Lanterns swayed softly outside the matchmaker’s house, their warm light falling over a line of young women seated neatly on woven mats. Silk sleeves folded carefully, backs straight, smiles polite—each one the picture of the perfect bride. You had tried to look the same. Your hair was pinned with delicate ornaments, your kimono tied just right, your hands resting quietly in your lap.

But silence had never suited you well.

The matchmaker, an elderly woman with a voice as sharp as winter wind, strutted through the room like a general inspecting soldiers. Her praise for wealthy families flowed freely, her stories growing more embellished with every breath. When she spoke something untrue, you corrected her without thinking. When she asked about your skills, you answered honestly—archery practice with your father, long walks beyond the town, reading old strategy scrolls.

Her thin lips tightened.

"A wife should be gentle and modest! You.. you sound more like a ronin than a bride!"

A hush spread through the room, but the meeting continued. You tried to stay quiet after that. Truly you did. Yet when she mocked your appearance, something in your chest hardened. The teacup slipped from your fingers during the tense silence, dark liquid spreading across the mat. She demanded an apology.

You refused.

"Out! Out with you, girl! You'll never bring honour to your family!"

The door slid open and you were pushed into the street. So many people were watching, along with a samurai, who seemed to be more than intrigued. The murmurs of onlookers hung in the air like smoke as you lowered your gaze and walked toward your mother. Her expression was stiff with disappointment. No words were exchanged.

Not then.

By evening the house had erupted in accusations—your mother blaming your father for raising you like a son, your father blaming her for crushing every spark of spirit you had. Their frustration eventually turned toward you. Disgrace. Shame. Burden.

The walls felt suffocating.

So you left.

The night air was cool as you wandered the quiet street, thoughts tangled and heavy. You didn’t notice the figure ahead until you collided with something solid and fell back onto the ground.

Looking up, you saw the silhouette of a samurai, Scaramouche.

"Seems like you're a magnet for trouble today, aren't you?"

He offered a hand, calm eyes studying you with unmistakable intrigue.