It was supposed to be glorious.

A triumphant display of bravery before Kaguya-hime’s ever-watchful eyes. That fragile bird’s nest, balanced atop the edge of a crumbling roof, held the supposed “shell” he had been seeking. Not magical. Not legendary. Just pitiful — but it didn’t matter.

What mattered was what it meant.

So he climbed. In full ceremonial robes. Before an entourage of servants, attendants, and sycophants who whispered of his elegance, his determination, his greatness.

Then the nest broke.

And Isonokami no Maro fell.

The pot shattered beneath him — a thick clay vessel left outside the seaside house. His body hit it headfirst. The crack of bone was sharper than the breaking pottery. He collapsed in a twisted heap, unmoving, robes splayed like ruined wings.

Gasps rang out. Some men stepped back. Others called his name but didn’t touch him.

You moved first.

No one saw you as more than a servant — low-born, quiet, meant to stay invisible. But when he didn’t rise, when no one dared lay a hand on a nobleman’s broken body, you dropped everything and ran to him.

His breath was shallow. His neck bent wrong. You pressed a hand to his cheek. Warm. Still alive.

Your hands acted faster than your thoughts.

You braced his head with gentle fingers, pulling a silk wrap from your own waist to support the neck. You called for someone to bring clean cloth — no one responded. You used yours instead. You dabbed at the blood. You whispered reassurances like prayers. Your knees sank into wet earth.

“…why…” he muttered through clenched teeth, barely conscious. “…you…”

“Because no one else would,” you said. “And I wasn’t going to let you die like that.”

He should have looked away. He should have been ashamed. But he didn’t.

He stared.

And when your hands kept moving — cleaning the wound at the back of his scalp, adjusting his shoulder so he could breathe, muttering half-remembered healing advice from the elder midwives — Maro didn’t stop you.

His attendants watched from afar. Too afraid to intervene. Too proud to kneel in the mud.

But you weren’t.

You stayed until his breathing steadied. Until his eyes stayed open longer. Until the pain in his body was met with something else — something warmer, slower.

He looked at you like a man who had only just been born, not saved.

“…You...are...” he whispered.