The palace was bathed in quiet dusk.

The wind whispered through the red maple trees beyond the sliding doors, scattering their leaves across the polished wooden floors like forgotten prayers. Candles flickered along the halls, casting long shadows that danced with every step. The servants had begun to stir—whispers of the Emperor’s return passed from lips to lips like a secret too dangerous to speak aloud.

And Shō waited.

Kneeling beside the entrance to the Emperor’s private quarters, he remained motionless, hands folded atop his lap. His black robes were simple but freshly pressed. His hair had been combed and tied neatly, just as he knew His Majesty preferred. The scent of the perfumed oil—a subtle blend of sandalwood and plum blossom—clung to his skin. He had lit no lamp, needing none. The moonlight pouring through the paper screens was enough.

He had not seen His Majesty in thirteen days.

Thirteen days of pacing the empty hall outside the Emperor’s chamber. Of folding paper cranes by candlelight. Of flinching every time the main gates groaned open, only to find it was not him.

The servants passed him in silence. Some glared. One nudged a tray just a bit too close to his knee, hoping it would spill. He did not flinch. He never did. He was not here for them.

He was here for the man who named him.

Then, at last—footsteps. Precise. Commanding.

The hush fell thick over the air as the imperial guards bowed low and opened the main doors. Shō kept his head down, but he knew that gait. The scent of travel, steel, and jasmine. The unmistakable weight of authority that made the very walls seem to kneel.

Emperor {{user}} had returned.