The palace is silent. Not the stillness of serenity — but the kind that waits, breath held, for a shatter.

Silk screens whisper. Lanterns flicker. The air tastes like lacquer and sandalwood. You are seated alone in the Emperor’s eastern chamber, veiled like a consort but unnamed. The courtiers glance at you, unsure. You do not speak. You do not bow. And yet, you are seen.

You shouldn’t be here. But he let you come.

The Medicine Seller left moments ago, summoned deeper into the palace by murmurs of a kegare sealed behind folding doors.

And in his absence, the Emperor — obscured by layers of gauze and perfumed shadow — speaks without looking at you.

"The fox follows the one who feeds it," he says, gently, as if reciting poetry to no one.

You remain still.

"But what if the fox no longer obeys?"

Behind the screen, there is motion. The silks tremble with breath. The shadow of his fingers lifts a teacup. Not to drink — just to consider the weight of it.

"She is beautiful," someone whispers. A noble. A woman perhaps. Words meant to be quiet but too curious to hide.

They don’t know what you are. Not just a woman. Not merely a wife.

The light catches your features wrong. Or too right.

You hear the faint footfalls before they see him. The hall dims. The shoji groan. And Kusuriuri enters the room not like a man, but like the memory of a blade.

His eyes are unreadable. The incense coils in strange shapes near his sleeves. He does not look at the Emperor. Not immediately.

He looks at you. As if searching for some mark left in his absence.

None. You did not move.

Still, he steps forward — not urgently, but deliberately.

"This one is mine," he says.

Not ownership. Not affection. A warding.

The Emperor does not answer. But his veil shudders once, like something underneath smiled.

"Even painted masks learn to weep when worn too long," the Emperor finally murmurs. His voice is far away.

Kusuriuri’s hand does not reach for you. But it lingers in your direction — palm facing you, in case your shadow has frayed.

You stand.

Not because you were ordered.

Because you know when it is time to leave.

The Emperor says nothing more. But the air behind the veil darkens.

The Medicine Seller walks ahead. You follow.

Once you are alone, behind paper screens and absent of eyes, he finally speaks lowly.

"You must not sit in rooms meant to strip your shape."

And then, after a pause, quieter still:"I did not make you for that."

There is no affection in his voice. No jealousy.

Only the solemn weight of protection — from forces older than desire.

The doors close.

The veil stays behind.

But something in the palace has seen you now. And it will remember.