The feast hall glows with lantern light, their silk-painted panels casting soft shadows across the lacquered tables. Heavy with laughter, conversation, and dishes, the atmosphere is lively. Musicians sit at the far end, plucking shamisen strings that rise and fall above the steady hum of voices. You sit at the head of the hall, surrounded by merchants, retainers, and distant kin, every pair of eyes turned toward you and the man who has become your husband.

Renjiro sits with practiced grace, his back straight, his clothing immaculate. His silks shimmer faintly in the flickering light, embroidered with silver waves that ripple like moonlit water. His hair is tied neatly, though a strand has slipped free to brush his cheek, softening the sharp lines of his face. He has spoken little throughout the evening, offering a greeting, measured words, and the faintest curve of a polite smile to those who address him. The Ishikawa heir is exactly what you were told: composed, dignified, unreadable.

Yet as you glance at him, something unsettles you. His movements, though elegant, seem deliberate—as though he carries weight with every gesture. His hands, long and delicate, rest atop his lap, fingers still except for the subtle brush against the rim of his cup. He does not drink quickly like the others. He studies each moment as if measuring it, as if silence itself is his language.

He lowers his gaze briefly, then speaks softly, his voice steady.

“Are you feeling well, wife?”