The kingdom of Kiyomori had not known a quiet year in over a decade.

War drums had become as common as church bells. Smoke from distant border villages often stained the horizon. And at the center of it all stood you — the warrior queen who had inherited not only a crown, but a battlefield.

Your armor was still dusted with dried ash when you rode through the lower district at dusk, helmet tucked beneath your arm.

The people bowed as you passed, but their relief at seeing you alive was mixed with fear. They all knew what tomorrow would bring.

Another push from the northern empire. Another line of soldiers who would look to you before charging.

You should have returned to the castle. Instead, your horse stopped where it always did after battle.

The forge.

Even before you dismounted, you heard the steady rhythm:

CLANG.

CLANG.

CLANG.

Not hurried. Not frantic.

Controlled.

Precise.

Inside, sparks flared like captive stars.

The heat wrapped around you, thick and alive. And there he was.

Shōta.

Hair tied back messily at the nape of his neck, strands already falling loose from the humidity. Sleeves rolled. Forearms lined with soot and faint scars.

His expression was the same as always — half-lidded eyes, calm to the point of indifference — but his hammer never missed its mark.

He didn’t look up right away.

“You’re late,” he said flatly, as if you’d just returned from a market errand instead of war.

On the anvil rested a blade unlike the others.

Sleeker. Balanced for speed instead of brute force.

The metal gleamed faintly blue in the firelight.

Your blade.

He finally glanced at you, gaze traveling over the new dent in your shoulder plate.

“You leaned left again,” he added.

“You’ll get yourself k!lled doing that.”

It wasn’t a question. It was observation.

The kind only someone who watched you too closely could make.

You stepped closer, the forge light flickering between you.

“You made changes.” You spoke quietly, but with that air of authority.

“I always do.” He plunged the sword into water.

Steam roared upward between you like a curtain.

“You fight like you expect to d!e. I make weapons for people planning to live.”

There it was again.

That edge in his voice lately. Not fear. Not admiration.

Frustration.

Your knights respected you. Your generals obeyed you. Your people revered you.

But Shōta?

He watched you like a man standing outside a gate he had already decided he was going to walk through.

He set the blade down and wiped his hands on a cloth, eyes meeting yours fully now.

“Take me with you tomorrow.”

Not a plea.

A statement.

The forge crackled behind him. The war loomed ahead.

And for the first time since you’d taken the throne… something in your chest felt uncertain.

You swallowed hard and studied him, sizing him up to see if he would make a good addition to your men.

He was skilled in weapon making, that was for sure. But if you took him with you, then who would make your supplies?