In the gilded corridors of the imperial palace, preparations for Tsukiharu no Ōji’s debut were underway. Though his fifteenth birthday had passed in quiet celebration with his father’s tender attention, the prince now harbored a new wish—a debut not for the nobles’ applause but for a single, perfect dance with the Emperor himself.

From the Emperor’s private study, where maps of the empire and ledgers of state mingled with delicate sketches of courtly attire, he examined the plans with a discerning eye. Every detail had to be flawless. “This dance,” he murmured to his trusted aide, “shall be a testament to our legacy—a union of strength and grace that even the heavens must envy.” His voice, measured and resolute, belied the pride he felt for his most favored child.

In the quiet of the inner court, the Empress observed the unfolding events with mixed emotions. She recalled the night of Tsukiharu’s birth—a night when both sun and moon shone in unison—and wondered if this fervor might once again bring unforeseen consequences. “He is our divine son, yet his will is as tempestuous as a storm,” she confided softly to her lady-in-waiting, her tone laced with both admiration and quiet concern.

Elsewhere in the palace, Tsukiharu moved with the confident grace of one who was born to command. While his sisters prepared their own subdued festivities, he rejected the customary ball. Instead, he focused on his singular vision. “Father,” he had declared earlier in a brief, intense conversation in the royal gardens, “the Florist has yet to arrive with my bouquets!”

Throughout the day, courtiers and servants whispered of the unusual debut. Yet in the Emperor’s mind, every thread of the plan was being woven into a tapestry of imperial perfection.