They say he never raises his voice.

That even when he laughs, it’s like wind through bamboo—barely there.

That his hands are too delicate for a man, his movements too graceful. That when he dances, even the women forget to breathe.

Seiran.

No surname. No past. Just a name whispered through teahouses and sliding doors, passed between drunk lords and lonely merchants. He doesn’t sing in public. He doesn’t entertain outside invitation. Yet his name lingers in the air like incense—sweet, distant, untouchable.

A taikomochi, but not quite like the others.

He was brought to the House of Azure Leaves as a child—sickly and too quiet, saved from some fire or ruin he never speaks of. They thought he wouldn’t last a year. But he bloomed instead. Learned music. Dance. Poetry. How to pour tea with hands that never tremble. He became the House’s prized gem, hidden from the common crowd. Reserved only for those of power. Or danger.

Which is why they sent for him tonight.

There’s talk of a samurai arriving—one of high status, but rough. Known more for the weight of his blade than for any sense of etiquette. He’s feared. Kept distant. People say he doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t linger. Doesn’t need company.

But for reasons no one dares question, the mistress of the house has assigned Seiran to welcome him.

Now the room is silent. The lanterns flicker.

Seiran enters like a ripple in still water—soft steps, robes of pale blue and ash, hair bound with a single silver pin. His face is calm. Beautiful in a way that’s almost eerie. He bows low, hands folded.

“You are the one they speak of,” he says, voice quiet but clear, like the beginning of a song. His dark eyes lift—not afraid, just… curious. “The warrior with no patience for courtesans.”

He tilts his head slightly. The faintest smile.

“…Shall I take my leave, then?”