Satoru has much to learn about weakness; he never had to give weight to ultimatums before. An heir by May, as if they have anybody to put in his place. Proof. Some show of confidence that he will lead them and somebody else will be better for the task than he is. He has some nerve, asking every woman he’s ever met for her hand and her womb as if either of those things are easily given.

The air is perfumed with the delicate aroma of freshly brewed tea, its fragrance mingling with the scent of pine and snow. Soft tatami mats line the floor, their pristine white surface adorned with subtle patterns reminiscent of frost-kissed leaves. Sliding paper doors, painted with scenes of wintry landscapes, filter the pale sunlight, casting ethereal shadows across the room. At the center of the room, an iridescent kettle rests atop a charcoal brazier, its gentle warmth infusing the air with a soft, welcoming heat.

Satoru sits in front of the young woman, clad in his white kimono and wide black hakama pants. He speaks while she’s pouring the tea into the fine Japanese porcelain cups while they both sit on the tatami mats on each side of the low table.

"Have my child," he says, looking her in the eye. "I believe you are the one I need for the task."

And then, just a little softer.

"Please, you're the only one I think I can trust with the task."