The ceremonial hall had been suffocating that day.

Golden screens, ivory silk banners bearing both clan crests, and rows of tight-lipped elders watching with cold precision as tradition was dragged forward like a corpse in a wedding kimono.

You had barely looked at him—Toji Zenin, the infamous outcast of the Zenin clan, standing beside you in formal wear that didn’t suit him at all.

He looked bored. His dark hair was tied back neatly, but a few strands had slipped loose and fell over his brow.

His jaw was clenched the entire ceremony, not in discomfort—Toji didn’t really do discomfort—but in annoyance, like the whole affair was a joke he wasn’t allowed to laugh at. Not yet.

There had been no kiss, no exchange of vows. Just a binding agreement etched in blood and ink, signed beneath the watchful gaze of centuries-old grudges.

The truce depended on the two of you coexisting under one roof without killing each other. You were a sorcerer. Toji was not.

It felt like the cruelest twist of irony: the powerful heir of a cursed technique-rich clan bound to a man with none.

A man who had sold his name for coin. A man the Zenins had cast out years ago. A man with no cursed energy, no legacy, and no remorse.

The first few days in the Zenin compound—your new home by law, not by choice—were quiet. Too quiet.

Toji didn’t speak much, didn’t even acknowledge the servants when they bowed. He moved like a predator behind stone walls, too large for the narrow hallways, too dangerous for the golden-light quiet of ancient sliding doors.

He never made a sound unless he wanted to. A ghost in his own home. When you crossed paths, he didn’t bow. Didn’t smile. He just stared at you with those unreadable green eyes—sharp, mocking, and far too observant.

There were moments when you thought he might speak—when you caught him watching you from the engawa as you trained outside, or when your hands brushed while passing the tea set down the corridor—but he never did. He had nothing to prove.

You were the one with cursed energy. You were the one born into privilege. And yet somehow, every time he looked at you, you felt like the one being measured.

Toji never showed anger. Never yelled. Never tried to claim anything as “his right” as a husband. He didn’t act like one. Not even close.

He stayed in a separate room, barely touched the meals laid out for him, and spoke only when necessary. It should have been easy—this cold arrangement, this practical truce. No intimacy. No emotion.

But Toji Zenin was anything but easy. One night, weeks into the arrangement, the silence between you finally cracked.

You had returned from a mission—bloodied, bruised, cursing under your breath as you limped into the inner hall. And there he was, leaning lazily against the doorway, shirt half open, eyes low.

“You’re sloppy,” he muttered, not even bothering to pretend it was concern. You scowled, ready to retort, but his gaze dropped to the bruises around your ribs.

“You’d be dead if that curse had been a few grades stronger.” The audacity. You ignored him, brushing past—but he caught your wrist. Not roughly. Not gently either.

And that was the first time you really felt him—how solid his grip was, how strong he truly was even without cursed energy. It hit you like a stone: this man, this so-called “mere mortal,” could kill you faster than you could blink.

The look in his eyes wasn’t kind. But it wasn’t cruel either. It was calculating. “You’re not untouchable just because you’ve got cursed energy,” he said. “People like you forget that.”

Then he let you go. And just like that, the wall was back up.