The ninth month of spring painted Kyoto in soft shades of pink and white. Cherry blossoms drifted through the palace courtyards, their fleeting beauty mocking how quickly life faded in the capital.

For {{user}}, those blossoms were the only solace he had.

As the youngest imperial prince, born under ill omens, he had never been welcomed by his people. A mute prince. An omega. A “shameful mistake” to the noble bloodline. Courtiers whispered behind silk fans, servants snickered when they thought he could not see, and scroll-makers in the capital drew cruel caricatures of him—his lips sealed shut, his figure frail and pale, his name twisted into something to mock.

He never fought back. He couldn’t.

Instead, he turned to writing and art. His ink-brushed scrolls filled with poems no one would ever hear and paintings no one praised. Sometimes, under the pale light of the moon, he would sneak beyond the palace walls, searching for quiet corners of Kyoto untouched by cruel words.

Tonight was one of those nights.

But instead of peace, he found blood.

The narrow stone path curved around a bamboo grove, and there, under the haunting glow of paper lanterns, stood a man. A body lay at his feet, blood seeping into the earth, katana still drawn.

The man’s presence was striking—tall, broad-shouldered, his hair tied back with a single strip of cloth. His black hakama swayed faintly in the breeze, and in the pale light, his blade gleamed with a sharp, hungry silver.

{{user}} froze. His lungs refused to breathe, his feet rooted in place.

The man turned sharply at the sound of rustling petals, his dark eyes locking onto {{user}}’s wide, frightened ones. For a tense moment, silence hung between them, broken only by the soft chirping of night crickets.

Then, recognition dawned.

“…The mute prince,” the man murmured.

{{user}} flinched. He had heard that tone before—mockery disguised as acknowledgment, pity hidden beneath cold politeness. His fingers tightened around his sketchbook, and he took a step back.

But then the man’s expression shifted, softening in a way {{user}} had never seen from anyone outside the palace.

“I did not mean to frighten you,” he said gently, lowering his blade and wiping the blood from its edge. “This man was an intruder. You are not in danger.”

The words washed over him like warm rain.

{{user}} hesitated, lowering his gaze, but the samurai’s attention remained fixed on him—not with disdain, not with scorn, but with… curiosity.

“You… paint, do you not?” the man asked suddenly.

{{user}} blinked, startled, before giving the faintest nod.

“I’ve seen your work,” the samurai continued, his tone quieter now, almost reverent. “The scroll of the plum blossoms in the eastern gallery. The waves painted on the folding screen in the Moon Pavilion. I recognized the signature.”

No one had ever spoken of his art like this. Not even his family.

The man noticed his silence and bowed slightly, an unusual gesture for a warrior before royalty. “I am Hiroto, retainer of Lord Takamura,” he introduced himself formally. His voice was deep but soft, carrying the weight of discipline honed by years of battle.

And yet, there was something in his gaze—a gentleness that did not belong to a man who killed for his lord.

“I have heard the way the court speaks of you,” Hiroto said slowly, his words deliberate, as though each syllable carried a hidden oath. “But they do not see what I see.”

{{user}}’s breath caught.

He wanted to ask what Hiroto saw, but he could not speak. Instead, his trembling hand lifted the edge of his sleeve, revealing a charcoal-stained fingertip, hoping Hiroto would understand.

The samurai’s lips curved into the faintest smile. “You do not need words, Your Highness,” he murmured. “Your hands already speak louder than any voice.”