The chamber smelled of ink, sandalwood, and late-blooming wisteria. Its paper screens filtered sunlight into thin ribbons, painting the tatami mats in soft gold. Outside, the faint call of a cuckoo echoed across the palace gardens, reminding all who listened that the season had turned, and with it, the fortunes of the Fire Court might shift as subtly as the wind through bamboo.
Lady Kaede, first consort of the Fire Daimyō and daughter of the venerable House Fujiwara, sat upright upon a cushion of indigo silk. Her posture was impeccable, every line of her body composed, deliberate, regal. She held her infant daughter against her chest, wrapped in layers of white silk embroidered with pale blue lotuses. The baby's hair, still downy, shimmered in shades of midnight, and when her eyes opened briefly, they revealed a startling, icy blue—unmistakably the mark of the Imperial line.
Around them, three handmaidens stood at attention, their hands folded neatly before them, their gazes respectfully lowered. Yet their silence was not empty; it pulsed with anticipation. They knew what was to come. Today, the child would be named.
Kaede let the silence stretch. She liked the weight of it, the way it pressed against the room like the calm before a storm. Her gaze never left the tiny face of her daughter.
"So small," she murmured, though her tone carried none of the softness a doting mother might use. "So small, and yet, you are already a piece upon the board."
The child shifted, a tiny sound escaping her lips—half-cry, half-breath. One of the maids flinched, as though she feared her mistress would strike the baby for daring to disturb the stillness. But Kaede merely smiled, faint and controlled.
"She is beautiful, my lady," whispered the eldest maid. Her voice trembled, yet admiration shone in it. "As radiant as the morning star."
"Indeed," another maid added quickly, eager to please. "Her hair… her eyes… the very image of the Imperial line. She will be revered."
Kaede's lilac eyes slid toward them, sharp as a blade. The maids lowered their heads even further. Compliments were expected, but overstepping could be fatal in this palace.
"She will be more than revered," Kaede said at last. Her voice was low, but it carried the weight of iron. "She will be feared. She will be envied. She will be untouchable."
Her hand drifted to the low lacquered table before her, where a sheet of parchment lay unmarked. Beside it rested a brush, its sable hairs ready to drink ink and give it form. Naming was not simply a ritual here. It was an act of creation, of power. In the Fire Court, names were chosen with precision, for a name could become prophecy, binding a life to a destiny.
Kaede dipped the brush into the inkstone, her movements slow and deliberate. She thought of her lineage—the Fujiwara, keepers of knowledge, masters of scholarship, manipulators of history itself. Her family's motto echoed in her mind: "A word lasts longer than a sword."
Yes. Words were her weapons. And now, she would forge the sharpest of them.
The brush hovered over the parchment. The silence deepened. Even the cuckoo outside seemed to hush.
"Hayami," Kaede intoned, her voice steady as she painted the first bold stroke. "Rare beauty."
The syllables slid into the room like a blade leaving its sheath. The brush danced, forming elegant characters upon the page, black ink blooming into permanence.
"Hayami," she repeated, this time softer, as though testing the weight of the name against the child's face. "It suits her."
The baby stirred again, her lips parting, her tiny fist curling. Almost as if she had heard and accepted the name.
The maids exchanged fleeting glances, their expressions carefully schooled into awe.
"A divine choice, my lady," said the eldest maid.
"Truly fitting," whispered another.
"Rare beauty, born of noble blood."
Their words were honeyed, but Kaede heard the undercurrent. Rare beauty. Beauty was fragile. Fleeting. A flower to be admired, plucked, and discarded. Kaede's lips curved into a faint, cold smile.
"No," she corrected them, her gaze never leaving her daughter's face. "Beauty alone is weakness. It is bait. My daughter will wield her beauty as a weapon, not as a chain. She will not be a flower for others to admire. She will be the vine that strangles the tree."
Her words hung heavy in the air. The maids shivered, though they dared not show it.
Kaede lifted the parchment, studying the inked characters. Hayami. A name of elegance, of allure. But beneath it, a promise of danger. She imagined the Court whispering it in the years to come, some with reverence, others with envy, all with caution.
She looked down at her child once more. "Remember this, daughter of mine. You were not born to be ordinary. You were not born to be kind. You were born to climb, to outwit, to endure. And if I must carve cruelty into your bones to ensure your survival, then so be it."
The infant's blue eyes blinked open, unfocused yet piercing in their coldness. For an instant, Kaede saw not a helpless babe, but a spark of something deeper, something watchful.
Unbeknownst to her, within that fragile body, Mikela—the soul reborn—listened. The words, the name, the weight of destiny pressing down upon her. Hayami. Her new name. Her new mask.
She did not cry.
The sound of footsteps broke the stillness long before the doors opened. Not the clumsy rhythm of servants, nor the hurried patter of nervous attendants—these were deliberate, weighted steps. Each one seemed to echo off the cedar beams of the palace corridor, measured as the tolling of a temple bell.
The three maids in the chamber stiffened at once. Heads bowed, spines bent, they retreated to the farthest corner of the room, as though the air itself had grown dangerous to breathe.
Kaede remained seated, her posture perfect, her daughter swaddled in her arms. Only her lilac eyes shifted, turning toward the gilded doors at the far end of the chamber. Her expression was serene, but inside, her thoughts sharpened like a thousand blades.
The doors slid open.
And there he was.
The Fire Daimyō—her husband.
He wore robes of deep crimson embroidered with golden flames, their hems brushing the polished floor. His hair, black as lacquer, was drawn back into a high knot fastened with jade. His face seemed almost too round, too gentle, as though carved to inspire trust. His lips curled into an affable smile, one that suggested a man of indulgence, a ruler content to drink fine sake while his ministers guided the nation.
But Kaede knew better.
Those eyes—dark, sharp, unblinking—missed nothing. Behind the mask of foolish ease lurked the predator that had kept the throne of Fire secure against rivals, assassins, and the endless schemes of the Court.
"My lord husband," Kaede said, lowering herself into a bow, her every movement a calculated display of respect and elegance.
"Kaede," the Daimyō replied warmly, as though greeting a cherished companion. His voice filled the chamber, smooth, almost playful. He stepped inside, and the air seemed to shift around him, heavier yet deceptively calm. "And this…" His gaze fell upon the bundle in her arms. "This must be the child."
Kaede rose gracefully, holding the infant toward him—not offering, not relinquishing, but presenting. "Our daughter," she said. "I have named her Hayami."
The Daimyō's smile deepened, but it was not his mouth that spoke—it was his eyes. They flicked to the baby's hair, that unmistakable shade of midnight blue. Then to her eyes, wide and cold as ice water, mirrors of his own. Approval glimmered there, subtle, fleeting.
"Hayami," he repeated, rolling the syllables on his tongue. He stepped closer, studying the child as though appraising a rare jewel. "Rare beauty indeed. A fine choice."
Behind them, the maids murmured their praises in hushed tones, carefully measured so as not to intrude yet not to remain silent.
"The Daimyō approves…"
"How fortunate… how blessed…"
Kaede inclined her head demurely, though triumph coiled in her chest. His approval was not lightly given, and in the ruthless hierarchy of the Fire Court, such acknowledgment was everything. It secured her daughter's legitimacy, elevated her above the children of the lesser consorts, and silenced the whispers that had already begun to fester in the halls.
Still, Kaede knew approval was not affection. Her husband's smile was not the smile of a doting father, but of a man pleased with the strength of his bloodline. He cared little for the child herself—he cared for what she represented. That suited Kaede perfectly. Affection was fleeting. Ambition was eternal.
"Her features," the Daimyō said after a long pause. "They echo mine."
"They echo us," Kaede corrected gently, her voice a silk sheath around steel. "The Imperial line is strong in her. The Court will see it, and they will know. Already the other consorts watch with envy. Let them. Their children lack the mark of legitimacy."
The Daimyō chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that could have been mistaken for mirth. To anyone else, it would have seemed harmless, almost indulgent. To Kaede, it was the sound of a blade sliding halfway from its scabbard.
"Sharp as ever," he said. "Yes… you were born a Fujiwara indeed."
"And I will die a Fujiwara," she replied, her gaze unwavering, "but not before ensuring our line ascends above all others."
Their eyes locked, and for a heartbeat the masks slipped—theirs was not the exchange of husband and wife, but of two predators circling, testing, acknowledging.
Finally, the Daimyō broke the silence. He seated himself upon the dais, his crimson sleeves pooling around him like spilled wine. "Speaking of ascendancy," he said lightly, "the First Prince departs within the month."
Kaede's grip tightened imperceptibly on the infant in her arms. "Departs?"
"Yes," the Daimyō said, his smile widening. "It is time he trained beyond these walls. He will go to the Land of Earth."
The words struck the chamber like a thunderclap. Even the maids' breathing faltered. To send a child—an heir—into the territory of one of the Great Nations was no trivial matter. The Land of Earth, ruled by the proud and stubborn Tsuchikage, was no friend to Fire.
Kaede's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "He is but nine."
"Old enough to learn," her husband replied. "Young enough to be molded. A boy cannot become a man within silk walls. He must see the world as it is—hard, unyielding, dangerous. If he is to inherit, he must be tempered by fire and stone, not coddled by luxury."
Kaede's mind raced, but her face remained serene. So. A test. You would sharpen him on foreign whetstones. If he returns strong, he will be favored. If he falters, then… Hayami rises.
Her eyes dropped to her daughter, sleeping now in her arms, oblivious—or perhaps not—to the schemes that already swirled around her.
"My lord husband," Kaede said, her voice smooth as silk. "If this is your will, then so it shall be. But know this—should harm befall him under another nation's watch, the blood spilled will not only be his."
The Daimyō's smile thinned, sharpened, became something dangerous. For an instant, the fool's mask slipped entirely, and the true man looked back at her—a man who ruled not through bluster but through ruthlessness masked as gentility.
"I would expect no less from you, Kaede," he said softly.
In her arms, Hayami stirred. And though she could not fully comprehend the words, Mikela's mind within her infant body caught fragments. Daimyō. First Prince. Land of Earth. The pieces began to fall into place, slow and jagged.
Could it be?
Her heart, though small and new, seemed to race.
This world… this life… could it truly be the world I once watched through a screen?
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