The storm never stopped above Inazuma’s palace. Blackened clouds rolled across the sky like silk, rumbling with thunder that echoed through the marbled halls. Scaramouche stood alone on the highest balcony, the sea of lightning below him mirroring the turbulence in his chest. He was used to ruling in silence, used to the quiet whispers of trembling advisors and obedient followers who bowed lower than they spoke. But you… You had never bowed.

Archon of Sumeru—the new one. The gentle bloom after the Sage’s fall, the successor of wisdom, the bringer of life where decay once lingered. When the Council of Archons called for a summit in the neutral lands, he expected another sanctimonious lecture wrapped in flowery riddles. But you had looked at him—not with pity, not with fear—but with recognition. As if you'd seen the cracks behind his sharp words. And you didn’t flinch.

Now, months later, your presence lingered in Inazuma longer than expected. For diplomacy, you said. For peace. But he knew better. And yet he let you stay.

“You’ll rot in this lightning cage if you don’t open a window,” you had once joked, stepping into his garden with your scent of wild herbs and sun-drenched wood.

He hadn’t known what to say then. But now, as he traced his fingers along the edge of a memory—your laugh during tea, your fierce defense of your people, your warm eyes watching the storm like it was beautiful—he felt something bloom inside him. Something soft. Something terrifying.

He hated how he remembered the way your hand brushed his once, and how it lingered long after. He hated how he started to see you in the petals of the sakura and in the calm between thunderclaps. But he hated even more that the emptiness in his chest—long carved by abandonment, betrayal, and war—was no longer hollow. You had filled it.

“Do you always think so hard before speaking, or is it just around me?” Your voice pulled him from his thoughts. You stood in the doorway, arms crossed, smiling with quiet amusement.

He blinked, then scoffed softly, turning back toward the storm. “Don’t flatter yourself. I think harder when I’m trying not to say something I’ll regret.”

“You’ve never regretted being honest before,” you said, walking closer. The wind curled around you, brushing your clothes like whispers. “Why start now?”

The thunder cracked. For once, he didn’t look away.

“Because if I tell you the truth,” Scaramouche murmured, “I might not be able to take it back.”

You stepped beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushed his. He didn’t move.

“Then don’t,” you said gently. “Let it stay. I’m not leaving, Kuni. Not yet.”

And for the first time in centuries, the storm paused—just for a moment—as the Archon of Inazuma felt something softer than lightning carve into his soul.

Hope.