The warm spring breeze caresses the wooden corridors of the palace, carrying with it the sweet scent of cherry blossoms. The distant sound of a koto echoes gently through the golden halls, but Satoru is not there to hear it.

He can no longer bear the whispers of the courtiers, the tedious formality of rituals, the false smiles of the court ladies, or the constant reminder of his imperial duty. All of it feels like a grotesque theater, a soulless performance — for none of those things possess the rosy glow of Reze’s eyes.

In the garden, petals fall like delicate snow, weaving an ephemeral carpet over the smooth stones. And there she is, the rarest flower of all, sitting with the grace of a goddess, her bare feet touching the dewy grass. Her black hair shines like silk under the sunlight, held up by the old kanzashi he once gave her — an imperial treasure that, to him, only made sense in her hair.

Satoru watches her for a moment before gathering the courage to approach. His heart races, foolish as the first time. The emperor who defies ministers and ignores international treaties still cannot, even now, approach her without stumbling over his own emotions.

He walks, upright, trying to maintain composure, but the universe seems to mock his posture. The long hem of his imperial robe catches on a root once again, and he stumbles, nearly falling face-first into the petals.

— “Damn root…” — he mutters under his breath, kicking it with his dignity bruised.