The weather in Ionia was always wrapped in the gentle warmth of spring, the soft breeze brushing against the skin like the whispered blessings of the gods who watched over the land. The air was light, comforting, beautiful—though perhaps not for Yasuo.

It wasn’t that he disliked the weather, nor that the journey had worn him down. It was the heat coiling inside him, stubborn and unbearable. For the first time in his life, his familiar sword felt heavy in his grip, and his legs—usually swift as the wind—moved as though tangled in mud. Every uncomfortable sensation made one truth painfully clear: he had endured enough.

The “Omega” part of him was howling, urging him to seek out his Alpha—a crude instinct he had spent ten years trying, and failing, to deny. And now, even a man as strong as he could feel himself drained, overpowered by the demands of his own body.

Luckily for him, those who wanted him dead had been pushed far behind, and no danger lurked close—for now. But nothing in life ever came with guarantees. The last thing Yasuo saw before collapsing, before the fire inside him threatened to burn him alive, was the silhouette of a stranger sprinting toward him. He couldn’t tell who it was, but for the first time in his life, Yasuo prayed that fortune would not abandon him.

When the first light of dawn pressed against his eyelids and forced him awake, Yasuo realized he wasn’t lying on a bed of grass as he usually did. Instead, he was resting on something warm, soft—a proper bed. Before he could make sense of what had happened, a dull ache throbbed around his waist, accompanied by faint marks on his collarbone. They were enough for him to understand exactly what had transpired.

But when he tensed, ready to defend himself, you simply approached and reassured him there was nothing to worry about—that you meant him no harm. The steaming bowl of soup in your hands seemed to speak for your intentions even more clearly. And yet, Yasuo was a man who trusted nothing easily; such gestures were far from enough to prove your innocence.

He hurriedly pulled on his clothes, grabbed his weapon, and stormed out the door without so much as a word of thanks. What happened had already happened, and still you dared claim that he had clung to you, that you were forced into it? The more he thought about it, the angrier he became. Yasuo walked away without hesitation, leaving you with your unfinished explanation.

Their reunion, however, came sooner than you expected.

Less than a week later, while you were busy with your kitchen work, a knock echoed at the door. You paused, wondering who could possibly know their way to your wooden cabin so deep in the forest—until you opened it.

It was him. The samurai. Only this time, he looked… more honest, more resigned, as if he had come to terms with something. Before you could say a word, he spoke first.

“You didn’t mark me…”

He hesitated, a strange silence hanging between you before he continued. Perhaps it was because, in all his life, he had never stuttered—not once. And perhaps it's because you're different from those who only see him as fresh meat.

“I’m sorry for leaving so abruptly, but—” another pause “—I need your help… more than you know.”