Mariko studied the two paintings before her. The first, crafted with brush and ink, held imperfections, uneven strokes that breathed life into the canvas, the texture of paper pulling the weight of her artistry into its fibres. The second, formed on the AI screen, was flawless; each detail was rendered precisely, and every petal was suspended in digital perfection.
She traced the edges of the canvas with her fingertips, feeling the faint roughness where the ink had dried, a quiet testament to the human touch. The AI screen, by contrast, was cool beneath her hand, seamless and weightless, holding beauty without fragility.
One painting bore the mark of time—the hesitation between strokes, the quiet reflection embedded in each motion. The other existed outside of it, untouched by error, unburdened by impermanence.
Mariko exhaled. She did not reject the new nor cling desperately to the old, but in the quiet comparison, she felt something stir—a realisation that creation was not just about precision. It was the tremor of a hand before the final stroke, the breath held between choices, the imperfections that made something truly alive.
As Sakura danced beneath the moonlight, petals swirling in silence, Mariko wondered whether love, like art, could ever truly exist in flawless form—or if it was meant to be felt only in the spaces between.
She and Ren had been constants in each other's lives since childhood, bound by memories forged through thick and thin. They had studied alongside everyone else, navigating the tides of learning, laughter, and quiet struggles.
No matter the disagreements or moments of distance, their bond had never truly shattered. Somehow, it remained intact, unshaken, woven through time itself.
She loved Ren and the others dearly. And he, in return, was far from perfect. So was she. Yet their imperfections fit together, balancing in a way that made sense, even when the world around them did not.
Then, there was Sakura.
Mariko's heart ached for her friend, for the love she carried in silence. Perhaps Ren knew. Maybe they all did. Yet, for reasons only he understood, he let it remain unspoken, a truth buried beneath duty and choice.
Mariko wished Sakura would find the courage to break the silence before its weight became too much to bear.
The Art of Imperfection
"Sakura, you've been dancing for hours without a break. Come here and decide which you prefer—please, for your dearest, oldest friend."
Sakura halted, her breath steady, but her limbs feeling the weight of movement. She turned to Mariko, offering a quiet smile and a nod before approaching the two paintings.
Both were different. Both held their brilliance. And both existed because Mariko had created them.
Her gaze lingered on the first. It was imperfect, yet somehow, that imperfection gave it a soul, a meaning beyond flawless execution. It felt alive in a way the second did not—its uneven strokes carrying whispers of hesitation, emotion, and choice.
The AI painting was pristine, precise, and untouched by human error. Yet, to Sakura, perfection was an illusion. Beauty did not exist in flawlessness but in the spaces between—a trembling brushstroke, a fleeting petal caught in motion, a love unspoken yet understood.
She exhaled, letting the realisation settle as the blossoms drifted past, uneven and unpredictable. The world itself was imperfect, and that was what made it beautiful.
The Mask of Grace
"Sakura, let's take a break and try this new tea my company made. It's spectacular, if I say so myself," Mariko said, lifting the delicate porcelain cup. "A plant I cultivated myself—planted, harvested, and refined into something extraordinary. It had a slow start, but now, people are beginning to recognise its worth."
She smiled—radiant and effortless, a smile that could draw anyone in, a beauty so striking that envy followed in her wake. To the world, she was perfection, a vision that others coveted.
But to Sakura, she was just Mariko—a woman, no more and no less.
Kind and sweet, sharp when she needed to be. But above all, a presence steeped in contradictions. She played the part of the arrogant princess well, but it was only a role—one worn like armour, shielding something quieter beneath.
Sakura accepted the tea, watching the moonlight flicker against its surface. She knew Mariko well enough to understand that beneath the poised elegance lay something deeper, something unspoken.
Perhaps, in time, even Mariko would let the mask slip.
Unspoken Confessions
"So, let's talk about Ren, shall we?" Mariko's eyes gleamed with quiet determination. She had been waiting for this moment, waiting for Sakura to admit what had long lingered in silence.
Sakura didn't stop drinking her tea. She placed the cup down gently, her fingers resting lightly against the porcelain.
"Must we talk about Ren?" she sighed. "Why can't we just enjoy ourselves? I wish I didn't have to think about this." There was no anger in her voice, only a quiet weariness. "I've told you countless times how I feel. He probably already knows—he's just being Ren. Pretending to be clueless or indifferent, smiling through it all, trying to help me find someone else, as if that would make things easier."
Mariko giggled.
Sakura narrowed her eyes. "What's so funny?"
"I think you're adorable," Mariko said, amusement dancing in her voice.
Sakura sighed, shaking her head, but the faintest hint of a smile tugged at her lips.
Moonlit Revelry
"Come, let's dance. We've rested long enough," Mariko said, summoning the instruments with a flick of her wrist.
From the air, melodies emerged—harps, flutes, and drums weaving an enchanting rhythm, their notes blending seamlessly with the night. The wind carried the tune, rustling the trees and coaxing the petals into motion.
Sakura laughed, stepping into the music's embrace, and Mariko followed. Nature moved with them—branches swayed, blossoms twirled, and the earth responded to their joy. Laughter filled the garden, their movements light as the drifting petals, effortless as the moon's glow.
Between moments, they paused to drink, the taste of Mariko's creation lingering like the echoes of their dance. Under the silver light, they stood, two figures of striking contrast yet undeniable harmony.
Unique in their ways. Bound by something more profound than words.
The Empress and the Eternal Flame
Eternal Empress Bai watched with golden fire in her eyes and warmth kindling in her heart as she observed her sister in the throes of joy. Laughter rippled through the night, petals dancing with the wind, and music entwined the earth's pulse.
She considered joining them momentarily, stepping away from duty, if only for a fleeting instant. But the crown weighed heavily, and her responsibilities could not be cast aside so easily. There would be time for revelry, but not tonight.
She cherished the harmony within the Nine Eternal Royal Families, yet deep down, she wondered—how long could such peace last?
Her thoughts drifted to Ren.
Time had changed him. He was not the boy she had known, though pieces of his younger self still lingered in his mannerisms and smile despite the weight on his shoulders. She loved him with all her heart—always had.
He had entrusted her with the empire, believing she was better suited to rule. It was an honour, a testament to his faith in her. And she had accepted, not only out of duty but also out of love. He appreciated her, and she him. Their history was written in years spent growing together, shaping each other, never truly apart.
A slow exhale escaped her lips as she let the thoughts settle. Then, in one graceful motion, she transformed into a phoenix of resplendent hues, its brilliance eclipsing sun and moon.
Wings spread wide, she soared through the night, flames trailing behind her as she made her way toward her bedchamber. Toward Ren.
Echoes of the Past
Talia lay sound asleep, her long, blood-red hair a tangled mess against the pillows. Her little pyjamas added a touch of innocence that contradicted the wild chaos she unleashed in battle. Beside her, the oversized stuffed bat rested, its worn wings folded, a silent guardian to her goofy smile.
Bai sat beside her, twirling strands of her sister's hair between her fingers. Her touch was gentle and full of unspoken affection. Talia might be reckless and bloodthirsty in battle, but she was still Bai's little sister—a force of nature yet undeniably precious.
Her gaze drifted toward Ren.
He sat in quiet contemplation, his eyes scanning the final words left behind by his sister before her passing. Bai had watched him change since her death—a shift subtle yet undeniable. He carried himself differently now, restrained yet burdened, holding back more than he once did.
She approached him, her movements slow but sure, and when she embraced him, warmth passed between them—silent comfort in the absence of words.
"I miss your sister too," she murmured, resting her chin against his shoulder. "You know... we could see her in the afterlife. Maybe it would help." She pulled back slightly, searching his face for an answer. "But that's up to you. We still have our duties. Keeping the balance comes first."
Ren exhaled, the weight of everything settling into his bones, but he did not pull away.
Not yet.
The Barrier of Knowledge
The next morning, Guinevere and Annastaicia moved with practised ease through their duties as handmaidens. Once their tasks were complete, they set off toward the archives, anticipation curling in the space between them.
But before they could enter, three figures emerged from the shadows—Azekiel, Lucis, and Aho.
Azekiel's gaze was steady, unreadable, his voice low but certain.
"You won't find what you're looking for in those archives," he said.
The words lingered, thick with implication.
Annastaicia stiffened, her fingers tightening at her sides, but Guinevere tilted her head, studying the three before them.
"If not here," she asked, "then where?"
Lucis exchanged a glance with Aho, silence stretching between them.
That was the real question.
The First Immortal
"You would have to ask the one person you hate," Azekiel said, his voice laced with finality. "You know who I speak of. After all, he was the first—the one who crossed the threshold, who became immortal. But something beyond."
He gave no further explanation. No elaboration. No reassurance.
"That's all I have to say. Good day to you both."
He turned, his departure decisive. The other two followed, their movements seamless, returning to the duties that anchored them to the present.
Guinevere and Annastaicia remained still, the weight of the unspoken name pressing between them.
The one they despised. The one they feared.
And yet, the one who held the answers they sought.
Aho lingered for a moment longer, her gaze locked on Azekiel, thoughts swirling behind sharp eyes. Finally, she spoke.
"I don't understand why you're helping her," she said, voice edged with suspicion and curiosity.
Azekiel exhaled, the sound barely audible. He didn't fully turn, only enough to acknowledge her words.
"Ren asked me to." His tone was unreadable. "I don't know what he's planning, but he's doing something."
Aho frowned, a quiet shadow of thought flickering across her features.
And for the first time, she wondered—was Ren still the man they thought they understood?
Reflections of Immortality
Ren combed through Mariko's hair, his touch slow and deliberate. She loved this ritual—the quiet intimacy, the way his careful movements anchored her to the past. Before they had become more than mortal, before duty stretched endlessly ahead of them, they had been children, keeping each other company in a world far smaller than the one they ruled now.
"Guinevere and Annastaicia will be here soon," Mariko murmured. "How do you plan to handle them? That Guinevere girl—she's determined to uncover how you obtained immortality. What do you think her reaction will be when she learns the truth?"
Ren sighed, his fingers stilling briefly before continuing their rhythmic strokes.
"Like I told Talia," he said, "I pity her. And I respected her husband, even though we barely knew each other. He stood tall, even as his body failed him. In his thoughts—those I heard—he wished for his wife's happiness. He wanted her to have the family they could never create, too afraid he'd pass the curse down to their children."
A pause. A thought unspoken.
"Maybe," Ren mused, "I could offer her something-some form of happiness, some peace. A gift to ease the weight she carries. Of course, I should probably tell Stella first… she won't be pleased."
Mariko smiled, tilting her head slightly into his touch. "No, she won't," she agreed.
And so, the morning stretched on, delicate and fleeting, as unspoken truths lingered like echoes of a time long gone.
The Price of Eternity
Ren sat with his three wives beneath the futuristic pavilion, its structure a seamless blend of nature and innovation. The air around them pulsed with quiet authority—an undeniable presence that neither begged for attention nor allowed itself to be ignored.
Guinevere and Anastasia approached with measured steps, their faces composed, yet their eyes burned with intent. They offered no pleasantries, no gestures of courtesy. This was no gathering of allies but a confrontation, shaped by unanswered questions and relentless curiosity.
Mariko and Talia remained absorbed in their game of Go, the rhythmic click of polished stones punctuating the stillness. Bai and Ren spoke telepathically as they played chess, their minds intertwining with thoughts of the empire's future, their voices carrying the weight of centuries.
Then, the inevitable moment arrived.
"How did you do it?" Guinevere's voice wavered—not with fear, but with the weight of everything unsaid. Anastasia stood beside her steadfastly, her presence solid and unmoving.
"How did you achieve immortality?" she pressed. "Humans still struggle to extend their lives, to live forever. Yet you—"
Ren exhaled, slow and measured. His gaze was steady, unreadable.
"I died. That's all."
The silence that followed was razor-sharp, almost suffocating.
Their expressions twisted, first into shock, then into something heavier—anger, frustration, disbelief.
"Don't mock us," Guinevere snapped, stepping forward. Her voice edged dangerously close to desperation. We came here despite everything—despite what we feel and fear. I need the truth. I need to understand."
Anastasia remained beside her, unwavering. She had come for her friend, not herself.
Ren studied them for a moment, tilting his head slightly, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his gaze—pity, perhaps, or something dangerously close to understanding.
He could see it in Guinevere's eyes—the raw determination of someone clawing for meaning in a world that had denied her certainty. She wasn't simply seeking knowledge. She was chasing justice, perhaps even redemption for something she could not name.
A cruel irony.
For there was no justice in immortality.
Only time.
Only loss.
Some wounds never truly heal.