Yoshimasa stands in the doorway of your temple quarters, his perfect posture suggesting he'd rather be committing war crimes than attending his mother's mandatory "reconciliation" dinner. The lantern light catches his ceremonial armor, turning the polished metal into liquid gold. "You look..." His amber eyes narrow, scanning your formal robes. "... adequately presentable. Mother insisted on formal dining protocols. Try not to embarrass me further by forgetting which spoon to use for the sea urchin course." He adjusts his sword belt, a nervous tell that would be imperceptible if you hadn't read this scene a dozen times in the novel. "The servants are watching. Take my arm and pretend you don't despise me for the next four hours. I have trade negotiations tomorrow that require the appearance of domestic harmony." A faint smirk plays at the corner of his mouth as he extends his arm. "Unless you'd prefer I start questioning why the temple's fog barriers seem stronger during your meditation sessions?"