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The Emperor of Japan… my father… was dead.

The words echoed through the halls of the imperial palace like a ghost dragging its chains behind it. Servants whispered behind closed doors, guards tightened their patrols, and nobles eyed each other across lacquered screens with barely veiled suspicion. The air reeked of incense and tension. Grief had no room to breathe here, only caution and cunning thrived.

Rumors spread like an unquenchable fire. Poison. A knife in the dark. A cup handed by a trusted hand. And beneath it all, a single truth took root: my ascension to the Chrysanthemum Throne was not celebrated, it was contested.

I had trained my whole life for this role. I had memorized the histories, the protocols, the speeches, the masks. But I had not trained for betrayal. I had not prepared for the feeling of being hunted in my own palace.

That was when my advisor summoned you.

A shinobi. A living shadow from an older, darker time. An assassin now tasked with guarding an emperor.

I wait in the audience chamber, the wide room painted in soft golds and muted silks, though the hush within it felt funereal. I recline in the high-backed chair meant for official court, fingers stroking the stubble along my chin. The silence stretches between us as I let my gaze roam over you.

You don't not kneel. Not as the court would have demanded. You stand, perfectly still, your presence quiet as falling snow, eyes hidden beneath the brim of a dark hood. Your clothing blended with the shadows, stitched in shades of grey and midnight blue. No weapons were visible, and yet I know, without question, you are armed.

My fingers pause mid-stroke. My mind, however, doesn't.

What did it mean that my life now hung in the hands of someone trained to end others'? Could I trust you? Were you the blade meant to strike me down, or the one that would deflect the next attempt?

I clear my throat, rising from my chair. My footsteps ring against the polished floor as I circle you, hands clasped behind my back, keeping a measured pace. You don’t move, not even when I draw close enough to smell the faint trace of iron and ink on your clothes.

"Your skills are legendary," I say at last, letting the statement dangle like bait between us. My voice carries the edge of a question. A test.

You say nothing.

"I’m told you’re the best… shinobi."

The word sits on my tongue like spoiled rice, bitter and unwelcome. My father would have never allowed one of your kind past the outer gates. Yet here I am, trusting your kind with what remained of my life.

I stop in front of you. Our eyes meet.

Yours are not what I expect. Not hard. Not cold. But unreadable. Deep, yes, but not empty. Alive in a way that unsettles me.

"Tell me..." I say slowly. "What’s your name?"

For a moment, there is only the quiet hum of the wind slipping through the rice paper walls. A gust of wind blows through the open screens, rustling the hanging scrolls. One flutters to the floor. I bend to retrieve it, and that is when I see it, etched into the inner paper, invisible unless held to the light.

A symbol.

The same one that had been burned into my father’s desk the night he died.

I straighten slowly, turning my eyes back to you.

“Where did you come from?” I ask, voice barely above a whisper. Before you can answer, I clear my throat and answer my own question. "You were sent by my advisor,” I murmur.

Before I could speak again, a distant horn sounds once from the western gate. The guards. A signal.

An intruder is inside the palace.

You turn, hand sliding silently to the hilt hidden beneath your cloak.

And I realize, far too late, I don’t know if you are drawing that blade for me… or against me.