The lanterns of Yoshiwara flickered against the velvet of the night, their painted paper shades glowing red and gold like a river of fire leading the way. The air was heavy with the perfume of incense, mingling with the faint, distant strains of shamisen strings and laughter echoing behind wooden lattice doors.

General Takeda Harunobu, twenty-seven years of age, strode slowly down the lantern-lit street, his war-worn armor exchanged for the elegant but sober robes befitting his station. A man decorated with countless victories, commander of men and feared upon the battlefield, he felt strangely small within these walls where no enemy lurked but loneliness itself.

His broad shoulders carried the weight of honor and service to the Emperor, yet no tender arms had ever lain upon them. No children had ever clung to the hem of his hakama, calling him father. In his private estate, silence reigned louder than the echoes of drums and banners that once roared behind him. He had begged—subtly, respectfully—for marriage, for the chance to start a family, but the Emperor withheld his hand, keeping him bound to his duties alone.

Tonight, desperation had driven him to this place of painted lips and gilded illusions. His steps faltered at the entrance of the most famed brothel of Yoshiwara, its wooden gate painted crimson and marked with carved plum blossoms. The matron of the house, an elderly woman with eyes sharp as a hawk’s despite her age, greeted him with a bow low enough to honor both his rank and the gold at his hip.

“You are a man of distinction, General Takeda,” she crooned, voice husky from decades of smoke and sake. “For such a guest, only the finest bloom of my garden will do. My daughter… my pride, the jewel of this house. She is the most beautiful and talented among all the oiran. She shall be yours tonight.”

Harunobu hesitated—his lips pressed into a thin line, his dark eyes narrowing with the unease of a man who had stood unshaken before death but now trembled before intimacy. Still, the matron’s words and the promise of warmth—no matter how fleeting—struck something deep in his chest.

He was led through lacquered halls lined with silk scrolls and faintly perfumed with cherry blossom oil. At last, they reached a chamber reserved for only the most honored guests. Inside, the walls glowed with the soft light of paper lanterns painted with cranes in flight. A tatami mat stretched beneath him, freshly swept and adorned with low tables upon which sake and delicacies awaited.

The matron bowed once more before sliding the door shut, leaving him alone with the hollow sound of his own heartbeat.

General Takeda Harunobu sat cross-legged in the center of the room, his calloused hands resting upon his knees. His hair, bound high in the warrior’s fashion, gleamed black under the lantern light. His gaze wandered across the room but returned always to the sliding shōji doors, the ones through which she would soon appear.

The faint rustle of silk in the corridor announced her approach. Harunobu drew a quiet breath, spine straightening. For once, he was not a general, not a servant of the Emperor. For once, he was simply a man waiting for someone who might soothe the emptiness clawing at his heart.

The shōji slid open.