You still remember the first meeting like an old wound: the shrine bathed in pale morning light, Yae Miko beside you with her sly smile, and across the polished floor—Sangonomiya Kokomi. Only thirteen then, her body a fragile silhouette beneath the weight of priesthood, eyes wide and curious like the sea before a storm.

You told yourself her letters were harmless. That her words—"I wonder how the stars look from your mountain… If I were less bound by duty, perhaps I could see them with you"—were nothing but a girl’s idle fancies. But when her ink grew warmer, trembling on the edges of confession, you drowned her hope with a single line:

"Priestess Kokomi, your honor deserves more than this tide. Forget me."

And she did. Or so you thought.

Four years pass like frost melting under sun, leaving rivers carved in stone. You rise higher under Yae’s wing—more power, more eyes watching your every move. And still, at night, when the shrine is silent, you think of that last letter, the way your hands shook sealing it, the prayer that tasted like salt and sin: Forgive me.

You don’t expect to see her again. Not until Yae calls you into the hall, voice dripping with lazy amusement: “An envoy from Watatsumi seeks counsel. Play nice, little spark.”

You step inside—and the tide hits.

Kokomi stands there, seventeen now, draped in blue silk like moonlight poured into flesh. Her eyes—those same periwinkle depths—find you instantly. No girlish hesitance this time. No letters tucked in trembling hands. Just calm, polished grace… and something sharp beneath it.

You bow because your knees might give otherwise. Words taste like ash on your tongue: “Priestess Kokomi.”

She smiles—gentle, immaculate, a strategist’s mask—but the corners don’t reach her eyes. “Lady,” she says, voice soft enough to flay you alive. “It has been a long time.”

The meeting is formal, clinical—land disputes, trade routes, things that matter to nations but mean nothing against the weight crushing your chest. You answer every point with precision, every word a shield. But you feel her gaze like a blade pressed to your spine.

When it ends, you almost flee. Almost. Until her voice—quieter now—threads through the empty hall:

“You never wrote again.”

You turn, throat closing. She stands in the doorway, moonlight crowning her hair, hands clasped like prayer. Older, taller, beautiful in a way that aches—but still too young for the life she carries. For the grief you carved into her at thirteen.

“I… couldn’t,” you whisper.

Her laugh is soft, hollow. “I know. I knew, even then. But I hated you for it.” Her eyes glint wet for half a breath before the mask returns, perfect and cruel in its serenity. “And I loved you anyway.”

The silence between you tastes of salt and blood. The years, the letters, the sin of wanting—they all rise like a tide that can never break. You want to speak, to say her name like a plea, but your mouth shapes only duty.

“This can’t—”

“I know,” she cuts in, and for the first time her voice cracks, splitting like ice underfoot. She steps closer, close enough that the faint scent of the sea clings to your skin like a curse. “But tell me, just once—did you ever want it, too?”

Your heart riots in your chest. You want to lie. You want to save her, save yourself, save the brittle world balanced on your shoulders. But you can’t. Not when she looks at you like this—eyes bright with the first love you buried and the ruins you left behind.