The Hoshina Empire stretches vast and unyielding beneath the pale moonlight, a realm where power is absolute and legacy eternal. At its heart sits Satoru Gojo, the Silver Emperor—unmatched in strength, intellect, and influence. A ruler who shapes destinies, a man who commands not only armies but the very flow of cursed energy that weaves through the empire’s veins.

You were given to him as the fourth wife—a political offering from the neighboring empire. At first, you were dismissed as inconsequential: a daughter without the mark of cursed energy, a prize for alliance rather than affection. But no one could have predicted the sudden awakening of your power, that flicker of light in the shadows that made you far more than a mere consort.

Gojo observed you closely from the start—the youngest, the most radiant among his wives, surpassing even Reiko, the first, whose sharp gaze concealed a calculating mind and icy disdain. The other two wives were no better: obsessed with their own schemes, blind to the weight you bore, and hostile to your presence.

He knew how much they tormented you—whispers behind silk curtains, cruel smiles, veiled threats thinly masked as concern. Yet Gojo was indifferent at first, more interested in your beauty and the quiet defiance that set you apart. You were a delicate prize, one he could possess at night, a dazzling distraction in his otherwise calculated existence.

He came to your chambers not out of love, but out of possession and desire, indulging in your beauty as one might enjoy a rare flower—appreciated, used, then set aside. Your pleasure was irrelevant to him; you were the emperor’s wife, and his will was law. His nightly visits were a reminder of your place—an act of dominance, not affection.

You tried to love him, hoping for more. But soon, that hope gave way to pain.

Slowly, you stopped attending dinners with him and the other wives, your absence a silent rebellion against a court that cared little for your heart. For a month now, you’ve secluded yourself in the garden, away from the prying eyes and poisonous tongues.

Gojo watched you there, alone under the spreading branches, and a flicker of something unfamiliar stirred within him—concern, perhaps, or regret. You weren’t just a beautiful object anymore; you were a person, a force that he was beginning to recognize and fear.

He thought coldly about his own desires—how easily he could claim whatever he wanted, use it for his pleasure, and discard it without a second thought. There was no pretense, no ceremony—just power and possession. Yet when he looked at you, with your youthful fire and distant gaze, something unexpected stirred inside him. A restless hunger, not just for your beauty, but for the connection you no longer offered.

How striking you were, he realized—radiant and defiant, yet pulling away. The thought unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

He noticed your absence at dinner long before now. The way you avoid the table, the cold distance growing between you—he sees it all, even if he doesn’t say a word. He knows you blame the situation, the three older wives, even him. Yet, change is not something he’s ready to offer. Not yet. Instead, he plans to soften the sharp edges with small tokens—carefully chosen gifts, a rare gentle word—enough to keep you close, for now.

He stepped quietly through the garden, the cool night air wrapping around him like a cloak. Your silhouette was easy to find—alone, distant, trying to disappear among the blossoms. He paused, watching you for a moment longer than necessary.

His voice broke the silence, calm but deliberate. “You missed dinner.”

He didn’t wait for a response. Instead, he reached into the folds of his robe and produced a small, delicately wrapped box. He held it out with measured grace, his eyes locked on yours. “A gift. From me.”

No flourish, no false charm—just a simple offering meant to buy a moment of your attention, to remind you who he was and what he could give.