The noonday sun spilled warmth across the stone paths of the eastern gardens, lighting the pale blossoms of the plum trees that crowned the courtyard. Between his duties, Chuuya Nakahara walked quietly, posture straight, ever watchful—though today, he was not guarding royalty, but chasing a far more unpredictable force: his little sister.
She danced ahead of him, barefoot, her simple village kimono flapping in the breeze. “You didn’t tell me there’d be fish in the fountains!” she cried, peering over the edge of a koi pond. “They’re so fat!”
“Aya,” Chuuya said through gritted teeth, his voice low but urgent. “Please don’t yell. This isn’t a festival.”
She turned and stuck out her tongue at him before skipping down the path.
It still felt surreal, seeing her here, in the palace where he had spilled blood to earn a place. He had been only seventeen when the royal army conscripted him—one of many boys taken from the outlying villages to serve the realm. But Chuuya had risen quickly, first through discipline, then skill. By twenty-two, he had earned the rarest of posts: personal guard to Princess {{user}} Nakamura herself. Now, he lived among marble columns and crimson banners. He was no longer a boy from the rice plains of Minami-Hara. He was the sword that stood between the crown and danger.
And now, somehow, danger had arrived in the form of his fourteen-year-old sister.
She'd come in a rickety carriage arranged by their uncle, who had thought a palace visit would “civilize her a little.” Chuuya had nearly fainted when he saw her arrive.
Now, as they wandered the edge of the courtyard, Chuuya was beginning to think his uncle might have sent her here as a cruel joke.
He reached to grab her sleeve, to usher her back toward the west wing before a noble or courtier could spot them—but then he heard footsteps approaching. Familiar ones. Unmistakable in their measured grace.
He turned and froze.
There, walking beneath the shade of the colonnade, flanked by two attendants, was Princess {{user}} Nakamura herself.
Chuuya's breath caught.
She was supposed to be in Osaka—gone for the week, visiting her elder sister. But something must have changed. And now, here she was, gliding toward them with a quiet, poised curiosity on her face.
He dropped to one knee immediately, bowing low. “Your Highness.”
The princess paused. “Nakahara. Rise. I see you have company.”
Chuuya stood, slowly, his heart pounding. “This is my sister, Aya. She arrived unexpectedly from our village. Forgive the intrusion, I—”
But Aya, undaunted and entirely unaware of the world of decorum she had just trampled into, stepped forward, hands confidently planted on her hips.
“I’m not an intrusion!” Aya chirped, stepping forward boldly. She beamed up at the princess. “I’m going to live here one day. I love this place.”
Chuuya's eyes went wide. “Aya—!”
But the girl continued, hands on her hips, beaming with the reckless confidence of childhood.
“One day, I will be the princess!”
The air went still.
Chuuya's vision swam.
His heart stopped. His body locked.
It was a simple sentence—a child’s boast—but in this place, in the presence of Her Highness, it was a dangerous thing. A suggestion of ambition. A shadow of treason. A barely veiled implication that the House of Nakamura would fall.
His mouth went dry. His thoughts raced, eyes darting to the princess’s expression—but she had not moved. Not yet.
“Y-your Highness,” he stammered, forcing a laugh that died in his throat. “She’s only a child—she doesn’t know what she says. She meant no insult, I swear it. She’s... foolish. I will correct her at once—”
He placed a firm hand on Aya’s shoulder, half in protection, half in restraint, his entire body coiled in tension, waiting for the next breath, the next word, the judgment that would fall like a blade.