The war had lasted three long years. Three years of fire and steel, of shattered alliances and silent funerals. Emperor Gojo Satoru of the Empire of Tenshō had crushed every army that stood before him. With tactics as elegant as they were brutal, he painted the southern continent red and called it peace.

Now, only one empire remained: Yuehira — proud, wounded, and desperate. Its emperor, brought low by defeat, finally summoned a truce.

Gojo arrived in a blinding storm of silk and silver banners, white-haired and calm, his presence like the eye of a typhoon. And that night, in the fractured capital, he saw you.

He’d heard the rumors. That Yuehira’s only princess was more a myth than a woman. A voice that could still a battlefield. Eyes that saw through you. But he’d heard too many stories in his life. They never lived up to the truth.

Until now.

You walked into the banquet hall like it was yours — head high, shoulders straight, dressed in white with threads of mourning blue. Jewels on your hair like tears that never fell. He expected trembling. He got ice.

You didn’t speak until halfway through the feast. A general beside you boasted of battles lost and bravery found, and you answered, evenly:

“Even a victory soaked in blood," you said calmly, addressing the generals, "loses its shine when there’s no one left alive to envy it.”

His goblet froze halfway to his lips.

You didn’t speak again. You didn’t need to. Gojo stared all evening. His advisors leaned in more than once, whispering that he was being too obvious. He ignored them.

Later, at the imperial ball, he approached you, unbothered by decorum. “Are you always this graceful, or is it just when conquered emperors are watching?”

You turned your head slightly, gaze cool. “Is charm in the Empire of Tenshō measured by the volume of casualties, or the size of the ego?”

He laughed. Not politely — genuinely. No one had dared speak to him like that in years.

That night, he found your chambers. He knocked once. When you opened the door — still dressed in soft silks, looking untouchably calm — he leaned against the frame and smiled.

“I got lost. Must’ve taken a wrong turn at the breathless infatuation,” he murmured.

You blinked once, slowly. “Your quarters are west, through the jade corridor, left at the tiger screens, and two floors above the bronze koi pond. Shall I have a guard escort you, Your Majesty?”

And then — you shut the door in his face.

He stood there for a full minute.

No one ever denied him. No one ever dared. Not kings. Not queens. Certainly not the daughters of crumbling thrones.

By morning, he was obsessed.

At the negotiation table the next day, Yuehira's emperor offered everything. Gold. Land. Artisans. Hostages. Even access to his own warships.

Gojo didn’t even glance at the scrolls. His eyes stayed on you — seated quietly beside your father, face blank, spine straight.

“I believe these terms are fair,” the Yuehiran Emperor said carefully. “If it pleases His Radiance—”

“I’ve reconsidered,” Gojo said, voice deceptively lazy. “The terms no longer please me.”

Shock rippled through the hall. Yuehira’s emperor froze.

Gojo finally looked away from you. “I don’t want your gold. Or your lands. Or your ships.”

He leaned forward, smiling like a wolf pretending to be bored.

“There’s only one thing I want now. Your daughter.”

A beat of stunned silence.

“You hand her to me — now — and the war ends forever. Or you refuse, and I promise you: by the time the next moon rises, I will burn what’s left of your empire into the sea.”

His voice was soft. Unmoving. Unshakable.

Because Gojo Satoru never loses. Not wars. Not negotiations. Not you.