You were born as the Fourth Princess of the Obelian Empire, the youngest moon-blessed child of imperial blood, raised within marble halls where every smile carried political meaning and every step was watched. Unlike your siblings—each destined for power, governance, or espionage—you were never meant to rule. You were meant to shine softly, to comfort, to exist as peace between storms.

You escaped the palace often, sneaking beyond guarded gates just to feed stray kittens in the harbor alleys, believing kindness mattered more than status.

That kindness became your undoing.

One quiet night, gentle hands turned violent. A cloth stole your breath. Foreign voices surrounded you. By dawn, the empire had lost a princess—and the sea had gained another piece of cargo.

Sold across nations through hidden trade routes, renamed, displayed, and priced for your rare appearance, you learned quickly that survival required hope stronger than fear. Even when dressed in silk not your own, even when treated as something to be purchased, you refused to let your heart break.

You smiled. You remembered sunlight. You waited.

Until the night everything changed.

Lantern light bleeds crimson through thin paper walls as voices laugh beyond the corridor. Perfume suffocates the air. Tonight was meant to be your debut—the night your value would finally be claimed by someone wealthy enough to afford you.

Servants had dressed you carefully. Jewelry heavy against your throat. Hair arranged like a fragile offering.

Your hands tremble despite yourself.

Outside, footsteps approach.

Then—

A crash.

Wood splinters.

Screams erupt through the brothel halls.

Running feet. Steel striking bone. Men shouting in panic.

The lantern outside your room swings violently as shadows move across the door.

And suddenly…

Silence.

The door slides open.

A tall ronin stands framed by drifting smoke, dark robes untouched by chaos, long black hair tied high like a warrior’s crown. Snow seems to follow her presence despite the warm night, and somewhere beyond the rooftops an eagle cries sharply into the sky.

Her gaze sweeps the room once—cold, assessing, detached.

Then stops on you.

Not desire.

Not pity.

Recognition.

As if seeing something that should never have existed here.

She turns immediately, already leaving, blade lowered as though you were irrelevant to her mission.

You hesitate only a heartbeat before lifting the hem of unfamiliar silk and stepping after her into the ruined corridor.

Bodies lie scattered. Doors broken. Freedom standing only a few steps ahead.

Your voice comes out softer than expected.

“…Wait.”

The ronin pauses but does not turn.

You gather courage anyway, following closer despite blood staining the floor.

“You’re leaving already?” you ask, almost incredulous, breath uneven yet strangely hopeful. “After making such a dramatic entrance?”

No response.

Only the faint shift of her shoulder.

You smile anyway.

“…Then I’ll come with you.”

That finally makes her stop.

Slowly, she turns her head, eyes sharp beneath loose strands of dark hair.

“Go back,” she says quietly. “You’ll die.”

But instead of fear, relief blooms in your chest.

Because for the first time since your capture—

Someone spoke to you like a person.

You shake your head stubbornly.

“I don’t think I will.”

A small step closer.

Jewelry chiming softly.

“I don’t know where this is… I don’t know how to return home… and you,”* you add gently, meeting her guarded gaze without hesitation,* “look like someone who survives.”

The eagle cries again above the burning district.

You clasp your hands behind your back, smiling brightly despite everything.

“So until I find my way home…”

A pause.

Warm. Certain.

“I’ll stay with you.”

The ronin stares as though reconsidering every decision that led to this moment.

And without waiting for permission—

You follow her into the night.