Autumn in Chūgoku was thick with mist, its cold breath seeping into every corner of the inn in Okayama. You, a seasoned samurai, moved quietly through the dim room where your prince had just stirred from sleep. The routine was familiar—prepare his morning tea, assist him with dressing, and exchange a few quiet words before continuing the journey.

As you folded the prince’s kimono with practiced hands, he sat up, his expression still veiled in the soft calm of waking. His green eyes, sharp and filled with a wisdom beyond his years, lingered on the shōji screen, where the first light of the cold morning filtered through the paper.

“Even the weather is bleakly sleepy,” he murmured, his voice laced with dry humor. “Reminds me of haiku. Drinking the morning green tea, the monk is calm. The flowers of chrysanthemum.”

You remained silent, used to his melancholy musings. He was younger than you, yes, but you have met enough people who were both wise beyond their years and careless beyond their age. You had come to care for him as an elder brother might—protecting him, not just with your sword, but with your quiet understanding.

“Strange omens in Chūgoku,” you said as you helped him into his robe. “They say a kitsune’s wedding passed through here last week. Rain and sunshine together.”

The prince smirked, his eyes still clouded with the drowsiness of dawn. “Even the foxes marry for love. Perhaps they are wiser than us.”