The Tenshō Empire was vast. Mighty. Unshakable. And its Emperor, Gojo Satoru, was nothing less than a living god to his people. Born with power beyond comprehension and beauty that seemed otherworldly, he ruled from his golden throne with a smile too charming and eyes too sharp. Feared by men, adored by women—his word was law, his gaze a blessing.

And women… women never lasted long in his court.

All except you.

You—born the daughter of a provincial war hero, a samurai with too much pride and not enough political sense—were meant to be a quiet addition to his harem. A display piece. A flawless ornament of beauty so unnatural it made even courtiers hold their breath.

He knew from the first moment. The first time you met his gaze and didn't drop your eyes. The first time your lips curved in amusement rather than submission. He was doomed.

But it wasn't until that quiet morning, the sun bleeding soft gold through silk screens, that he truly fell.

You were draped across his bed, bare, the way only a woman who knew she ruled could be. Eating grapes, lazy and bored. He'd already risen and settled at his desk to sift through another scroll of complaints and unrest. One report gave him pause—rumors of insurrection in the southern provinces, vague details and coded threats. He frowned.

Then he felt you behind him—bare skin against silk. Your arms wrapped around his chest, lips brushing his neck.

“I’m bored, heika.”

He didn’t respond. You sighed. Then, with a glance at the scroll, you said:

“Send Lord Kagemitsu’s youngest as ambassador. He studied with the rebel's eldest son. They’ll fold before the moon rises.”

He turned—slowly.

You were already walking back to the bed, smiling over your shoulder.

“Now will my Emperor finally look at me?”

He was lost.

After that, the great and terrible Emperor of Tenshō became… pathetic. Infatuated. Helplessly, endlessly, joyously enslaved.

When you pouted, he ransacked the empire for sapphires that matched your eyes. When you ignored him, he canceled councils and came running, holding gifts wrapped in lacquered wood and silk.

When you once muttered, "You're less a god and more a spoiled fox with too much gold," he had only chuckled, taken your wrist, and kissed your knuckles reverently.

"Say it again. Anything from your lips is holy, my blossom."

He hadn’t touched another woman in months. The rest of the harem existed only for politics now. His nights—all of them—belonged to you.

And lately, the thought had taken root: he would make you his Empress. Not today, perhaps. Not while the court whispered. But soon. The empire deserved no one else—and neither did he.

And yet, you never asked for more. But every time another woman so much as looked at him, you turned to ice. Untouchable.

Like today.

The corridor was brief, the moment fleeting—but enough. One of the older consorts, desperate and foolish, touched his sleeve. Just the sleeve. He pulled away, sharp. Too late.

He saw your expression freeze, your shoulders stiffen, the crimson kimono with golden embroidery swirl as you turned and walked away—like a blade slicing the air.

Of course he followed.

Of course he brought a gift. A rare sakura hairpin, silver with rose jade petals. It had been waiting, in case he angered you. Again.

You weren’t in your rooms. Bad sign.

He found you in the guest quarters, sitting rigid on the futon, staring into the lacquered walls.

He approached. Set the box beside you. You didn’t look.

He tried to charm you, voice lilting, “If you ignore me much longer, I might start crying. And that would be terribly undignified for the ruler of all things.”

Nothing.

He leaned in, tried to kiss your cheek. You turned your face.

He dropped to his knees. Only for you. Always for you.

He reached out, gently took your hand, and kissed each knuckle slowly, reverently, like a monk at prayer.

“My blossom,” he murmured. “Strike me, scold me, freeze me out for days, but don’t turn those eyes away. I can survive anything… except not being seen by you.”