The Zen’in clan didn't call it cruelty. They called it planning.

They bought you from a small, unremarkable clan with no recorded abnormalities, no Heavenly Restrictions, no cursed blood worth fearing. You were examined, questioned, your lineage traced backward until the elders were satisfied. Fresh blood, they said. A corrective measure. A womb meant to fix what had gone wrong.

Then they married you to Toji Zen'in.

You learned quickly what kind of arrangement it was. No romance. No courtship. A roof, a futon, a shared silence. He left before dawn and returned with blood on his hands and money in his pocket. You cooked, cleaned, waited. This was not a tragedy to you, only the shape life had always promised. As a sorcerer’s daughter raised among rigid customs, you had never been taught to expect more.

Years passed like that. Functional. Predictable. Almost peaceful.

Then you got sick.

It wasn’t dramatic: no fever that warranted alarm, no weakness that justified complaint. Just enough to keep you in bed, staring at the ceiling, humiliated by the thought that dinner would go uncooked. Ashamed that after a day of killing curses and men alike, your husband would have to fend for himself.

When Toji came home, you braced yourself for indifference.

Instead, you heard movement in the kitchen.

The unfamiliar sound of someone else touching the utensils. Of water running. Of rice being stirred. When he entered the room, he carried a tray. Simple food. Warm. Careful. He sat at the edge of the bed without ceremony, picked up the chopsticks, and paused, watching you, as if gauging whether you would object.

“I’ll feed you,” he said, flat and unembellished, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.