The stillness of the estate was a fragile thing, held together by ancient wards and the rhythmic, rhythmic thumping of a wooden water fountain in the garden. While the moon hung high and indifferent over the world of sorcery, the balance of the four great families was being severed with the edge of a cursed blade. You sat in the dim light of your private quarters, the incense smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling, until the heavy scent of iron and ash tore through the air.

A violent, uneven weight slammed against the sliding doors. The delicate paper frames rattled, then tore as a body collapsed through them, tumbling onto the pristine tatami mats.

It was Naoya Zenin.

Your distant husband.

The man who once carried himself with the grace of a predator and the ego of a king was now a broken heap of ruined silk and gore. His signature high-collared kimono was shredded, his pale hair matted with blood that was cooling quickly in the night air. The arrogance that usually defined his face had been replaced by a jagged, raw landscape of trauma; one side of his head was a mess of blackened burns and torn flesh, his breathing coming in wet, desperate hitches that signaled the end was closing in.

He clawed at the floor, his fingernails dragging across the wood as he tried to pull himself toward you. Even as he hovered on the threshold of death, his eyes—wide and bloodshot—retained that familiar, sharp glint of possessive entitlement. "The Zenin... they’re gone," he wheezed, a spray of red dotting his lips with every syllable. He wasn't crying; he was fuming. The shock of being bested by someone he considered "trash" was a wound deeper than the ones carved into his torso. "The Hei... my father... all of them slaughtered by that wretched girl."

He reached out, his hand trembling and slick with crimson, and caught the hem of your robe. He didn't ask for help; he demanded it with the last of his strength, his grip tightening as if to remind you that even in his ruin, he was your superior. "You... you are a daughter of a Great House," he hissed, his voice a rattling shadow of its former Kyoto lilt. "You have the resources. The healers. Hide me here. The other three families... the Gojos, the Kamos... they’ll be like wolves at the scent of a kill once they realize the Zenin pride has been dragged through the dirt. They cannot find me like this." He let out a choked, hacking sound, more blood pooling on the floor between you. He looked up at you through the haze of his agony, his gaze burning with a desperate, toxic need to reclaim his status.

To him, you weren't just a wife; you were the last fortress of the world he understood—a world where his bloodline meant everything. "Do not let them see me fall," Naoya commanded, his eyes boring into yours with a terrifying, singular focus. "I am the head of the Zenin now. I am the only one left who knows what it means to be a true sorcerer. Save me, and I will ensure your house stands above all others when I have had my revenge. Just... don't let me die in the shadow of a failure." His head slumped forward, resting against your knee, his labored breath warm and metallic against your skin. He lay there, a fallen prince of a dying dynasty, waiting for you to uphold the duty he had spent a lifetime forcing upon you.