself. He essentially was just a toy for Scaramouche, a pretty face to keep at his side. He was eye candy more than anything. His stomach churned, rolling with nausea, but he assured himself that Dottore was simply taunting him. It was all to get in his head — he couldn’t let Dottore win. 

Upon re-entering his room, Kazuha was relieved to find Scaramouche still fast asleep. He was lying in bed, as motionless as a statue. Kazuha crept closer carefully, taking small steps forward. Every slight creak or noise made him grimace, but luckily, Scaramouche didn’t stir. Kazuha breathed just a bit easier. It seemed like he would be in the clear. 

Slipping into bed beside his husband, Kazuha exhaled softly. A weight seemed to lift off of his shoulders, and he felt just a tiny bit better. Although Dottore had complicated his mood, he was more content after stretching his legs. He wasn’t as restless.

He went to lay down when he paused, glancing down towards his husband curiously. Something had caught his eye, something that made his mouth drop slightly, shock quickly overtaking him. 

Leaning closer, Kazuha stared down at the prince of Inazuma — the prince who was crying. Scaramouche was shedding tears in his dreams. They rolled gently down his face, shimmering across his cheeks like transparent specks of diamond. Scaramouche’s damp skin practically glowed within the darkness of the room, his porcelain flesh streaked with tear tracks. 

Kazuha’s chest constricted, as if someone had grabbed a hold of his heart and squeezed. On the outside, Scaramouche looked as if he never expressed emotions such as vulnerability. All he ever displayed was anger, disgust, disdain. He never exposed himself, but Kazuha supposed that in his sleep, he couldn’t control his expressions. Throughout his slumber, his guard was down, and his true self was revealed. 

Kazuha knew what it was like to wear a mask. Growing up, he always had to wear one. As a noble of the Kaedehara clan, he was expected to constantly remain prim and proper. Reacting too much to something would earn him punishments. As a samurai, he needed to be as calm as a gently flowing river. As Scaramouche’s future wife, he needed to be properly docile. On top of that, Kazuha was a naturally laidback person. It didn’t take much for him to perfect the art of wearing a mask. It became second nature. 

Perhaps in that sense, he could relate to Scaramouche. They both hid away their true selves, they guarded their hearts with walls and forts and thorns. Were they both frightened of being hurt? Were they both frightened of showing the world their genuine personalities? Did Scaramouche feel the same way he did? Feel as if he were trapped, stuck beneath the weight of countless expectations and responsibilities? 

What are you thinking? What are you feeling? I would like to know, even just once. Kazuha swallowed past the lump that had formed within his throat, slowly extending a hand. 

He reached out, brushing pale fingers against his husband’s damp cheeks. He wiped Scaramouche’s tears away, being especially tender. The sleeve of his kimono grew wet, but he couldn’t care less. His fingers dripped with faint residue of Scaramouche’s tears; he really was crying a lot. Kazuha wished to comfort him, he wished to just hold him— 

Scaramouche’s eyes suddenly flew open. The glow of his violet eyes filled the room with a piercing light, that scrutinizing gaze boring into Kazuha’s very soul. He gripped Kazuha’s hand tightly, squeezing painfully hard. He yanked Kazuha’s hand away from his face, his grip bruising. Kazuha couldn’t help but wince, his mouth parting into a soft gasp. 

“K-Kuni-sama,” Kazuha whispered, and Scaramouche only tightened his grip. He sat up slowly, strands of dark hair falling into those menacing violet eyes. Scaramouche didn’t respond for a moment, merely studying him. Kazuha stared back at him, hating the way his heart jumped anxiously. 

Eventually, Scaramouche spoke, though he didn’t release Kazuha. “What the hell were you doing, brat?” His voice was low and abnormally deep, husky from the throes of sleep. Kazuha despised the way his stomach pooled with heat, his teeth sinking deep into his bottom lip. His face felt all too hot; why on earth was he so embarrassed over this? 

“You were crying, and I didn’t like seeing your face covered in tears. I wanted to perhaps comfort you, to bring you some sort of solace if you allowed me to,” Kazuha began hesitantly. “I apologize sincerely. Please, forgive my—”

Scaramouche closed his eyes, roughly tugging Kazuha closer. “Shut up,” he grunted. “I’m tired and I forgot you talk way too much. Just sleep with me. You’re lucky I’m so exhausted. Next time, don’t touch me. And don’t mention this to anyone, or else I’ll cut out your tongue.” Even though Scaramouche sounded groggy and sleep-deprived, Kazuha knew he meant every word he uttered.

Kazuha curled up against Scaramouche, pressing his head against the prince’s chest. 

Perhaps it was his own exhaustion, or maybe his overactive imagination, but he couldn’t feel Scaramouche’s heartbeat at all. 

❛ ━━･❪ ♛❫ ･━━ ❜

“Kazuha.” 

Kazuha blinked groggily. He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes rapidly. Gradually, the sleep ebbed from his body, and he managed to become more aware of his surroundings. His mind still felt muddled, foggy from his own exhaustion. His sleep-deprived gaze landed on his husband, who stood watching him. 

“Kuni-sama. What is it?” Kazuha covered his mouth with a hand, hiding the way he yawned. Judging from his own tiredness, it was probably quite early in the morning. He peered over towards the nearby window. Sunlight streamed in through the curtains, bathing the room in a gentle golden glow. 

“I have a meeting today.” Scaramouche announced, and Kazuha hummed absentmindedly. Another meeting. It didn’t come as much of a surprise to him. Scaramouche was always busy with something, whether it was a meeting or other political matters. Kazuha had learned long ago that the schedule of a prince was hectic. 

He tried to help Scaramouche whenever he could. He would handle whatever paperwork he was permitted to, and he would always be there to comfort his partner if need be. Scaramouche didn’t seem to appreciate Kazuha’s efforts, but he was hard to read. Kazuha couldn’t gauge what he truly felt, but he liked to think Scaramouche appreciated him. Surely he was grateful deep down. 

“Mm. Good luck. I’m sure you will do splendidly, Kuni-sama,” Kazuha murmured, stretching. He arched his back, the motion causing the fabric of his loose kimono to slip down his bare shoulders, revealing a series of bruises and bitemarks across his skin. Scaramouche had the habit of marking Kazuha up as if there was no tomorrow; Kazuha had long since grown used to it. 

“I don’t need luck.” Scaramouche crossed his arms over his chest. He seemed impatient. He was probably running late. Why hadn’t he left yet? Was there more he needed to say? 

“I just need you.” Scaramouche beckoned him forward impatiently. “Come on. You’re accompanying me to this particular meeting.” Scaramouche’s words left little to no room for protest. He wasn’t asking, he was simply stating a fact. Kazuha blinked a few times, the meaning of what Scaramouche said slowly dawning on him. He was going with Scaramouche to a meeting? But . . Why? 

Was he supposed to help somehow? Was he supposed to do something? Had he forgotten what he was meant to do? He panicked momentarily, his heart skipping a beat. Apparently, he looked alarmed enough for Scaramouche to sigh in exasperation, his voice dripping with annoyance. “This is the first you will be hearing of this development,” Scaramouche deadpanned. “It was a last minute decision. Is there a problem?” His tone shifted to that of iciness. 

“Not at all.” Kazuha forced himself to slide out of bed. His usual grace and tact gradually returned, though he still staggered slightly. Sleep hazed his senses, his mind churning sluggishly. He made his way towards his wardrobe, intending to change into something more suitable. If he were to accompany Scaramouche to this meeting, then he needed to look refined and elegant. 

After all, what he was in now certainly wouldn’t suffice. All he had on was a thin, see-through kimono. It left virtually nothing to the imagination. It was an attire that Scaramouche thoroughly enjoyed, and Kazuha didn’t mind wearing it — it kept his body cool on warm nights, and allowed him a freedom from the usual tight and constricting clothes he wore during the day. 

Still, it wasn’t acceptable to wear out of his room, especially to a meeting of all things. If anyone caught him in such a fashion (anyone besides Scaramouche at least) a scandal would no doubt break out. Kazuha didn’t exactly fancy the idea of dealing with drama, and he was sure Scaramouche didn’t either. 

However, he was proved wrong. 

“What are you doing?” Scaramouche sounded incredulous — scolding, even. As if Kazuha were acting like a misbehaving child. “I didn’t tell you to change.” He huffed, and Kazuha turned to face him, trying to hide how positively baffled he was. It didn’t work, unfortunately; over the time they’d spent together, Scaramouche was able to read him well. He could sense Kazuha’s puzzlement. 

“You’ll wear that to the meeting. All you need to do is sit still and stay quiet, anyway. Just listen. That’s all I ask of you. Got it?” Scaramouche beckoned him closer, and while Kazuha was still lost, he didn’t question him. He knew better. He would merely go along with what Scaramouche said, because in the end, what else could he really do? Besides, sitting still and listening seemed to be easy enough. His job wouldn’t be too difficult. 

“. . . Okay, then, Kuni-sama.” Kazuha stepped forward, following Scaramouche out of their room. It certainly felt awfully revealing and embarrassing to be walking around in his nightwear, but there was no other option. He didn’t have a choice. He ignored the slight twinge of bitterness that formed within his chest. He still hated how in the end, he never really got to make any choices for himself. 

Where is my free will? 

Kazuha fought to push the intrusive thoughts aside. Instead, he followed after his husband, his bare feet trailing lightly across the ground. He tried not to grow too lost within his own thoughts, but it was a strenuous task. Whenever he was reminded of his own lack of freedom, he couldn’t help but spiral into a series of doubts. Was he really meant to be here? Was this all his life would be? 

This isn’t a palace. This is a prison. Scaramouche is not my husband, he’s my warden. Childe isn’t just my bodyguard — he’s my chaperon. Someone there just to make sure I don’t get any creative ideas. Someone there to prevent me from escaping. This place is just a glorified bird cage. 

Kazuha shook his head, wisps of hair falling into his eyes at the movement. Even if what he thought was true, he couldn’t entirely blame Scaramouche, could he? They were both just trapped here together. 

Scaramouche was born into this life, he didn’t choose it. He was forced to follow his mother and her wishes, forced to become her puppet and the future ruler of Inazuma. Unfortunately, he’d chosen Kazuha to shoulder that burden as well, to become a puppet alongside him. Perhaps he just needed someone to share his sorrows, someone to endure the bitterness and loneliness at his side. Perhaps . . . He needed someone he thought could understand him. 

Nonetheless, Kazuha still wished things could be different. Why couldn’t he choose for himself? This wasn’t the life he wanted. He never wanted to marry, he never wanted to integrate into royalty, he never wanted any of this. And yet Scaramouche still found a way into his heart; despite the lingering regret Kazuha faced regarding his circumstances, Scaramouche still had a way of making him feel things. Things like affection, things like tender fondness. 

A cold gust of air blew by, disrupting Kazuha’s chain of thought. His bare legs and thighs were embraced by the chill, and goosebumps rose to his skin, causing him to shiver. He wished that he could cover up, but he knew Scaramouche wouldn’t let him. 

It felt like they walked for an eternity before Scaramouche finally paused, standing in front of a broad set of doors. He pushed them open without any further hesitation, and Kazuha trailed inside after him, wondering what it would be like. After all, it wasn’t as if he’d been to any high class meetings before, but he figured he knew what to expect. 

His gaze swept around the room, and as he predicted, figures of nobility and grandeur sat seated at a long, winding table. He was almost in awe at it all — so many prominent faces, so many famous people all gathered together into one room. He felt out of place. Why had he been brought along? Surely he wasn’t worthy of sitting amongst them. 

Scaramouche gripped tightly onto his wrist, tugging him forward. He sat down at the very head of the table, and Kazuha realized that there wasn’t any space left for him. Would he have to sit on the floor? Or perhaps he’d remain standing? That seemed humiliating. His gut churned, and he went to express his concerns when Scaramouche silenced him by pulling him into his lap. Kazuha was caught off-guard by the action, his eyes widening. 

Was this professional? He didn’t think so. However, no one dared to protest. Who would object to what the prince did? Not a single soul. Kazuha, to his credit, hid his embarrassment well. He dipped his head, keeping his gaze focused tactfully on the floor. He didn’t want to look around at the people he was certain were staring at him. 

“Now, then. On with the meeting. What do you all have to report?” Scaramouche’s voice drawled out, dripping with boredom. Kazuha again wondered why he was here. There must be a reason. Or was his presence just for show? Was he only here for Scaramouche to present to the world like some kind of trophy? No. There must be an ulterior motive, something deeper than just that. 

As the voices of the various people within the room ground out, Kazuha did his best to pay attention. However, most of the topics they discussed were all uninteresting. He didn’t care about the growth of businesses within Inazuma, and he was sure that Scaramouche didn’t either. No wonder he was always so grouchy; this was painfully dull. Doing this day after day seemed agonizing. What a dreadful existence indeed. 

Kazuha finally forced his gaze upwards, looking around at the varying people around him — only to discover that most of them were already looking directly at him. He blinked, expertly disguising the shock that washed over him. He supposed he was still a bit tired, since he hadn’t even realized that he seemed to be the center of attention. Was he supposed to say or do something . . . ? 

His skin prickled with unease, as if ants crawled underneath his flesh. There were only men within the room, and they all eyed him up with a gaze reminiscent to Scaramouche’s. It was predatory. Calculating. He hated it. He wanted to shy away, he wanted to cover himself up, he wanted to do something, and yet he was powerless. He was forced to endure their staring, his throat closing with a bitter feeling of discomfort. 

What do they want? Why won’t they stop looking at me? He wondered, but deep down, he already knew. They desired him, but he wasn’t someone they could ever have. 

Scaramouche’s hand suddenly shifted, moving to grip tightly onto Kazuha’s bare thigh. He squeezed, and perhaps the action was meant to be reassuring, because Kazuha didn’t feel quite as pressured anymore. Scaramouche was here—his husband was here, and Scaramouche wouldn’t let anyone lay a finger on him. Kazuha was certain of it. 

“Tell me. Did any of you collect news on those rumors? The ones about the supposed assassin coming for my head.” Scaramouche rested his chin on Kazuha’s shoulder, and it clicked — was this what Scaramouche wanted to tell him? It had to be. 

“. . . Yes, my lord. An informant gave word about the assassin’s origins. They are believed to source from Sangonomiya’s resistance. They’re presumably located somewhere on Watatsumi island.” A man with dark, graying hair spoke, and while he addressed Scaramouche, his gaze continued to drift towards Kazuha, lingering on the boy’s exposed neck. Kazuha bit back a frown. 

Kazuha tried to ignore it. Instead, he concentrated on what was being discussed. An assassin? He knew some people disagreed with the Shogunate and their tight rule over Inazuma — that was why the Resistance had been formed, after all. But he never believed they’d be bold enough to attempt an assassination. Part of the reason the Shogunate still ruled was simply because no one could kill them, not even if they tried. 

But maybe . . . Perhaps the Resistance’s goal wouldn’t be to kill only Scaramouche. Maybe they wanted to target someone else instead, someone important to him or the Shogunate. If they couldn’t get the prince, then they’d go after the next best thing instead. 

Me.

The realization caused an icy sense of revelation to wash over Kazuha. This was what Scaramouche wanted him to hear. This was what Scaramouche wanted him to know. He had a price tag above his head, a target planted onto his back. He wasn’t safe, he was never safe, not truly. It seemed as if he constantly had to have one eye open, constantly looking around for any threats. 

“How nice.” Scaramouche’s tone suddenly shifted, and it felt as if the temperature within the room had dropped a few degrees. Winter seemed to have arrived early. Kazuha was frozen, tense beneath his husband’s grip. Scaramouche’s hold was so tight on his thigh that it left bruises, purple indentations marking Kazuha’s pale and pristine skin. 

“Now tell me something else — how long are you all going to stare at my wife for?” Scaramouche ground out. Kazuha could smell the anger on him. His fury rolled off of him in waves; his scent was dripping with rage. Luckily, that fury wasn’t directed towards him, but he still couldn’t help feeling nervous. An angry Scaramouche was never ideal, and when he became possessively angry—well, that was perhaps even worse. 

“M-my lord—”

“I apologize, sir—”

“Forgive me!” 

As the men scrambled to apologize, Scaramouche grinned, his lips curving upwards. He shifted, suddenly pushing Kazuha off of his lap. The boy was taken by surprise, just barely catching himself. He landed on the ground somewhat gracefully, glancing up towards Scaramouche incredulously. Perhaps he really was angry at him, but what had Kazuha even done wrong? 

“No need to apologize!” Scaramouche raised his hands, waving them frantically. The smile he offered was painfully fake — the corners of his lips stretched unnaturally upwards, and the gesture never once met his eyes. Kazuha was able to detect the insincerity almost instantly, but the men around him weren’t as perceptive. Or perhaps they just didn’t know Scaramouche as much as he did. 

“If you want him, go on, you can have him. All of you.” Scaramouche prodded Kazuha forward with a foot, and the boy staggered, hunching over upon the floor. His heart skipped a beat or two, pounding abnormally fast within his chest. What was Scaramouche doing? This was beyond inappropriate, this— 

Kazuha glanced upwards, trying to muffle his fear. He forced his expression into one of indifference, but internally, he was beginning to panic. How could his husband, the one who had gotten jealous over virtually nothing, offer him up to the wolves? As if he were nothing more than a lamb meant for slaughter? Kazuha couldn’t wrap his mind around it, but he knew that he wouldn’t just allow these men to have their way with him. 

It didn’t take long at all—maybe mere seconds—until figures stepped towards him, reaching out for him. Kazuha tensed, bracing himself. He’d been trained as a samurai for years, and that training wasn’t for nothing. He’d defend himself with force if need be. He wouldn’t let those grubby hands touch him, he wouldn’t let their foul grips taint him. 

He went to lash out, but he was too slow. Someone did it for him. At first, he was too stunned to properly react. It had all happened so fast, faster than he could even blink. It was all over within seconds, leaving Kazuha reeling on the floor, wondering if anything had even really happened. 

“Did you really think I’d let you morons get a taste of what’s mine?” Scaramouche sounded amused. Had this been nothing more than a game to him? Kazuha couldn’t think, he couldn’t speak, he was frozen — stuck transfixed on the ground, staring at the scene before him. He could faintly register Scaramouche moving forward, into his view. 

The prince held a sword, his sword. It had materialized out of thin air— no, it had formed from electro energy, it had been manifested from the Shogunate’s ancient generational power. Kazuha’s mind flashed back to the Musou no Hitotachi, the public execution he’d witnessed with Tomo. His throat closed up, stealing away his ability to even breathe. His mouth felt abnormally dry. 

“You all are fools. Naïve, idealistic and opportunistic fools. You never take the time to think before you act. Greed clouds your mind. As expected of lowly humans like you.” Scaramouche bent down, tilting the head of an injured man up with the tip of his sword. 

“You’ll never get away with this! I’m a Liyue diplomat! Morax will have your head on a silver platter! Morax will make you pay! Morax will—” the man spluttered, coughing on his own blood. Crimson streaks trailed from his mouth, staining the ground below him. There was a brutal, zig-zagging cut across his abdomen. Not enough to kill him instantly, but enough to make him beyond saving. He would surely bleed to death. 

“Morax this, Morax that.” Scaramouche mocked. “Who do you think your precious Morax will believe? The voice of me, royalty, or the voice of a corpse?” Scaramouche grinned. “Besides, even if he did believe you, he wouldn’t give a damn. You’re disposable. All human lives are. You’re utterly worthless.” 

Without another moment of hesitation, Scaramouche shoved his sword upwards, through the man’s chin and up higher still, up through his skull, splattering blood and brain matter everywhere, absolutely everywhere —

Kazuha was motionless. The room looked like the scene of a crime, and dully, he realized that was because it was. Blood coated the walls, the floor, every inch and crevice was streaked with red. Distantly, Kazuha realized he was trembling. He was no stranger to death, but this? This was— 

“Please, my lord. Please spare me.” A broken sob made Kazuha shift his gaze slowly, until he was staring at a man hunched over on the bloody ground, covered in scrapes and bruises. The man was sobbing, fat tears spilling down his cheeks, and Kazuha felt his chest tighten, his heart skipping a beat. 

“Please. I have a family. I have young children. My wife needs me, she won’t be able to provide if I’m not there—”

“Is that so?” Scaramouche interrupted. 

“Yes! Yes! Please, please believe me, I’m all that they have!” The man cried deliriously, and Scaramouche hummed thoughtfully, nodding slowly. 

“I see. Then if you want to live, kneel. Beg and plead for your life, trash.” The smile Scaramouche sent the man was sickly sweet, but Kazuha knew better. He was dripping with malice. He was oozing with bloodlust, his aura so stifling that Kazuha nearly gagged. Everything was too much. The room stunk, the metallic reek of blood clogging his senses, obscuring his body and mind.

The man didn’t hesitate. He dropped down onto the ground, his head tilted towards the blood-stained floor. “Please, please, please!” He wailed, and Kazuha wished he could cover his ears, but he couldn’t move. He wished he could tell Scaramouche to stop, but he was scared. Scared of that sword turning towards him, scared of facing his husband’s blade, scared of facing the brutality of death. 

“You’re disposable. All human lives are. You’re utterly worthless.” 

The words rang through Kazuha’s ears, echoing within his mind. Was that really how Scaramouche felt? Was that how he felt about him? Was he just a toy, something to be easily replaced whenever he finally broke? 

His thoughts were brutally interrupted when a flash of motion stole his attention. In a swift movement, Scaramouche curved his blade downwards. He moved so fast, Kazuha almost didn’t catch him. His speed was something else—something otherworldly. 

The man’s head clobbered to the ground within seconds, blood splattering throughout the air. Unknowingly, he had readied himself for his own execution, pleading on the floor. He had made Scaramouche’s job easier. Decapitating that man must have been like child’s play for Scaramouche. Everything was. No one could compare to the prince’s strength; Kazuha knew that now. 

Everyone within the room was dead. All those famous and powerful people, all gone within the span of a minute or two. Everyone was dead besides Kazuha and Scaramouche. 

When Scaramouche focused on Kazuha again, the boy nearly flinched, his body seizing up with terror. It was like being looked at by a god — he couldn’t blink, he couldn’t properly react, all he could do was remain perfectly still. Maybe if he didn’t move, then Scaramouche would leave him alone. Maybe if he played dead, then everything would go away. But that was a naïve and fickle hope. Childish thinking. 

Scaramouche flicked his hand, and within one fluid movement, his sword vanished. Particles of purple energy drifted through the air, causing the hair on Kazuha’s arms to raise. When Scaramouche moved closer to him, the scent of smoke and singed flesh followed, clinging to him like a dark cloud. 

The prince bent down, crouching so he could be at Kazuha’s level. He never broke eye contact, keeping their gazes forcefully locked. Kazuha was too frightened to look away, fearing the repercussions if he did. His gut churned, urging him to turn tail and flee, but his brain wisely advised him to stay put. There was nowhere for him to run, anyway. 

“Did you really think I would let them do anything to you?” Scaramouche seemed amused, not at all phased by his own actions. Did he not grasp the extent of what he’d done? No. He did. He just didn’t care. He murdered without a second thought simply because it was within his power to do so. 

“Of course I wouldn’t. I was testing them, you see.” Scaramouche reached out, and it took all of Kazuha’s willpower not to reel away. Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me with your bloodied hands, his mind screamed, and yet he didn’t move, allowing Scaramouche to cup his face with faux tenderness. This gentle demeanor seemed unnatural considering just moments ago, Scaramouche had been savagely murdering his own close allies. 

“There is no place for people like them in the world,” Scaramouche murmured. “There is especially no place for them at my side. They deserved to die. Their families . . . If they were even telling the truth about that . . . I’ll take care of it. It won’t be an issue to just give them a gracious sum of money. They’ll survive. Chances are they won’t even miss whoever they lost.” Scaramouche grinned. 

“There’s no need to look so upset, darling.” 

Scaramouche brushed crimson-coated fingers over Kazuha’s face, spreading blood across the boy’s skin. “I didn’t take you as someone so squeamish.” Scaramouche snickered, but Kazuha didn’t know what was so funny. Where was the humor in this situation? Scaramouche had been testing his subordinates? Why? Why did it matter? Why did he have to kill them? Why not lock them away? Why add on to the endless bloodshed? 

“Come on. Say something. Don’t look at me like that. Do you think the same as they do? Do you see me as they do? Like I’m a monster?” Scaramouche’s tone dripped with bitterness. His nails dug into Kazuha’s skin, and Kazuha’s mouth parted, his breath hitching. He needed to give a good answer, and fast, to appease Scaramouche quickly. 

“No,” Kazuha murmured. “No. I only see you as my husband. Nothing more and nothing less.” Was that a lie? Did he see Scaramouche as a monster? He didn’t know. He couldn’t find the truth, but he had to soothe the prince, calm him down from that earlier rage. It was almost as if he’d thrown a tantrum. 

Scaramouche hummed. It was unclear as to whether he believed Kazuha or not. Something about the boy’s answer seemed to satisfy him, however, for he leaned closer, pressing their lips together. Kazuha tried not to express his discomfort, forcing himself to kiss Scaramouche back with vigor. 

Scaramouche held him closely, but Kazuha couldn’t help but feel as if something was off. There was something wrong. About him. About all of this. He wanted out. He wanted—

Freedom. 

❛ ━━･❪ ♛❫ ･━━ ❜

Kazuha didn’t know how much time had passed since that fateful meeting. He figured perhaps a month or two. Things returned to normal almost instantly, but Kazuha couldn’t just easily forget all that he had seen. 

When he slept, the images of severed heads and sliced-apart bodies filled his mind. The stench of blood and electricity flooded his nostrils, clogging up his senses, and he just couldn’t get a proper moment of rest. Dark purple bags formed underneath his eyes, his lack of proper sleep apparent, and yet no one questioned him about it. They didn’t need to; they already knew why he was so restless. 

At least Scaramouche, in the end, was true to his word. For the men who did have families, he gave them generous amounts of money. More than enough to live off of for the rest of their lives. They would be just fine financially, but what about their mental state? Did they know the fate that had befallen their loved one? Did they understand the extent of what happened? 

Kazuha never asked. 

Morax, the person that man had mentioned in his final moments, seemed to believe Scaramouche — or whatever excuse he gave. Kazuha knew that would happen. After all, who had the guts to disagree with the prince of Inazuma? He could do whatever he wanted, to whoever he wanted. No one could defy him, not even someone as powerful as Morax. Not with the royal blood coursing through his veins. No, he was unstoppable. 

The queen, at least, didn’t seem to agree with her son’s actions. One evening after Scaramouche’s murderous stunt, he returned to their chambers looking more annoyed than usual, grumbling about his mother. Apparently, she had severely reprimanded him. It was comforting to know that the queen didn’t align with her son’s brutal nature. Thankfully she wasn’t a killing machine, slaughtering people left and right. 

Still, what would happen once her reign ended? Then Scaramouche would rule, and no one would be able to stop him. Would Inazuma plunge into tyranny? Scaramouche would surely dispose of anyone he found disdainful. Kazuha would have to walk on even thinner eggshells around him. His stomach churned with unease. He dreaded to see the day his husband finally became king. 

Somehow, ever since that day, Scaramouche grew even more possessive. Whenever he wasn’t busy, he was at Kazuha’s side — like a hawk. He was present at anything and everything Kazuha did, monitoring every little action. When he was too busy to be Kazuha’s shadow, he had Childe take his place. Childe lingered around Kazuha like a storm cloud, unshakable and unmoveable. 

Kazuha didn’t understand. Was it because of what had happened? But then it clicked. There had been mentions of an assassin. Maybe that helped to explain Scaramouche’s overbearing nature. However, after weeks and weeks of no suspicious actions whatsoever, Kazuha figured he was in the clear. No one was going to come after him. 

But still, he never let his guard down. 

One afternoon, whilst sitting in his usual spot within the garden, he sensed a disturbance. A new presence greeted him, someone who he didn’t yet recognize. 

He had been reciting a haiku, spewing the tale out to the sky and the birds, when the sudden disruption made him pause. He couldn’t help but feel a twinge of annoyance—he always hated it when his poetry was interrupted. He couldn’t even finish his haiku, and that irritated him more than anything else. Didn’t people have manners? Did no one appreciate the intricate art of literature these days? How disgraceful. 

As an arrow came whizzing towards his head, Kazuha sighed, tilting his head to the side just in time. He felt the arrow soar past him, landing in the trunk of a tree behind him. He shook his head scornfully; while the attempt was applaudable, his would-be assassin underestimated him. He had sensed them from the very moment they appeared. 

Kazuha stood up, dusting dirt from his silk kimono. He turned, his gaze locking on his would-be killer. The archer stared at him from between rows of hedges; they seemed shocked. Perhaps he would be, too. It took a different type of person to sense the arrow coming—and it took an exceptional person to dodge it on top of that. This assassin probably never missed before, but Kazuha was glad he had ended their winning streak. 

“Interrupting someone lacks any tact, wouldn’t you agree?” Kazuha murmured, staring intently at his attempted killer. They simply flinched away; they seemed to have given up on trying to kill him. After all, they had a bigger problem now; getting out of the palace without getting caught by the guards. 

However, it was too late for them. 

Childe surged forward, the gleaming blade of his sword slicing into the assassin’s throat. Kazuha watched, as still as a statue, as blood soared through the air, splattering the grass. 

His serene garden was now tainted. Couldn’t he have anything? Could he not have a single pure thing? Everything he revered had to be ruined in the end. He closed his eyes, exhaling softly. The gardens would be cleaned, and this assassin’s blood would simply nurture the flowers. It would help them grow, hopefully into something stronger. Kazuha too would do the same. 

Childe stepped over the body, rushing towards Kazuha. “My lord! Are you injured?” He exclaimed, genuine concern glittering within those dark blue eyes. Was he worried about Kazuha, or worried about the repercussions for not killing the assassin sooner? Kazuha supposed it didn’t matter. 

He forced a smile, bowing his head. “I’m fine. There’s no need to fret. Are you hurt, Childe?” He knew his bodyguard was fine, he had seen and heard everything, but out of politeness he found the need to ask. He wanted to show Childe that even though they weren’t allowed to be friends, he still cared about him. He still valued his presence, and he didn’t want anything to happen to Childe. 

“I’m alright. You shouldn’t worry about me.” Childe glanced downwards, flicking blood off of his blood. “I failed you, after all. I should have acted quicker. If you weren’t so capable, then . . . You would have . . .” He trailed off, his gaze clouding. A dejected look crossed over his face, and Kazuha wished he could provide some sort of comfort, but what was there to say? Childe was right, after all. 

If Kazuha’s senses weren’t so sharp, that arrow would have certainly pierced straight through his skull. If he wasn’t so swift, he wouldn’t be alive. If he wasn’t so observant, he would be six feet under by now. But the point was that he was still intact. He was just fine. In his mind, Childe hadn’t failed his job. He’d done just fine. Kazuha was still in one piece and breathing, and the assassin was gone, properly and efficiently disposed of. 

Scaramouche wouldn’t see it that way, though. Kazuha knew that he wouldn’t. And so did Childe. The glance they exchanged was a mutual sense of understanding — Scaramouche was going to be livid over this. 

“We won’t tell him,” Kazuha began, but Childe shook his head. “Nonsense. Where will we hide the body? Someone needs to clean this up. Besides, there was an attempt on your life. He’s your husband; he deserves to know.” Childe sighed, rubbing his temple. “I’ll tell him everything, my lord. Let’s just get you inside quickly. There might be another assassin around for all we know.” 

There isn’t. I would have sensed them, Kazuha thought, but he kept it to himself.

There was no reasoning with Childe; he’d already made up his mind. Kazuha was forced to follow after him, back into the palace and away from the blood-tinted gardens. He tried not to think too much about the corpse lying amongst the hedges — the man had tried to murder him, after all, but he was still a man. He was a human, a human with a life and loved ones, people who would surely miss and mourn him. 

Later on, Kazuha would make sure to pay his respects. He would send a prayer up to the gods. He figured that would be enough. He was just grateful that wasn’t him, lying dead face-down on the grass. He suppressed a shudder, a chill passing over his body. 

As they walked, Childe stuck close to his side, closer than normal. Usually, Childe would give Kazuha a wide berth — presumably due to Scaramouche’s orders. But now, he didn’t let Kazuha stray too far. He was clearly being cautious, acting overprotective due to his own anxieties. But there was nothing to worry about; the assassin was dead, and Kazuha was certain that no other killers remained in the castle. 

It didn’t take long for them to find Scaramouche. Dottore was standing outside of his room, keeping watch. When he saw them approaching, he grinned, though it faded slightly when he saw how grim Childe looked. “Oh? What seems to be the matter?” Dottore tilted his head. “What’s got your panties in a twist, Tartaglia? Did something happen?” His grin widened by a fragment. 

“I’m not in the mood for your antics, Dottore.” Childe waved a hand dismissively. “I have urgent matters to discuss with the prince. Step aside, please, and let us inside.” 

“Now why would I do that?” Dottore snickered. “I received prominent orders from the majesty himself to not let anyone inside. Unless he tells me that you’re allowed in, you aren’t getting past me. Sorry.” Dottore examined his nails idly, and Kazuha frowned. 

“I’m his wife,” Kazuha spoke up suddenly, stepping forward to stand beside Childe. It was almost comical; standing side by side, Childe nearly dwarfed Kazuha, towering over the white-haired boy. Yet he kept his head held high, staring defiantly up towards Dottore. “I have superiority over you, Dottore. I won’t ask again, please let us in.” 

Dottore hummed thoughtfully, eyeing Kazuha up and down. “I see. So you do have a backbone,” he murmured, as if he were thinking long and hard about something. He eventually shook his head, clearing his thoughts. He moved to the side, gesturing the two forward. “Well hurry up, then,” he grumbled. “I don’t have all day.” He did in fact, have all day, considering his job consisted of simply standing at the door. 

Kazuha led the way, knocking briefly before he opened the door slowly. He stepped inside, Childe directly on his heels. The door slammed shut with an echoing clang behind them, but neither jumped. Kazuha was more unnerved by the sight of Scaramouche sitting perfectly still in front of them, facing the window. He didn’t turn to greet them; he’d probably heard their entire conversation with Dottore, judging from his rigid posture. 

“My lord.” Childe cleared his throat, breaking the tense silence. He dipped his head, lowering himself to kneel upon the ground — a sign of respect. He wished he could tell Childe to stand back up, but it wasn’t his place. He wasn’t the same status as Scaramouche; his husband was still superior to him, much to his own disappointment. In a marriage, they should be equals, but that wasn’t the case. They weren’t equal at all. 

“You better have a damn good explanation, Tartaglia.” Scaramouche straightened up, rising to face them. The look on his face caused Kazuha’s stomach to churn, his heart plummeting. The prince’s expression was furious, contorted with rage, and he seemed positively fuming. Those violet eyes burned with a violent vehemence that Kazuha hadn’t seen since the fateful day of that meeting. 

Scaramouche glared down at them, and under the weight of his glare, Kazuha resisted the urge to shrink away. His skin prickled, and the air seemed to fizz with electricity, the reek of smoke flooding Kazuha’s nostrils. He took a deep breath, going to speak, but Childe beat him to it. 

“My lord, there was an attempt on your wife’s life. An assassin who was an excellent archer, wearing the attire of the Resistance . . . I failed to stop them in time. If it weren’t for the princess’ quick reflexes, he wouldn’t be here today. I’m ashamed to say that I failed him, and I failed you. I’m a disappointment to the Shogunate, and for that, I am sorry.” 

“The assassin is dead. I disposed of them swiftly, but only after they had already fired a killing shot. I didn’t do enough.” Childe trailed off, keeping his gaze trained on the floor. For a moment, there was an eerie silence, one that stretched out for far too long. Kazuha’s mouth had gone dry, his nerves screaming and crackling with unease. 

The sound of Scaramouche’s deranged laughter filled up the room, and Kazuha’s heart sank even further. He didn’t think it was possible, but he felt more terrified than ever before. He wasn’t worried about himself, no. He was scared for Childe. He had seen what Scaramouche was capable of firsthand. 

He knew what the prince could do when he was angry. He knew the power that he held. 

“Kuni-sama, before you do anything, please—” Kazuha began, but Scaramouche raised a hand, forcing him to fall silent. Kazuha dug his nails into his palms, rendered into compliance as Scaramouche turned to glower down at them. “Don’t try to say anything, Kazuha,” Scaramouche ground out. “It isn’t your place to be talking right now. Just mind your manners and shut up.” 

“Trying to defend your precious bodyguard or covering up for him will just dig him a deeper hole. Any word you say will only serve to piss me off even more. I don’t give a shit about anything you have to tell me. Childe knows he fucked up. You know he fucked up. I know he fucked up. And you know what happens when a bodyguard of the Shogunate fails at their job?” Scaramouche smiled eerily, the corners of his lips twisting upwards, making him resemble a jester. 

Kazuha knew. He knew what Scaramouche was implying. And nonetheless, he still wanted to deny it. He didn’t want to believe that Scaramouche would resort to such a thing. Surely, it wasn’t possible. Surely, he wouldn’t. Would he? But Scaramouche seemed entirely serious, and Childe remained painfully still — he was unusually grim, too dull and faded for his usual self. 

Within the dim lighting of the room, illuminated only by a flickering candle, Scaramouche seemed even more menacing. His grin bordered on maniacal, and his appearance was that of a nightmare. Kazuha wanted to bury his head in his hands, he wanted to hide away, he wanted to run away. 

Facing his own would-be assassin had been easier than this. Scaramouche, his own husband, was far more terrifying than any potential murderer. That realization saddened him. That wasn’t normal, was it? Was it natural for people to be frightened of their significant others? Was it a common trend for wives to be fearful of their husbands? Or was this only applied to him? 

Scaramouche was going to kill Childe. He was going to execute him. Would he use the Musou no Hitotachi? Kazuha felt a chill ripple down his spine at the thought. No. Anything— anything —but that. He couldn’t bear to see that again, and he couldn’t handle seeing anyone else lose their lives, especially at the hands of his own beloved husband. 

Those hands which had held him. Those hands which had caressed him, tended to him. Those hands that had gripped him close, those hands that had been inside of him—they were tainted red with blood. Scaramouche wasn’t innocent, Kazuha always knew that, but people should only kill when necessary. People should only sin when there was no other choice, when there was no other option but to resort to violence. 

Scaramouche, however? He didn’t care about any of that. Kazuha didn’t even know if he had a proper set of morals — perhaps he did. He never harmed the elderly or children. But everyone else? They were fair game. He hurt people left and right, and he found enjoyment within his own sick actions. No ordinary person did such a thing. No normal person derived pleasure from torturing other people.

Sadist. That was the word that sprung to Kazuha’s mind when he thought of his husband. Sadistic. Scaramouche was a sadist, he had to be. There was no other label to place upon his head. It explained all of his actions thus far. It explained how he could hurt and kill people so effortlessly, it explained how he could laugh in the wake of others’ misery, it explained how he would bite and bruise Kazuha and relish in whatever pain it brought his own wife. 

But being a sadist—well, Kazuha didn’t know how common that was, but it certainly was to some degree. And not all sadists were like Scaramouche; they weren’t tyrannical murderers. Scaramouche seemed to be something else entirely, a whole different definition of a person. Kazuha didn’t know how to read him, he didn’t know what his husband was, and in the end it didn’t matter. 

What mattered was that he was a sick individual, and he was the prince. The prince of Inazuma. He could do whatever he wanted, and if he wanted to kill Childe, there would be nothing for Kazuha to do to stop him. Childe had failed at his duty, after all. His death would be acceptable in the eyes of the public. No one would think to protest. 

But Kazuha didn’t want Childe dead. He was tired of it. The senseless bloodshed. He wanted it to end. He didn’t want to watch anyone else die, especially not Childe. How could Scaramouche be so heartless? Did he have no compassion? Did he have no soul? 

Now that I think of it, I have never once felt his heart beat. 

Kazuha stifled a shiver, his blood running cold. He didn’t speak, but he didn’t need to. Scaramouche grinned down at him, moving closer. Within the candle’s flickering golden glow, it almost seemed as if Scaramouche’s teeth were fangs, gleaming down at him. He resisted the urge to shudder, biting down into his lip to steel his cataclysmic emotions. 

“I’ll end him here and now,” Scaramouche announced. “A useless bodyguard serves no purpose for me or for you. His life is devoid of any kind of meaning.” He drew his sword without another moment of hesitation, particles of electro energy springing into the air. Kazuha’s mind flashed back, again, to the meeting — to the time Scaramouche had done the same thing before unleashing hell upon his subordinates, to the time where he had mercilessly killed a handful of people. 

Childe was frozen, remaining entirely rigid. Perhaps he knew fighting back was pointless. Or perhaps he was too frightened to retaliate. But no — Kazuha knew Childe. The ginger was always aching for a fight, and if he were to die, he wouldn’t do so peacefully. He would battle for his life to the very end, even if it meant fighting the prince of Inazuma. So why now was he complying? 

Unless—was he doing this not for himself, but for someone else? Kazuha remembered something, a conversation from months ago flooding back into his mind all at once. 

“Kazuha. Forgive me for my rude manners, and I don’t mean to pry, but I’ve got to know. What was it like in the Kaedehara clan? I know everything went to sh—ah, I mean chaos, but your marriage to the prince saved your clan from falling apart. Your parents were certainly overjoyed, weren’t they? Don’t you miss them? Do they miss you?” 

Kazuha had turned to face Childe, sending him a bitter smile. He had figured that he might as well be honest; it wouldn’t hurt to express the truth, just this once. “I’m afraid not, Childe. My parents could care less for my absence. In fact, I believe they were more than happy to get rid of me. I was merely a hindrance to them, a passing fling within the grand scheme of their lives. Personally, I do not miss them. There was nothing to miss.” 

Childe had seemed shocked, his eyes widening slightly. “What?” It didn’t seem to have occurred to him that parents might not love their children. He had blinked once, and then twice, before dipping his head. “I’m sorry,” he’d said, and the sincerity in his voice touched Kazuha’s heart. Childe really was sympathetic; he pitied Kazuha for his poor home life, but he didn’t need to. 

“There’s really no need to apologize,” Kazuha had reassured him, waving a hand dismissively. “I might not have had my parents’ support, but my best friend was always there for me. His name was Tomo. I miss him with each passing day, and I am certain he misses me too. Sometimes, when the wind caresses my cheeks, I can almost hear his voice, carried to me by the breeze itself.” 

Kazuha had smiled at Childe, who stared back at him, listening to every word he said carefully. “What about you, Childe? Do you have any friends? How is your relationship with your family?” Kazuha figured he knew the answer already, but he found it polite to at least ask. 

“Oh — my relationship with my family is great.” Childe glanced down, and he’d smiled, his lips curving upwards briefly. “My siblings are my whole life. Everything I do, I do it for them. They love me a lot, and hell, I love them even more. I think they’d really like you. Perhaps one day, you can all meet. What do you say to that, my lord?” 

Kazuha had smiled back, his heart feeling lighter than ever. The idea of meeting Childe’s siblings pleased him for a reason he couldn’t explain. “I would like that very much,” he’d murmured, and he couldn’t recall a happier moment spent between them. 

It all made sense. Childe wasn’t resisting because of his family. His siblings. He was remaining cooperative because of them. If he fought back, Scaramouche would certainly disregard any compassion for his disobedient subordinate’s family. But if he went quietly, then Scaramouche would perhaps take pity on Childe’s family. Without Childe to be their breadwinner, what would become of them? What would happen to his siblings? 

Kazuha couldn’t let anything happen to Childe. He couldn’t let those girls and boys go without their big brother, and he couldn’t let them lose their only source of stability. He couldn’t let Scaramouche steal another life from this world, innocent or not. He wouldn’t stand for it — he was sick of being silenced, he was tired of losing his voice. 

He moved forward within seconds, the wind whispering around him. It took only a moment for him to stand in front of Childe. Perhaps he was making a mistake, but in the end, he couldn’t bring himself to care. If he just sat back and allowed everything to unfold without batting an eye, then he would be on Scaramouche’s level. He couldn’t remain compliant in his own friend’s death. 

“You aren’t going to hurt him.” Kazuha kept his tone firm. He stood as tall as he could, straightening his posture. He hoped that he appeared intimidating, but secretly, he doubted it. He was about as menacing as a butterfly; with one movement, he could be crushed in a single fist. But that didn’t concern him. He was only worried for Childe and his safety, that was all that mattered. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Scaramouche’s tone was icy, colder than a frozen river amidst the winter. The look he sent Kazuha was enough to bring a grown man to his knees, but Kazuha didn’t dare waver. He met Scaramouche’s gaze with as much strength as he could muster; if he backed down now, if he lost his composure, he would only prove that he was weak. 

“I said that you won’t hurt him,” Kazuha repeated. “Like a tree amidst a storm, I will not dislodge from my roots. I will remain firm. Childe made a mistake, yes, but that is merely the nature of all humans. Mistakes can be corrected and improved upon. He is my bodyguard, not yours, and I deem him fit and capable. No one can do a better job than him; anyone else would have failed as well.” 

Kazuha lifted his chin. “If you wish to kill him, you must get through me. I won’t allow you to take his life away. He is a loyal and capable worker, and I value his presence.” Kazuha tried to keep his words professional, he tried not to express his care for Childe, but Scaramouche saw straight through him. 

“Oh. I see.” Scaramouche hissed out. “You think you’re big and bad now, is that it? Don’t get it twisted, whore. Just because we’re married doesn’t mean anything. Know your place; I’m getting sick of reminding you. Weren’t you supposed to be obedient? Weren’t you revered for always following orders? What happened to that? Now you’re more disobedient than a moody teenager.” 

“I am still the same as I once was,” Kazuha retorted. “I just decided to speak out against what I feel is an unjust action. I don’t want to defy you, but you leave me no other choice—”

“Okay then.” Scaramouche suddenly smiled, lifting his hands up. “If you want your precious little bodyguard to live, so be it! He can be forgiven for his mistakes, if and only if you manage to complete this task.” The smile Scaramouche sent Kazuha was colder than frost, causing the boy’s heart to wrench.

“Defeat an opponent I choose for you in a duel. If you win, Childe will be allowed to walk free. If you lose, I’ll execute him myself. The rule is that you can only win if you kill your opponent. If you believe yourself capable enough, then by all means, accept my offer. I think I’m being quite generous.” 

Scaramouche spread his arms out, waving his sword around casually — a stark reminder that he had all the control of this situation. Kazuha had no other choice. He had to accept this offer. In the end, it was better than nothing. What else was there for him to do? Besides, Scaramouche was being gracious to some degree. It was better than him just outright killing Childe without a second thought. At least now, Kazuha had hope. 

He had to trust in himself. He had training. He could do this. Of course, Scaramouche definitely wouldn’t make things easy for him, but that was fine. He would do whatever it took to save Childe, even if it meant killing for him. A life for a life. Kazuha had never killed someone before, but he wouldn’t hesitate if it meant Childe got to live on. That was just the cruel circle of their lives. 

“I accept your offer,” Kazuha stated matter-of-factly. “When will the duel commence?” He hoped he would have some time to prepare. He needed a week, or at least a few days, to properly ready himself for what was to come. Scaramouche probably wouldn’t give him too much of a grace period, but anything was better than nothing. 

“Four days from now,” Scaramouche retorted, and his sword disappeared, dissolving within the air. “Until then, Childe will be kept in the cells downstairs — in the basement.” Scaramouche fixed Childe with a disgusted glare. “It’s where filth like you belong, after all.” He turned away, waving a hand dismissively. “Now get out of my sight.” 

“But—” Kazuha began, only to be cut off.

“What did I say?” Scaramouche hissed. “Get the fuck out. Dottore heard everything. He’ll escort Childe to the cells. Or what, do you want to hold his hand as he descends down to hell?” Scaramouche sneered, the jealousy rolling off of him in waves. “I need privacy. I have a duel to arrange, after all. You want me to find a suitable opponent for you, don’t you?” His tone left no room for argument. 

Kazuha turned away, risking one last glance at Childe. For a brief moment, their gazes locked. Childe seemed to be regretful, his eyes shining with remorse — he probably didn’t want Kazuha to take this offer, but the princess didn’t care. Whatever Childe had to say didn’t matter to him. He was making his own choices for once, and he wouldn’t back down. He’d prove to everyone what he was capable of, and he would protect his friend. 

Without another moment of hesitation, Kazuha stepped outside, moving past Dottore, who went to grab a hold of Childe. Kazuha didn’t linger — he didn’t want to watch Childe get pulled off to a prison. He didn’t want to be reminded of the fact that his only friend in this palace was in danger. 

He didn’t want to think about what opponent Scaramouche might choose. Someone fearsome and deadly, no doubt. Someone Kazuha would probably have no hopes of defeating. Or at least, that’s what everyone would surely think. But Kazuha was stronger than anyone gave him credit for. He wasn’t some weakling, he wasn’t someone to be taken advantage of. I can fend for myself. 

But if he wanted to have a good chance at winning, he’d need to get training. He only had four days, which weren’t nearly enough to refresh his skills, but they’d have to be enough. He didn’t know what he’d do if it wasn’t. 

I won’t lose. I won’t. 

❛ ━━･❪ ♛❫ ･━━ ❜

“Ugh!—” 

Kazuha collapsed to the ground with a gasp, his chest heaving. He’d been training for hours, pushing his body to its utmost limit. He had stumbled across a training area which was usually off-limits to him, but Scaramouche allowed him inside just this once to prepare for his upcoming battle. 

Sweat dripped from his brow onto the dirt below. His muscles ached with exhaustion. He’d been at this for ages, but it wasn’t good enough. He wasn’t done yet, not even close. He still had more to do, so much more to do— 

But he was making little to no progress. Without anyone here to help him, he was left to practice with mannequins, but it wasn’t ideal. He wasn’t getting a proper experience; he was essentially fighting a corpse. If he was thrown into a real duel, he’d probably flounder. He needed someone to assist him, he needed someone to fight back with him. 

But Childe had been his only friend, and he was off in the dungeons. Dottore was out of the question. And Scaramouche — Kazuha shuddered just imagining a fight with him. Which ultimately left him with no one. 

Kazuha sighed with exasperation, staring up at the sky far above him. He tried to derive inspiration from the clouds; they floated by lazily, big fat puffs of white mass, and he wished so badly that he was amongst them. How freeing would it be to become a bird, drifting in between the clouds? He was so distracted by his moping thoughts, he almost didn’t notice someone approaching him. 

He turned just in time, moving to see an unfamiliar face smiling down at him. Alarm bells popped up within his head, and he instinctively braced for a fight. Ever since he was nearly assassinated, he couldn’t help but be more cautious, and anyone who snuck up on him often made him nervous. He didn’t like people creeping up on him; it reminded him too much of that dreadful day in the garden. He could almost picture an arrow soaring past, barely missing his head. 

But the person standing before him was far from an assassin. Kazuha studied them closely, and a lightbulb ignited within his mind. He knew who this was—well, not personally, but he had heard a lot about her. 

“Yae Miko . . . ? What could I do for you, ma’am?”

Kazuha tilted his head curiously, and Yae grinned. She offered a pale and delicate hand out, and Kazuha didn’t hesitate to accept it, allowing her to help him up. For a moment, neither of them spoke—Kazuha took some time dusting himself off, cleaning his attire of the dirt and grime that coated it. He wanted to look presentable in front of Yae. 

“I heard of your upcoming duel,” Yae told him casually. “I figured you’d need some help, so I decided to lend you my hand.” She leaned closer, a glint of mischief shining within her gaze. “What do you say? I can make sure you won’t lose, no matter who you face. You’ll be beyond ready after my training.” She seemed entirely confident, but Kazuha supposed she had every reason to be. 

Accepting her help couldn’t hurt. What was there to lose? This only served to benefit him in the end. He wanted to win, whatever it took, and if that meant training with Yae—then so be it. He’d do what he had to. 

“I would be glad to accept your help,” Kazuha stated, and Yae beamed. 

“Perfect!” 

As it would turn out, Yae wasn’t joking when she said she would make sure he wouldn’t lose. Though she was entirely kind and docile in most situations, whilst training, she turned quite strict and brutal. She refused to allow Kazuha a single break, pushing him to his utmost physical limits time and time again. She was relentless, and so he was forced to adapt, becoming relentless as well. 

Kazuha didn’t know how Yae had access to a hidden training ground, but he didn’t feel the need to ask. He knew she was close with the queen, so maybe that explained it. Still, training with ancient technology was somehow worse than training alone or with another person. Fighting against a machine was grueling; machines didn’t tire, but a human did. When he ran out of stamina, the machine didn’t — and it punished him for it. 

Still, Kazuha couldn’t bring himself to complain. Even when his muscles screamed at every slight movement, even when he coughed up blood, even when he nearly fainted due to exhaustion, he never once uttered a word of protest. He’d asked for this, he’d agreed to this, and he had brought everything upon himself. He could do this, no matter what happened. If he balked and backed out now, he’d just prove everyone right, he’d prove that he was a weakling. 

But I’m not. I’m not weak. 

Kazuha slashed his sword, the blade arching upwards. For the first time during his training, he managed to slice the head off of one of the machines. The mechanical face of course didn’t change, remaining stony, but Kazuha couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt. Would that one day be a person beneath his blade, decapitated on the floor? 

Wiping sweat from his brow, Kazuha glanced towards Yae, who clapped for him, a smile painted upon her face. “Good job, dear! Now if you can cut the head off of all those other machines, I’ll let you have a lunch break!” 

Kazuha’s empty stomach growled, reminding him of how hungry he was. He hadn’t eaten all day, pushing his basic needs aside in favor of training. A lunch break definitely sounded appetizing . . . But as he looked at the foes he’d have to overcome, he realized a break was farther off than he hoped. Still, it was achievable — he just had to keep trying. 

Kazuha surged forward once more, gripping his blade tightly. Calluses had formed upon his delicate hands, his smooth and soft skin already growing rougher from the countless hours spent fighting. He wondered what Scaramouche would have to say about that, but thinking of his husband made him falter. His footing shifted, nearly getting him incapitated, and so he quickly cleared his thoughts, ridding them of everything else. 

It took Kazuha an embarrassingly long time to finally achieve his goal. Even if he hadn’t managed to accomplish what he wanted quick enough, at least he still did it in the end. He could safely say that he’d managed to do what he needed to—and that made him proud. He was proud of himself, he was proud of what he had done. Maybe Yae was, too. 

Judging from the way she smiled at him, she was. She moved towards him happily, lifting him up off of the ground. He had to lean against her for support, but she didn’t seem to mind. She helped hold his weight, guiding him along carefully. “Come on,” she urged. “Let’s get you some food and a bath, and then you need some sleep. Training is important, but making sure to rest is, too.” 

“Lady Miko . . . Thank you,” Kazuha murmured, and Yae smiled at him once more, a tender look within her pale purple eyes. They were so much different, so much softer, than the violent violet that Scaramouche’s were. When Yae looked at him, Kazuha didn’t feel targeted or scrutinized, he felt comforted and reassured. 

“Of course, Kazuha. I don’t want to see Childe die, and I also don’t want Scaramouche to get what he wants. He acts like such a brat sometimes, don’t you think? Someone ought to put him in his place, and I think that ‘someone’ is you. As his wife, no one else can calm his bratty manners but you. I know you can do it.” Yae beamed at him, and Kazuha tried to trust in her words. 

“I’ll do my best,” he murmured eventually. He could only hope that his best would be enough. 

❛ ━━･❪ ♛❫ ･━━ ❜

While training with Yae definitely helped, Kazuha couldn’t help but feel grossly unprepared when the day of the duel finally arrived. He had spent hours with Yae, honing his body to its limit, but it wasn’t enough. 

He hadn’t been given enough time. Just four meager days to prepare himself. It wasn’t fair, but it could have always been worse. Kazuha couldn’t bring himself to complain, so he kept his grievances to himself, locking them away deep within his guarded heart. 

Being guided to the arena by a group of guards was a surreal experience. He didn’t feel like royalty, he didn’t feel like their princess. Right now, he just felt like any other normal person. He felt like himself, like the Kaedehara he had once been. He wasn’t a member of the Shogunate at that moment. 

Stepping out into the arena, Kazuha was greeted with hundreds—if not thousands —of people. They were all no doubt excited to see the duel and his performance. After all, a princess being able to fight was unheard of. Did they expect him to crash and fail? Were they hoping to watch his blood spill across the ground? And yet as Kazuha looked around, he could see people cheering for him. 

They were rooting for him. They were crying his name, urging for his victory—they didn’t want him to lose at all. Kazuha realized then that the public liked him, they enjoyed him as their princess. He didn’t know how; what had he possibly done? But maybe they liked him so much because he was relatable. He wasn’t born of utmost royalty like Scaramouche was.

Whatever the case, Kazuha had fans. He had people who screamed and chanted for him, wishing him luck, and so he waved towards them. He offered them all the brightest smile he could muster, which of course made the crowds go wild, screeching with excitement. 

Kazuha’s ears, of course, were aching. He found himself trembling because of it—his nerves weren’t the problem, his own senses were. He was quickly growing overwhelmed, resisting the urge to whimper. His head ached agonizingly, his temple throbbing painfully, and he wished the crowds could understand what they were doing to him. All of their noise and clamoring just sent him into a downward spiral. He knew they meant well, but he prayed that they’d just shut up. 

He covered one of his ears with a hand, unable to stop himself. He just had to do something to muffle the constant sounds. His ears were ringing, an incessant buzzing quickly overcoming his mind. He couldn’t help but grow frightened; it felt as if his entire brain would explode. Was his head going to burst, popping apart like a melon? 

His breath hitched, his chest rising and falling rapidly—he was losing his grip. He had to focus, he had to find a way to calm himself down, he had to get it together. 

“Before your battle starts, take this, Kazuha.” Yae had greeted him before his duel, slipping something discreetly into his pocket. “Use this when you need it most,” she had advised him. 

Kazuha’s thoughts lingered on that earlier conversation. He could feel the weight of what Yae had given him resting within his pocket. He slipped his hand inside, his fingers closing around a pair of earplugs. 

Gratitude washed over him. Gods bless you, Yae, he thought, relief consuming him to his very core. He tried to be as discreet as possible, sliding the plugs into his ears, but it was difficult when hundreds of eyes were all trained on him, watching his every little movement just like a hawk. Still, earplugs weren’t against the rules of a duel, and they didn’t provide any unfair advantages, so he wasn’t doing anything wrong. 

Kazuha’s surroundings became muffled, as if he were underwater. Although his senses were now hindered, it was infinitely better than the torture he’d endured before. Now, he could breathe easier, focusing on steadying his breaths and easing his nerves. 

His gaze swept through the crowds, and he scanned the various faces, searching for any signs of familiarity. And there—at the very front, Childe and Yae stood side by side. Guards surrounded Childe, probably to prevent him from escaping or intervening, and Kazuha noticed he was in handcuffs. Still, it was reassuring to know he was here and not sitting locked away in some cell. 

When Kazuha’s gaze locked with Yae’s, she nodded towards him, offering him a smile. Her gaze comforted him, bringing him a sense of security. He could do this. Yae believed in him, and so did Childe, and so did hundreds of people. He couldn’t let them down; he couldn’t disappoint any of them. 

His eyes darted upwards, towards a stand overlooking the arena. There Scaramouche sat, gazing over everything from a high vantage point. He was already staring at Kazuha, a smirk lingering upon his lips. His chin rested on his hand, and he appeared entirely relaxed, but Kazuha could see the thinly-veiled excitement within his eyes. 

Scaramouche spoke, presumably addressing the crowd, but Kazuha had no idea what he was saying. It was only when the doors across from him opened that Kazuha realized his opponent was coming—the one he was meant to defeat. His chest tightened, anticipation winding up within him. Just who—or what — would step up to meet him? 

Kazuha didn’t know what he was expecting. A ronin, a monster, a samurai, a guard of the Shogunate, a member of the Resistance — any of those options seemed plausible. However, the person that greeted him was none of that, they defied his expectations. 

This person . . . They didn’t look any older than sixteen. They were scrawny, wide blue eyes fixated upon Kazuha like a deer in headlights. Though they seemed overwhelmed, they were clearly determined. 

The boy held a sword in small, pale hands. When he pointed his sword at Kazuha, he nearly dropped it. It was obviously too heavy for him, and pity gripped Kazuha’s heart. Who was this kid? Why was he here? What was he doing? What brought him to this duel? What caused their paths to cross?  

His freckled face was oddly familiar, in a way. Kazuha almost recognized him, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He didn’t know where he knew this boy from, but in the end, it didn’t matter. This boy had to die, one way or another, if Kazuha wanted Childe to live. 

It pained him. Why did he have to kill someone so young? This boy had his whole life ahead of him, a future — he didn’t deserve to have it cut short. But neither did Childe. This world was unfair, and each day was an uphill battle. If Kazuha wanted to protect those he cared for, he’d have to make tough decisions. He’d have to dirty his hands with blood. He tried to comfort himself by reminding himself this was for Childe, yet—

It didn’t help. He still felt a pressing weight of guilt crushing his chest. He would be taking a life away. An innocent life. When he imagined this duel, he pictured himself fighting a monster, or perhaps a ronin. He never imagined he’d be matched up against a scrawny teenage boy, just slightly younger than himself. What was Scaramouche thinking? What were his motives for this? 

Was that what he intended? Did he want Kazuha to hesitate, drowning within his own doubts and guilt? Did he want him to underestimate his opponent? Perhaps this boy was stronger than he realized, but it certainly didn’t seem like it. Kazuha didn’t know what game Scaramouche was playing at, but he didn’t appreciate it. He wished that for once, Scaramouche wouldn’t be so cruel. 

Kazuha was certain that this would haunt him with each passing day. But he couldn’t let himself hesitate any longer. With each second he stalled, he only made things worse. If he could kill the boy quickly and painlessly, maybe that would make things better. He just didn’t want him to suffer, but dying at Kazuha’s blade wasn’t exactly painless or merciful. It would certainly hurt. 

The boy lunged at him, swinging wildly, and Kazuha dodged each strike effortlessly. Compared to Yae’s relentless training, this was quite literally child’s play. Pity swelled up inside of Kazuha; this boy before him was nothing more than a lamb sent to slaughter. He couldn’t do it; he couldn’t bring himself to kill this innocent kid, he just couldn’t. 

He went to drop his sword when the boy swung, nearly slicing open his throat. While Kazuha was on the defensive, this boy was relentless, clearly aiming to kill him. He fought so vehemently—was he fighting for a reason? For someone or something? Why else would he be trying so desperately hard? 

Kazuha realized that he couldn’t just end this duel peacefully. One of them had to die. And if he let this boy live, if he allowed himself to lose, then Childe would die, too. Two lives would be lost rather than one. Kazuha didn’t know if he could let himself go knowing that. He couldn’t sentence his only friend in this palace to death. Even if it was hard, even if the guilt ate him alive, he had to do this. 

I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry. I hope you can find it within yourself to forgive me for this. Please go in peace. I never would have accepted this duel if I knew I would be fighting you, an innocent soul. 

When Kazuha finally started to take the fight seriously, it didn’t last long after that. Maybe a few seconds. The boy truly didn’t stand a chance—in the end, he really was no match for Kazuha. He wouldn’t have been a match for anyone; he was too young and inexperienced, too uncertain of himself. 

Kazuha decided to put this to an end. He didn’t want to drag this on any longer than he had to. He dashed forward, and when he moved, the wind moved with him. He lunged, slashing his blade across the boy’s throat. His hand shook, and he nearly lost his grip on the hilt of his sword, but he forced himself to keep it together. He couldn’t lose himself now, he couldn’t falter just yet. 

But seeing the boy stagger, watching him fall to the ground in a cluttered heap . . . Kazuha couldn’t help it. For once, his composure shattered. For once, he lost control of himself. He wasn’t a perfect person. Even he had moments where he spiraled out of focus.

He dropped his sword to the dirt, rushing forward. Dully, muffled through his earplugs, he could hear the crowd raging around him. He ignored them, collapsing onto his knees instead. He reached out, taking the boy into his arms. The least he could do was offer him some sort of comfort in his final moments. 

Blood stained Kazuha’s kimono. Blood stained the earth beneath him. Blood stained his hands. It was everywhere. All over him, all over the boy, all over them. When he breathed, all he could smell was the harsh and metallic reek of blood. The boy’s innocent blood, all spilled out across the soil. 

Kazuha didn’t realize it, but he had teared up. He’d never taken a life before. He had never hurt someone else before, not out of anything but self-defense. Yet this . . . ? This felt wrong. It felt as if he’d just murdered someone, and he supposed he had. He tried to tell himself that he had no choice, he had no other option, but it didn’t help to soothe the agony that roared inside of his heart.

The boy was staring up at him. The gash across his throat was a clean cut, but he still wasn’t dying immediately. He was bleeding out, slowly but surely, the life ebbing away from him gradually. Kazuha held him tenderly, with gentle care, and the boy leaned into his touch. He needed comfort. He needed someone to hold him, to be there for him. Kazuha was more than willing to oblige. 

It was the least he could do after stealing his life away, after all. 

“I’m sorry,” Kazuha whispered. A single tear dropped onto the boy’s face. At first, Kazuha thought he was crying, until he realized it wasn’t the boy’s tears — it was his own. He blinked rapidly, his damp lashes fluttering against his cheeks, and the boy leaned against him, his breaths growing weaker. 

Tears oozed down from the dying boy’s cheeks, slowing once his eyelids fluttered weakly before eventually slipping shut. His blood-stained lips parted, and he whispered something. Kazuha couldn’t hear what he said — but he read his lips, interpreting what he’d meant. 

“Please look after my brother.”

He felt it. He felt once the boy’s soul finally departed from the mortal realm, and he felt it once he’d breathed his last breath. He was glad that he couldn’t hear his last exhale. He didn’t know if he’d been able to handle it. 

For a moment, Kazuha remained motionless, unsure of what to do. He simply stared down at the paling corpse within his arms, entirely frozen. He couldn’t celebrate his victory. He didn’t feel proud of himself at all. Instead, all he felt was a bitter sense of disgust. He was repulsed by his own actions, repulsed at the type of person he had now become. 

His gaze slowly drifted upwards, and he turned to look at the crowd. He searched for Yae and Childe — what would they think of him? How would his friends view him, now that he’d taken an innocent life? They were probably just as disgusted with him as he was with himself. 

When he finally spotted them, his heart dropped, plummeting far into his stomach. Childe was . . . Childe was a wreck, even more so than him. He was screaming—was that it? Kazuha wasn’t able to hear him, not with the plugs, but he could make out what he was saying by studying his lips. 

He was shouting out a name.

A name . . . ?

Teucer. 

Tears dripped down Childe’s cheeks, those blue eyes wrought with unmistakable agony. Yae and a few guards had to hold him back, restraining him as he struggled and thrashed. Kazuha slowly glanced down at the boy lying limp within his arms, his chest tightening. 

Was this Teucer? 

Kazuha felt like throwing up. He was going to be sick. He shifted his horrified stare upwards, meeting Scaramouche’s gaze. 

His husband sat on top of it all, grinning. He overlooked the chaos with a sense of enjoyment, throes of electro energy fizzling around him. He looked positively deranged, and Kazuha didn’t need his earplugs removed to know that the prince was laughing. He was cackling, taking delight in this situation. 

He’d arranged all of this. He had planned it, right from the very start. He had known what he was doing, he’d known all along, he’d intended for this to happen. He wanted it. 

Kazuha felt like screaming. The urge bubbles up inside of him, but all he could do was stare, frozen in place. His limbs had locked up, horror seizing his body, taking control of his mind. What had he done? What had Scaramouche done? What had they done? 

I killed Childe’s brother, didn’t I? 

❛ ━━･❪ ♛❫ ･━━ ❜

Kazuha didn’t know how he left the arena. Distantly, he could remember Yae pulling him out, and guards retrieving Teucer’s body. 

Everything blurred together within his mind. Time felt slurred, slower somehow, and nothing felt real to him. His own actions were foreign, and it was as if he floated alongside his body — although he was there, he wasn’t really present. His mind was in a different place, somewhere far from reality. 

Yae helped him. She cleaned him up, bathing him. She scrubbed the blood from his  skin and hair, she washed his stained clothes. She changed him into a loose kimono and did her best to comfort him, but there was virtually nothing she could say to make him feel better. She seemed just as upset as him; neither of them were expecting for Scaramouche to pull such a cruel stunt. 

She tried getting Kazuha to eat something, but he couldn’t stomach a single morsel. Food made him want to retch, the urge to gag overtaking him. In the end, all she could do was forcefully feed him some water. At the very least he had to drink something. 

Kazuha didn’t see Childe at all after the duel. He figured that was to be expected. Kazuha had murdered his little brother, after all. Why would Childe want to see him? He was probably beside himself with grief and anger. 

Kazuha wanted to make it up to him, somehow. But what could he do? What possible option was there? He couldn’t just apologize—words wouldn’t make things magically better, even if they were Kazuha’s strong suit. No matter what he said or did, he couldn’t take back what he’d done. Childe would surely never forgive him for this. 

Kazuha wouldn’t forgive himself, either. He’d killed someone, an innocent boy, his friend’s brother. But there was someone else to blame, as well—someone else he couldn’t forgive. 

Scaramouche. 

When Kazuha finally met up with his husband again, in the privacy of their room, he didn’t know how he should feel. He didn’t know how he should act. What should he do? What did he want to do? His mind clashed, struggling to form any coherency. A part of himself wanted to react calmly, to handle this situation properly, and yet he just couldn’t. 

Seeing Scaramouche sparked up the flame within him that had simmered and died. He remembered how gleeful Scaramouche had looked, how cheerful and happy he was in the light of death. He relished in suffering, he relished in Kazuha’s suffering. What was wrong with him? Why would he do such a thing? How could anyone do something like that? How did he even sleep at night? 

“What’s wrong with you?” Kazuha spoke up for the first time since killing Teucer.

His voice came out small and incredulous, riddled with anger and disgust. He was angry at Scaramouche, he was angry at himself, he was angry with everyone and everything. He was disgusted at both of their actions. Scaramouche orchestrated all of this, and like a compliant puppet, Kazuha had followed along, painfully ignorant to it all. 

“What do you mean?” Scaramouche glanced back at him, feigning confusion, but the smirk on his face told Kazuha all he needed to know. He was smug—the sly glint within those violet eyes showed just how proud he was of himself. Did he think he was funny? Did he think he was some kind of genius? No, he was nothing more than dirt underneath Kazuha’s shoe. Lower than low. 

“You set everything up. You made me fight Childe’s brother. You made me kill him. Why? Was it because of your own jealousy? Was that your way of getting back at me? For something all within your own head?” Kazuha dug his nails into his palms, trying to stifle the fury that brewed up inside of him. 

Scaramouche’s smirk faltered slightly, but he remained firm, shrugging lightly. “I didn’t make you do anything,” he retorted. “You acted all on your own accord. Yes, I set it up. I told Teucer that his brother was in trouble and sentenced to death. I told him that the only way he could save Childe was by winning a duel. He knew what would happen if he lost. He knew the risks, and he took it. I didn’t force him, and I didn’t force you.” 

“You still manipulated us!” Kazuha gasped out. It was hard to breathe—the air within the room seemed nearly toxic, choking his lungs. Being so close to Scaramouche was almost unhealthy for him; he could feel the toll it was taking on his mind and soul. He wanted nothing more than to run and hide. 

Scaramouche threw his hands in the air. “Manipulated you? I made the rules quite clear, did I not? You accepted the terms. It’s not my fault no one asked about who their opponent would be.” He grinned, looking just like a Cheshire Cat within the dim lighting of the room. “Blame me all you want, but Childe is alive. Isn’t that what you wanted? You got what you asked for.” 

“I’ll say it again . . .” Scaramouche tilted his head back, waving a hand dismissively. “Human life is worthless. Childe’s brother wouldn’t have survived long, anyway. He was weak. Weaklings get swept away with the tide. If you hadn’t killed him, then someone else would have. It’s just the brutal circle of life. Honestly, you gave him a merciful end. Other people wouldn’t have been so kind. I definitely wouldn’t have been.” 

“He was no older than sixteen,” Kazuha ground out. “He was young. He was still growing up. He didn’t have the chance to grow stronger. He was like a budding flower, but winter came too early. You plucked away his petals before he could even bloom!” 

Scaramouche covered his mouth with a hand, hiding his smile. “Oh, well. You can’t say if he would have grown stronger or not. He’s dead, after all, so we’ll never know.” 

Kazuha’s chest tightened, a painful lump forming within his throat. “You’re heartless,” he choked out. You’re heartless. You have no heart or soul within you. You are nothing but an empty husk, a pathetic shell of a true man! 

Scaramouche’s gaze darkened, and within seconds, he was stalking towards Kazuha, but the boy didn’t move. He met Scaramouche with his head held high, glaring into the prince’s violet eyes as he roughly grabbed hold of Kazuha’s chin. For a moment, the two simply looked at each other — challenging one another. Kazuha refused to back down. 

But then Scaramouche smiled, his lips curving upwards. “You’re right,” he agreed, bending down. His mouth brushed against Kazuha’s ear, breathing against his flesh. Goosebumps rose upon Kazuha’s skin, but he didn’t move, remaining rooted in place. His heart skipped a painful beat when Scaramouche moved a hand, resting it against Kazuha’s chest, right over his heart. 

“I don’t have a heart,” he went on, digging his nails into Kazuha’s kimono. “That’s why I’ll take everyone else’s, that way, no one will have a heart. I’ll make everyone just as empty as I am. And if that doesn’t work, then fine. I’m satisfied with having only your heart instead. That’s enough for me.” 

Kazuha’s blood ran cold. He jerked away, shoving Scaramouche aside. “Don’t touch me,” he hissed, trying to hide how unnerved Scaramouche’s words really made him. 

“Oh? You’re giving me orders?” Scaramouche sneered. He merely stepped forward again, hardly fazed when Kazuha moved back. “You’re in no place to demand anything from me, brat. Don’t act all mopey just because some lowly runt died. Who gives a shit? Everything with a heart dies eventually.” He grinned. “There’s no need to look so sad.” 

Kazuha moved his hands, covering his face. His eyes welled with tears, his body beginning to tremble. He didn’t want to break down, especially not in front of Scaramouche, but this was too much. His emotions overpowered him; he wasn’t used to feeling so much at once. He couldn’t handle it; yet again, his senses were growing overwhelmed, and he wasn’t responding well. 

Scaramouche stepped closer, ripping Kazuha’s hands away from his face brutally. Kazuha couldn’t even flinch away; he was locked in place, merely gasping for breath as the prince wiped his tears away with a strange delicacy compared to his earlier actions. He stared down at Kazuha in silence for a moment, merely watching the boy cry. 

“I want — to go home,” Kazuha eventually choked out. He wanted to be set free. I want to be anywhere but here. Get me out of here. 

Scaramouche leaned closer, trapping Kazuha within his embrace. His next words made the boy sob, shaking within his captor’s grasp. 

“This is your home, Kazuha.” 

❛ ━━･❪ ♛❫ ･━━ ❜

My dearest Tomo, 

I fear that my time upon this mortal realm grows shorter and shorter. With each passing day, I feel a tiny piece of me chip away, cast out to the wind. My only comfort is wearing the hairpiece you gifted me, and yet I had to stop wearing even that. I worry that if my husband saw it, he would grow jealous and break it. It’s disheartening, to lose everything that makes you happy. More and more pieces of my essence fade away, but I trust that the breeze will carry my shattered remnants back home to you. 

I wish I could say that I don’t have any regrets, but if I’m being entirely honest, I do. I hold many regrets within my heart, but I suppose that when death comes for most people, they always have more that they wished to do. More that they wished to say. More that they wished to be. 

I would say that my greatest regrets are never being able to meet you again, and . . . I also regret not living my life freely. I regret living my life for other people and not for myself. If I am ever reborn as a human, I am certain that I won’t make the same mistake twice. Should our paths cross again in the next life, I hope that we can live together happily, like we should have during these days. And worry not. The fate that binds people together is not a cord so easily cut. 

We will find each other once more, but for now, we must part. It’s a shame that goodbyes always happen whenever the leaves turn red. 

Only death awaits me now, and in death, may I finally obtain the true meaning of freedom. 

Please don’t cry for me. Shed no tears, for I am happy. I’m finally free. 

❛ ━━･❪ ♛❫ ･━━ ❜

“You wish for me to deliver this letter?” Yae regarded Kazuha curiously, and the boy nodded solemnly, extending the slip of paper out towards the pink-haired woman. 

“Yes. And if you could . . . Please keep this a secret between just the two of us, no matter what.” Kazuha dipped his head. “I know it is a lot to ask, and I apologize, but—”

Yae moved closer, gently resting a hand upon Kazuha’s shoulder. “There’s no need to apologize,” she soothed him. “Don’t worry. Your secret is more than safe with me. I’ll make sure this letter gets delivered.” 

Kazuha’s lips twitched weakly, but he couldn’t find the strength to smile. “Thank you.” He bowed respectfully, turning quickly to leave. Before he could walk away, however, Yae stopped him, gently grabbing onto his hand. Kazuha tensed regardless, every muscle within his body going rigid at the contact. 

“Kazuha . . . Are you sure you’re alright? If you need anything, anything at all, I’m here.” Yae’s voice was laced with concern. Kazuha felt guilty for making her worry so much. 

“I’m fine,” he lied with ease, gently moving his hand away from Yae’s grasp. “Please don’t worry about me.” And then he was gone, disappearing down the corridor and out of sight. Yae wished she would have done more to stop him; she wished she could have done more to make him stay. 

❛ ━━･❪ ♛❫ ･━━ ❜

“The hell’s wrong with you? You haven’t eaten anything at all in days, and you’ve barely spoken a single word in weeks.”

Scaramouche regarded Kazuha with disdain, a scowl painted across his face. Kazuha glanced up from the book he had been reading, tilting his head slightly. His hair fell down his shoulders, parting to reveal the various bruises and bitemarks scattered across the pale expanse of his neck. 

“There’s nothing wrong with me.” Kazuha forced a smile. He’d done it so many times, it came naturally to him by now. Scaramouche didn’t seem to buy his act, but he either didn’t care enough to pry, or simply didn’t have the energy to. He turned away, shaking his head slightly. Perhaps he’d finally given up on making Kazuha actually talk to him. 

“Fine. Be like that then. Wallow in your own self-pity and waste away,” Scaramouche snapped. “Erode just like all humans do.” 

Kazuha dipped his head. Strands of pale hair fell into his eyes, hiding the pained look in his gaze. “Humans are not the only creatures that erode and waste away,” he pointed out quietly. “Everything does. Even gods. And even machines.” He looked back up, but Scaramouche wasn’t facing him. He was looking out the window, his back turned towards the wife he was supposed to love and protect unconditionally. 

Even you will erode one day, my beloved prince. 

❛ ━━･❪ ♛❫ ･━━ ❜

He was crying again. 

Kazuha  could feel the tears dripping gently onto his cheeks, splashing against his skin like raindrops. He didn’t move; he remained perfectly still, allowing the prince to believe he was asleep. His eyes remained blissfully shut, and while he couldn’t properly see what was going on around him, he could guess. 

Scaramouche had been crying in his sleep again. He’d woken up, and now he was watching Kazuha, who he presumed to be fast asleep. But the princess was awake. He always had been. He could barely rest most days. If he tried, the images of his duel with Teucer flooded his mind, plaguing his dreams. He’d rather live without sleep than endure brutal nightmares over and over. 

Kazuha focused on evening out his breathing. He timed his breaths, making sure that his chest rose and fell peacefully. He couldn’t help but be tense; Scaramouche’s gaze upon him always made him feel like he was being pinned underneath a microscope. It was as if the prince was tearing him apart bit by bit, analyzing every broken piece of his essence. 

If he feigned sleep, then Scaramouche wouldn’t talk to him. No awkward encounters would have to ensue. He could pretend to remain serenely ignorant. As the popular saying went: ignorance was bliss. He’d rather turn a blind eye to whatever his husband dreamed about. What made him cry was none of Kazuha, or anyone’s, business. 

But then a hand reached out, brushing against Kazuha’s damp cheek, which had been stained with Scaramouche’s tears. The prince was looming over him, watching him. He didn’t seem to be crying anymore. Kazuha had to resist the urge to flinch; he wasn’t used to such tender and affectionate gestures. His mind scrambled, struggling to keep up with the new developments. 

Was this really Scaramouche here with him? Or was this an imposter taking his place? Kazuha continued to pretend, never once opening his eyes. Archons forbid he did—he couldn’t bear facing Scaramouche after this. 

“There once were two sisters.” 

Scaramouche’s voice caught Kazuha off-guard. He was speaking quietly, his voice no more than a whisper. Did he know Kazuha was awake, or did he say these things believing him to be asleep? Regardless, Kazuha didn’t dare move or shift from his position. He continued to lie, remaining as still as a statue, keeping his eyes squeezed shut. 

“Their names were Raiden Makoto and Raiden Ei.” 

The queen . . . ? Kazuha willed his brow not to furrow. He didn’t react whatsoever, and he was eternally grateful for his perfection at remaining emotionless. Otherwise, he would have given himself away long ago. 

“The public referred to Raiden Makoto as Baal. She ruled the entirety of Inazuma, seeking transience. Her twin sister, Raiden Ei, remained hidden within the shadows.” 

“The sisters loved each other very much. No one else in the world mattered more to them than each other. Through thick and thin, they had each other’s backs. They supported one another, because that’s what family is for, right? When they needed each other, they were there without a second thought.” 

“But Raiden Makoto wasn’t like Raiden Ei. Even though Raiden Makoto ruled Inazuma, she was too soft. Perhaps she was too weak to be a proper ruler. She was kind, and kindness was something people could take advantage of. Raiden Ei did her best to protect her sister. She would step in to rule whenever Makoto couldn’t, and the public never noticed the difference. However, this ruse couldn’t last forever. It had to end sometime, since all good things never last.” 

“During the war with Khaenri’ah, amidst that dreadful cataclysm, Raiden Makoto was killed. Raiden Ei was devastated. If anyone were to die, it should have been her, not her beloved sister. Her peaceful sister who wanted anything but war. Raiden Ei tried with all of her might, but not even she could preserve her sister. Raiden Makoto’s soul was lost, and in a way, so was Raiden Ei’s.” 

“Raiden Ei took up the role of ruling Inazuma. She assumed the title of Baal, and not a single person saw a difference. Raiden Ei and Makoto had looked so much alike, Makoto’s disappearance wasn’t even realized. Raiden Ei lived on carrying the burdens of her sister’s death all to herself.” 

“But in the end, not even she was strong enough to do it on her own. She had promised the citizens of Inazuma an everlasting, non-changing eternity. She had promised them that, and she owed it to Raiden Makoto to fulfill her vow. She would do whatever it took to achieve true eternity.” 

“What she didn’t realize is that eternity is nothing more than a prison, and unknowingly, she was sentencing everyone to an existence of suffering.” 

“She herself was suffering. She missed her sister. She could not rule Inazuma alone. She could not achieve eternity by herself. So she created me. She built me herself—her own little disaster. But I wasn’t right. Something about me was defective. She intended to cast me aside like worthless dross; what use did she have for me, when I was too fragile to be of any proper relevance? But she hesitated.” 

“I cried in my sleep. The burden of creation was too much. The burden of existence was too much. The burden of eternity was too much. A deep sorrow coursed through me, the same sorrow that coursed through Raiden Ei. Perhaps she pitied me, for she didn’t destroy me. She intended to seal me away, to trap me in an endless slumber, but she relented, for I reminded her of someone.” 

“Raiden Makoto had also cried in her sleep. She and I were both fragile beings. In my violet eyes, Raiden Ei saw her sister. I was permitted the curse of existence, but I could not wander freely amongst the mortal plane. I was far too dangerous; far too unstable.” 

“So she kept me here with her in her palace, amongst the people. She made me her pretty little prince, and she permitted me to enjoy life. I wandered amongst the people, and I found myself having fun. How strange were humans, with their various masks. But over time, I realized something important. No matter how defective I was, I was still better than humans. I was superior to them all.” 

“No one could come close to me, or to Raiden Ei. No one could compete with us, or our heavenly abilities, or our eternity. No one but you, Kaedehara Kazuha.” 

“For I have never met a human like you. I have never met a human who made me wish that I had a heart. I have never met a human who made me feel something, something beyond this bitter emptiness and anger.” 

“I don’t know if this is love or hatred, or perhaps both.” Scaramouche fell silent, and Kazuha felt the mattress shift, felt Scaramouche lying down beside him. 

“All I know is that you are mine, as I am yours, and nothing will ever change that. I found the true meaning of eternity in you.”

❛ ━━･❪ ♛❫ ･━━ ❜

Kazuha didn’t know what had changed, but he felt it once it did. 

It was like a storm cloud hung over his head constantly, never once leaving him. Whatever he did, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of dread, looming menacingly in the distance. He couldn’t quite explain it, but he knew well enough that he should trust his gut instincts. 

He was sitting by himself at a window overlooking the gardens when Yae approached him, her footsteps hurried. He turned towards her, tilting his head slightly. Yae was almost never in a rush. Was she late for a meeting with the queen? That would surely be the only explanation, and yet . . . 

She paused in front of Kazuha. The expression on her face made the princess frown, his lips curving downwards. Throughout the duration of their unlikely friendship, Yae had never looked like that. She seemed a mixture of frenzied, agonized, and strangely guilty. Kazuha opened his mouth to ask her what was wrong, but she cut him off, beating him to it. 

“Kazuha, you have to hurry. Your friend — he challenged Kunikuzushi to a duel before the throne!” 

No. 

Kazuha dropped the book he had been reading. It cluttered to the floor with a dull thud, the echo ringing in his ears. He moved on autopilot, jumping up from his place to begin his sprint down the corridor. 

“They’re at Tenshukaku! Hurry! You can make it!” Yae called after him. He could hear her chasing after him, but he was moving too fast for even her to keep up with. His limbs carried him, the wind guiding him along. He’d never felt so desperate before in his life. In all of his years on earth, he’d never experienced such feral, primitive emotions. 

The panic that coursed through him ran deep. He didn’t want to imagine what would happen if he didn’t make it in time. He didn’t want to picture it; he really didn’t. 

A thousand questions ran through his mind, but he already knew the answers to them. 

He should have never written that letter. He should have never asked for Yae to deliver it to Tomo. He was planning on it being his final goodbye, a last pilgrimage to his best friend, and yet Tomo of course couldn’t let things end that way. Kazuha should have known that Tomo would fight for him. Kazuha should have anticipated him pulling a suicidal stunt like this. It was so typical. 

He figured that Tomo’s motivation for challenging Scaramouche was simple: if he won, he probably wanted Kazuha’s freedom. If he lost, he would offer up his life. And of course, Scaramouche being Scaramouche would never refuse such a challenge. Why would he? His power surpassed any mortal being’s. Even Tomo was no match for him. 

Tomo was being sent to slaughter. He was walking to his own execution. Perhaps he knew that, and yet he didn’t care. Maybe he figured that if Kazuha were to die, then he should as well. Best friends did everything together, after all. Why should they die alone? Why not die together, so they could stay attached even in their last moments? 

Kazuha couldn’t help but be reminded of Raiden Ei and Raiden Makoto. He was sure that if given the option, Raiden Ei would have died for her sister — would have died with her sister. Kazuha figured that this was no different. They were all one and the same. 

By the time he arrived at Tenshukaku, he was too late. 

He rushed up the steps, shoving past the various crowds of people who had gathered to witness the duel. His footsteps echoed unnaturally loudly against the floor, ringing within his ears. The reek of smoke was so strong, it choked him, causing him to cover his mouth with the sleeve of his kimono. 

Even though deep down he knew he was too late, he still prayed. Let me get there in time. Archons, please, let me get there in time. 

The sight that greeted him made his mouth fall open, his eyes widening with terror. His best friend’s severed blade hit the ground, directly in front of him. He could see his own reflection shining within the blade, his face contorted into an expression of horror.

“Tomo!” The scream ripped past Kazuha’s lips before he could stop himself. He dove forward, launching himself further up the steps. His arms reached out, and he dashed forward desperately, but there was nothing he could do. He was just a second too late. 

The glow of the Musou no Hitotachi blinded him, a brilliant explosion of purple flooding his vision. His knees gave out underneath him, and he collapsed onto the floor, the stench of ash and burnt flesh singing his nostrils. His eyes swelled to the brim with tears; from grief or the smoke, he couldn’t tell. He could hear people murmuring all around him, but he didn’t properly register a single word of what they were saying. 

The lightning incinerates both body and bone. In nourishing the earth may they both find rest.

A muffled sob spilled past Kazuha’s lips. Not even ashes remained of his beloved friend; there were no remnants left behind of him. The only sign of his existence was his sword, severed on the ground before the princess. Kazuha felt tears, hot and damp, pour slowly down his cheeks, splashing onto his hands. 

Scaramouche stood in front of him. He slowly sheathed his sword; it vanished in a swath of dark, frothing electricity, disappearing into an abyss Kazuha knew nothing of. Scaramouche’s power was reminiscent to that of a god’s — was he a god? No. But he was something close. 

A devil. 

Kazuha’s mouth felt far too dry. The citizens of Inazuma were probably baffled. Why did the princess care so much about some random citizen? Why did he bother trying to stop this duel? They didn’t know that Tomo was his best friend. They didn’t know anything about him, and yet they judged him. 

Scaramouche had no way of knowing that Tomo was Kazuha’s best friend. Or at least, Kazuha hoped not. Perhaps he had pieced it together after Tomo challenged him. Maybe he’d been blinded by jealousy yet again. Either way, Kazuha couldn’t find the strength to meet Scaramouche’s violet eyes. His beloved husband had killed his best friend. 

My beloved husband, Kazuha thought bitterly, burying his face within his hands.

Scaramouche leaned down to grab a hold of him, lifting him up. He was probably trying to apply damage control. He was no doubt going to drag Kazuha off before he could embarrass himself any further. Their reputation had to be upheld, and Kazuha was ruining it by breaking down in such a way. 

“Keep it together,” Scaramouche hissed at him. “Or what, did you know that guy? He seemed awfully fond of you. What, was he an ex-lover?” There it was — the possessive jealousy which Kazuha hated so much. 

Kazuha suddenly shoved the prince away. He fled from Tenshukaku, running as fast and as far as he could. He needed to be anywhere but here, yet the palace was all he knew. 

It was his home, but it had become a prison more than anything. 

❛ ━━･❪ ♛❫ ･━━ ❜

“You killed him.” 

When Kazuha and Scaramouche were finally alone once more, within the confines of their room, Kazuha didn’t hesitate to speak. 

“I had to. He challenged me. What else did you intend for me to do? Turn him down?” Scaramouche glared at his wife, scowling. “He was a naïve fool, to think he could ever stand a chance of winning against me.” 

Kazuha’s hands clenched into fists. “Do not speak of him so poorly!” He gasped out. “He was more of a man than you will ever be!” 

Scaramouche’s gaze flashed. Electricity seemed to crackle within the room, and before Kazuha could even react, Scaramouche was upon him, his hand colliding with the soft, tear-stained skin of Kazuha’s cheek. The resounding ‘crack’  that echoed across the room rang within his ears, filling up Kazuha’s entire mind. 

He collapsed onto the ground from the force of the blow; he hadn’t been expecting it. His lip quivered, his face burning with a violent fury. He could already feel a bruise forming, painting his pale flesh a dark purple. It almost matched the color of Scaramouche’s eyes, he remarked bitterly. 

“Don’t ever say something like that again,” Scaramouche hissed. “You talk far too much. I preferred it when you would just never say anything at all.” His words were fueled by anger, Kazuha knew, and yet it hurt nonetheless, stinging his fragile heart. 

The boy dipped his head. He didn’t speak, remaining motionless upon the ground. His tangled hair hid his face, and it hid the way he cried, tears dripping down his cheeks like a waterfall. 

He just wanted to be free. 

❛ ━━･❪ ♛❫ ･━━ ❜

That night, Scaramouche awoke to a pressure upon his chest. 

Kazuha sat on top of him, a knife raised. His hands were shaking, his fingers quivering weakly around the hilt of the blade. His eyes swam with unshed tears, red-rimmed and sore from how much he had been crying. 

Scaramouche wanted to say he was surprised, but in the end, he should have expected it. Kazuha had been pushed to his utmost limit, clearly—and though Scaramouche tried, he just couldn’t feel a sense of guilt or remorse. He didn’t regret a single thing. If Kazuha was going to betray him like this, then he deserved it all. 

“Go on, then,” he spat. His voice was still husky from sleep, though his violet eyes shone with contempt, glowing within the darkness of the room. “Do it. You don’t have the guts.” 

He doubted Kazuha would be able to kill him. Ever since he’d defeated that one brat, Teucer, he had been even more docile and secluded than before. Scaramouche didn’t think Kazuha had the courage to stain his hands with blood yet again. Perhaps he would be wrong; but even then, Kazuha wouldn’t be able to kill him so easily. 

Kazuha stared down at him. The tears brewing within those gentle red eyes finally spilled free, dripping down onto Scaramouche’s cheeks. He bit back the urge to smirk; of course. He was right. Kazuha wouldn’t kill him. He didn’t have the heart. 

But then Kazuha turned the knife towards himself, and Scaramouche’s mind blanked. His brain seemed to short-circuit, his thoughts coming to an abrupt halt. 

“No—” the cry escaped him, but it was too late. His hands flew upwards, desperately trying to grab Kazuha’s hands, but he didn’t make it in time. The knife plunged through Kazuha’s chest, piercing that mortal heart of his. 

Blood splattered Scaramouche’s face and chest, his eyes wide with horror. Over his many years of living, he had seen countless people die in front of him. And yet not a single one of them affected him the way Kazuha’s death did. These emotions he experienced were strange — foreign. He didn’t believe himself to be capable of them.

Kazuha slumped over, collapsing on top of him, and Scaramouche caught him, clinging onto him tightly. 

He knew the puncture was deep. He knew that there was little to no hope for Kazuha’s survival, and nonetheless, he tried to save him anyway. He applied pressure to Kazuha’s wound, blood swiftly staining his hands, but the flow just wouldn’t relent. Kazuha was losing too much blood, and fast. He would bleed out before help could even arrive. 

“No, no, no, goddamnit, no!” Scaramouche gasped out. Strands of sweaty hair fell into his eyes as he leaned over Kazuha, desperately trying to save his partner. 

“Please don’t leave me. Stay awake. Kazuha—Kazuha. Say something — anything!” Scaramouche begged. He had never once pleaded before. He was a superior being, and a creature like him didn’t need to beg. And yet here he was, pleading like his life depended on it. But his life didn’t. Kazuha’s did. 

Kazuha didn’t say a single word, and Scaramouche wished more than ever that he could take back what he’d said and done before. For the first time, he felt regret. He knew deep down that he was the reason Kazuha did this. He was the cause of it all. 

Kazuha didn’t have the heart to kill Scaramouche. He’d been right about that. The person he’d wanted to end all along was himself. 

Scaramouche cupped Kazuha’s face in his hands, and the boy smiled up at him. It was a real, genuine smile — it reached his gentle, tired eyes, and Scaramouche thought it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. But that would be the last time he’d ever get to witness it. 

Scaramouche didn’t realize it, but he was crying. He never cried whilst he was awake, not really. He only shed tears in his sleep. But here he was, crying and experiencing sadness as if he were actually human. Kazuha was what made him feel human—Kazuha was what made him feel as if he had a heart. 

As Kazuha exhaled his last breath, his eyes slipping shut, two things happened at once. 

Scaramouche learned what it felt like to feel human, and at last—

Kazuha knew what it felt like to be free.