.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.
The air in the Kamo estate's main hall was all polite conversation, unspoken threat, and expensive incense.
Voices braided together, attendants slid through the crowd with trays, distributing steaming sakazuki of saké as if alcohol could smooth out a centuries-old blood feud. It was almost convincing.
Seijiro leaned lazily against one of the wooden pillars supporting the roof, arms crossed in the way only a man with nothing to lose could afford; except he had everything to lose, and he knew it. His purple kamishimo bore the Gojo mon in silver thread, and he had even tamed his silver hair slightly neater than he liked, which meant his father had looked at him once this morning and Seijiro could swear he had never seen Akiteru Gojo being that surprised in his son attitude.
Outwardly, he gave the room what it wanted: detachment, occasional polite nods, a warning smile aimed at anyone bold enough to approach him.
Inside, he wanted to scream, take the incense burners and throw them at the ceiling until everyone stopped pretending.
Same estate; same suffocating walls; same stage where he'd been accused of a crime he didn't commit, where Takahiro Zenin had smiled while walking away with the Mitsuboshi no Yari. And now the country had the audacity to gather here for "diplomacy," as if diplomacy wasn't just another form of violence.
His Six Eyes did what they always did when he was bored: they catalogued.
The Kamo first, the hosts, neutral enough to be trusted and irritating, powerful and polite. Kōga, the Gojo clan shinobi branch, watchful from nowhere to be seen. People underestimated them because they didn't talk much, which was exactly why they survived. The Maeda, in courtly layers, speaking softly, standing too close to the Kamo patriarch.
And—
Oh. There.
Is that... Maeda Keiji?
A tall man in layers of crimson embroidered with sakura blossoms, entirely inappropriate for a council gathering that claimed to be of national consequence. Several vibrant feathers were braided into his chestnut hair, tied in a messy high tail like he'd dressed for a festival and wandered into geopolitics by mistake.
Adopted nephew of Maeda Toshiie, the regent had mentioned he'd attend. Seijiro had imagined a veteran, disciplined, someone who understood the word council meant do not start wars with your mouth. Instead Keiji was currently flirting with an attendant. Not even discreetly or politely.
He was leaning on the poor man's tray with the casual intimacy of a lover; the attendant looked like he wanted to die.
Seijiro's Six Eyes confirmed, almost reluctantly, what the eyes of every sober person already suspected: Keiji's cursed energy was excellent and unstable in the way of a gifted idiot. Keiji's gaze drifted, found Seijiro, and brightened like a child. He waved; ot a "we are allies in this complicated era" wave. A full-body wave, complete with a grin so wide it should have been illegal.
Seijiro stared at him for a flat second, arched an eyebrow and turned away as if Keiji Maeda had simply ceased to exist.
A tragedy, really. What a waste.
His gaze slid back to the real problem: his father.
Akiteru Gojo stood a short distance away, with a formal white haori. He was smiling: the worst part, truly. Seijiro had seen his father slit a man's throat without flicker, and now he was laughing softly at something the old Kamo patriarch murmured, as if they were old friends reminiscing the long gone days.
Seijiro felt an irrational desire to launch himself out. What a joke. Your smile is too wide, Chichiue.
The Kamo patriarch nodded along, serene as a shrine statue, while a woman hovered nearby with the grace of a political weapon. They were both pressing in with the sweet, suffocating insistence of "misunderstandingsfrom six months ago" as if Seijiro's reputation could be stitched back together with a marriage proposal and a polite bow.
Of course his father played along, because the Kamo's favor mattered and because their shared territory in Kyoto mattered.
Seijiro's jaw tightened. Plotting. They're definitely plotting.
Somewhere in the hall, an attendant giggled and Seijiro turned just in time to see again Keiji pivot, with effortless shamelessness, into flirting with a young woman wearing Kamo colors. She looked startled; then dangerously entertained.
Seijiro closed his eyes for half a heartbeat. We are so doomed.
And what of Rensuke? His supposed "shadow" had vanished shortly after their arrival. "I'll secure a vantage point, Seijiro-sama," he had murmured with a perfectly flat expression.
Which for him translated to: Napping in some hidden alcove.
Smart man.
Rensuke was the one person he'd entrust with his life without hesitation, but the man had an infuriating habit of vanishing whenever Seijiro found himself in the midst of socially suffocating situations. Shadow or not, loyalty had its limits.
And then, unbidden, a name surfaced in his mind unbidden, or maybe not so unbidden: Kaoru Zenin. He'd been thinking about the heir of the Zenin clan far more than he cared to admit in the days leading up to the council.
Pretty boy, he thought bitterly. You'd better show up, strutting around like you own the place, just like always.
Of course the Zenin clan wouldn't pass up the council, especially with the Three Star Spear now housed beneath Edo Castle. But still, he wondered.
Seijiro shifted uncomfortably, rolling his shoulders as if to shake off the thought. He wasn't worried, not exactly. Really. Just... curious. No heir of a major sorcerer clan disappears for months without no one noticing. That was all.
Right?
He drummed his fingers absently against his sleeve, when his father's voice snapped him into focus.
"Seijiro."
Seijiro sighed inwardly, shifting to a tight-lipped smile. Here it comes.
"This is Matsue-dono, niece of Kamo-dono." Akiteru gestured with ease toward the woman, who barely lifted her gaze from the floor.
"Matsue-dono has heard much about you," the Kamo patriarch added, with too forced pride. "A match between our families would greatly strengthen the bonds of our clans."
Seijiro's smile froze in place. Marriage? That's your plan, Chichiue? Really? He forced his lips into a crooked grin, inclining his head politely toward Matsue. "An honor," he lied smoothly. It wasn't her fault, of course, but still. He composed himself into a smile that didn't reach his soul, and braced for another round of social suffocation—
When it happened. The moment he hadn't realized he'd been waiting for.
Just as the Kamo head leaned forward, clearly preparing to elaborate on the finer points of this potential alliance, his eyes snapped to the entrance, instinct overriding decorum. A shift in cursed energy, a ripple in the room's attention.
The delegation from the central provinces entered like a military procession, with measured steps, silence, and the kind of presence that made people remember their manners and their grudges.
At the front, Takahiro Zenin, broad shoulders, commanding, black haori marked in a gold mon in the visual embodiment of ambition.
Flanking him: the Hattori with their clan head, Masanari Hattori, who looked like he'd been forced onto formal robes at knifepoint, wearing an expression suggested he'd rather be stabbed than make small talk, which, Seijiro had to admit, was relatable.
But Seijiro barely noticed them all.
All his attention was drawn to the figure walking a step behind Takahiro, just offset enough to be seen and just controlled enough to pretend she wasn't the center of the room—
Kaoru Zenin.
Seijiro's breath caught so fast it almost felt like an attack and for a heartbeat, the world pulled into a tight, stupid point of focus.
Half a year after Iga, Kaoru was alive and unchanged—or was she?
Still the same pride and arrogance clinging to her and to her black kamishimo with the Zenin mon embroidered but now, now it was weaponized. Deliberate. Hair swept back into a partial updo, face too serene for the chaos that was her clan.
Resilience. That was it. The heir who had risked everything to avoid a war hadn't disappeared under Takahiro Zenin's wrath. He hated how much he respected that.
Kaoru Zenin was alive. Strong. Unyielding. It shouldn't have mattered, but it did.
A fact that, for reasons he refused to analyze, stirred an irrational spark of relief within him.
But then she hesitated. It was a barely perceptible hitch in her stride, a pause so slight that most would have missed it. As if sensing the weight of his gaze, her eyes flickered toward him.
Seijiro inhaled sharply, and in that moment standing before him wasn't the heir of the Zenin clan but the figure from six months ago, the one who had stood in the rain. For what? Came again the same damning question.
Kaoru's eyes held his for a heartbeat too long, lips parted slightly, as though she might speak. Then her expression hardened, mask snapping into place, and her gaze slid away as if he didn't exist.
Seijiro's smirk returned on instinct, a reflexive shield. Really, Pretty Boy? Not even a proper scowl?
"Seijiro." His father's voice broke through his thoughts, pulling him back to the cloying presence of the Kamo patriarch and the unfortunate Matsue-dono.
Their earlier scheming about his supposed future seemed suddenly absurd. Marriage negotiations? As if he could focus on anything else now. The urge to leave became unbearable. The very thought of enduring another second at Akiteru's side while the Zenin heir moved freely through the hall filled him with impatience.
Without bothering to mask it, Seijiro excused himself from the trio with a curt nod. "I'll take my leave," he said smoothly, before he turned on his heel and began weaving through the crowd, his eyes fixed on Kaoru's retreating figure.
For the first time in months, something about the air felt authenthic.
The hall exhaled in cautious curiosity. People noticed; people always noticed. Because this was the Zenin heir who had been "nearly assassinated" six months ago, by Seijiro Gojo, according to the bedtime story everyone had been fed.
And the same Gojo heir who'd been dragged through mud and smiled about it was currently chasing the Zenin heir inside the Kamo estate main hall.
Someone near the back whispered too loudly: "Is ... here where it happens again?" As if blood feuds were stage plays.
Across the hall, Kaoru's mind was anything but compose.
She had prepared for this moment, she had steeled herself for the scrutinizing gazes, the feigned civility, the admiration laced with envy. Of course she had know Seijiro would be there, he thrived on spectacle, and this council promised plenty of it.
Kaoru had rehearsed every possible interaction, every exchange that might unfold, during their long traveling days from Nagoya-go.
She was ready.
But she hadn't anticipated seeing him so soon.
Her steps didn't falter, her lips curved into the smallest, most professional of smiles as she acknowledged the bows and nods directed her way. And yet, she couldn't stop her eyes from darting toward him again.
What the hell is that look? Kaoru thought, suppressing the flicker of smile that threatened to break her composure. It's not like I was dead. Though, considering her actions the last time they'd met, it wasn't an entirely unreasonable assumption.
She forced her gaze forward. She was not a flustered child. She was a weapon, a symbol, a—
A Zenin.
And Seijiro Gojo was not going to make her forget that in the first two minutes of a council convened to prevent the country from ripping itself apart.
Masanari, walking near Kaoru with the graceless bulk of a man who'd spent more time in armor than in courtly attire, glanced sidelong at Seijiro and spoke without bothering to lower his voice enough to qualify as polite. "Oh, look," he said. "The Gojo dog is already wagging his tail." There was no real heat in it, only the bored cruelty of a man who'd already decided the world was stupid and everyone in it was complicit. He tilted his chin toward Seijiro's path through the crowd. "He seems eager to speak with you, Zenin-sama," he teased her. "Still does, if I'm not mistaken."
Kaoru didn't dignify it with a look but her jaw tightened anyway. What an absurd joke, that Masanari Hattori was at her shoulder as a Zenin ally, playing loyal retainer after trying to kill her twice on her father's orders; but appearances mattered and the Zenin thrived on appearances. So here they were, a neat little painting: the heir, the clan head, the ally at her side, the story clean and simple for the public, a story that just happened to include Seijiro Gojo attempting to assassinate her six months ago.
And Seijiro Gojo was currently doing his best to make it look true.
Masanari's mouth twitched. "Quite determined, isn't he?"
Kaoru risked the smallest glance over her shoulder...
It was a mistake: that was an ambush.
Seijiro was weaving through the crowd without a care in the world for the wary eyes turning toward him, moving with the arrogance of someone who had never known failure or, if he had, refused to admit it had happened. Polite bows were dodged; conversations were cut in half; attendants flinched out of his way like they'd felt the pressure before his body reached them.
Oh for fuck's—
Kaoru glared at him as a warning. Don't you dare, idiot.
His smirk only widened as if her warning was the only permission he'd ever wanted.
Heat flared under her skin but she kept walking with immaculate dignity anyway, as if the floor itself belonged to her and not the Kamo, and certainly not him.
He can't seriously think this is a good idea. What the hell is he doing? He wouldn't. Would he?
Beside her, Masanari leaned in, voice low, pleased in the most hateful way. "He's coming," he murmured. "Of course he is."
...Of course, he is.
Around them, voices softened, not stopped, they rearranged themselves, pivoting, tilting toward the spectacle. The murmurs became careful, the way they did when a tea ceremony teetered on the edge of becoming a bloodbath; someone on the Kamo side glanced once, too sharply, toward the Zenin and Gojo colors now intersecting in the hall; someone else—a Maeda, maybe—let out a small whistle; a third voice whispered, too loud to be truly private: "Is the Gojo heir trying to kill the Zenin heir again—?"
Great. Here, at the opening of a diplomatic council convened to keep the country from splitting apart, the alleged would-be Gojo assassin was eagerly chasing the alleged Zenin victim through the Kamo hall. Ridiculous didn't begin to cover it.
Kaoru's young cousin, Tatsuhiro, walking just behind her, turned his head to watch Seijiro's approach with wide-eye; to the boy—sweet, naïve, and doomed—the scene probably looked like a story, a bold rival pursuing the composed heir in a display of defiance.
Kaoru suppressed the urge to groan aloud; no, it looked like a catastrophe.
She glanced ahead and caught the rigid line of her father's back; Takahiro moved toward the hall's end, greeting dignitaries with the neutrality of a man who enjoyed holding tantō behind his sleeves, and Kaoru knew her father did, in fact, had two tantō in his belt hidden under the haori, and a third strapped to his calf under the hakama. He looked oblivious; or perhaps uncaring; or worse...
Kaoru knew better.
If Seijiro dared to approach her here, in front of everyone, in front of him, her father would weaponize it before the incense finished burning. A single glance, a single misplaced word, and suddenly the Zenin heir was "compromised," or "provoked," or "unfit," or worse, useful in a new way.
She couldn't allow that.
Kaoru risked one last look over her shoulder, and this time she did not merely glare. Do. Not.
It was the kind of look that would have frozen most men where they stood but Seijiro Gojo wasn't most men; if anything, his pace remained steady.
Masanari gave a sound between a snort and a sigh. "Unbelievable," he murmured. "Do you know what this looks like from the outside?"
Kaoru's lips didn't move. "Do I want to?"
Masanari didn't care. "It looks like the blood feud is about to reach its climax in the first five minutes of a peace council. Or, I don't know, like you're going to draw a blade and he's going to smile while he does it while the Kamo are about to pretend they never saw."
Kaoru's fingers twitched at her sides. "Lower your voice, Hattori-dono."
Masanari's mouth curved. "Why? They already swallowed the story where Gojo-sama tried to kill you, might as well feed them the sequel. 'Hattori-dono stands politely while the two heirs do something idiotic.'"
Kaoru's pulse kicked harder. Damn fool, she thought, and the words were for Seijiro, for Masanari, for her father, for herself. She tilted her head just enough to catch Harunobu's attention as he moved in perfect silence behind her. "'Nobu," she murmured, smooth and urgent, "stop that fool. Quickly and quietly."
Harunobu's eyes flicked toward the approaching Gojo heir, then back to her; his expression did not change, but his sigh carried the weight of a man realizing the universe had an extremely stupid sense of timing. "As you command, Kaoru-sama," he said, and stepped forward.
Masanari watched Harunobu move, then clicked his tongue softly. "Fascinating," he said, with the bright, petty delight of a man who hated everything. "The dynamic between the young heirs of the Gojo and Zenin clans. One might almost think that—"
"—that it's none of your concern, Hattori-dono," Kaoru interrupted smoothly, not missing a step as she pressed forward, shoulders straight, chin lifting a fraction higher.
You're not running. You're not escaping. You're simply… prioritizing. That was what she told herself as she walked faster.
Behind them, Seijiro navigated the crowd with disregard for decorum until he found himself face-to-face with Harunobu; a wall, if walls came in formal black and carried themselves like they could cut a man in half without wrinkling their sleeves. Harunobu's arms were folded neatly behind his back; his dark ponytail was perfectly tied; his grey eyes were calm in the way of people who had raised a disasters with a noble surname and survived.
Seijiro stopped short, head tilting with a grin that was equal parts charm and mischief, as if he'd stumbled into a pleasant conversation rather than a diplomatic minefield. Harunobu inclined his head slightly in the barest acknowledgment of respect he would ever give the Gojo heir.
"Gojo-sama," Harunobu said flatly. "Not the time."
"Oh, come on," Seijiro drawled in mock innocence, leaning forward a fraction. "I just want to say hello."
Harunobu's jaw tightened as if he'd bitten down on his patience; he shifted—subtly, efficiently—blocking Seijiro's line of sight.
It would've been funny if half the hall wasn't holding its breath to see whether the Gojo heir would draw Zenin blood under a Kamo roof.
Seijiro leaned left. Harunobu mirrored him.
Seijiro leaned right. Harunobu followed still utterly committed to the thankless art of preventing a national incident.
Seijiro's eyes narrowed as he tried to peer past Harunobu again. "You're very committed for someone who isn't even my retainer."
Harunobu's voice remained perfectly level. "I am committed to preventing you from doing something irreparably stupid. The Maeda are taking odds."
Seijiro's grin widened. "Oh, good. I'd hate to disappoint."
That was the infuriating part, for Harunobu; Seijiro had the emotional range of a spoon.Of course he couldn't just stand there and pretend to be civilized for five breaths.
Before he could retort, Seijiro's attention flickered past Harunobu's shoulder, and the subtle shift in his expression was enough to tell Harunobu exactly who he'd spotted.
Takahiro Zenin had reached the dais, expression carved into a comically forced neutrality as he exchanged formalities with the Kamo patriarch. Behind him, Kaoru stood with flawless composure, still as a painted figure on a byōbu, still enough to make everyone forget she had allegedly been "nearly assassinated" by the man currently trying to sneak past her retainer.
She turned slightly, sweeping the room with forced indifference, until her eyes landed on the scene unfolding behind her.
Harunobu countering Seijiro's every move; Seijiro clearly enjoying every second.
The absurdity of it almost drew a smile from her, a real one, but she caught it before it could surface, smoothing her expression back into place.
Problem contained: for now. Or so she thought.
Her relief lasted exactly three heartbeats.
The Kamo patriarch leaned in toward her father with animated gestures that screamed desperation. Kaoru's stomach churned when she saw who hovered behind the elder: a woman in a fine silked Kimono, bowed head, perfect posture, hand jointed before her, a small smile on her painted lips.
Oh, no.
Kaoru already saw the inevitable: a marriage proposal disguised as diplomacy. The Kamo patriarch's need was almost audible, because neutrality was expensive, and the Kamo were always charging interest. She rolled her eyes internally and shifted her focus away from the disturbing scene.
At least her father looked uninterested, for now.
"Yo, pretty boy."
The words came too sudden and far too close to her ear to be civil, and Kaoru's body reacted before her mind could scold it; a sharp intake of breath, a quick step forward, and then she turned, narrowed gaze snapping up.
Seijiro stood there with maddening ease, leaning just slightly into her personal space as if he belonged there, as if he hadn't been accused, imprisoned, and humiliated in the same day.
Damn him.
He looked exactly the same, too much the same. Which, for reasons she refused to examine, mattered entirely too much.
Seijiro straightened, hands slipping casually into his sleeves, and nodded toward the dais. "The Kamo patriarch? He already tried selling his niece off to my father," he murmured conspiratorially, voice low enough to be private and smug enough to still be Seijiro. "No luck there, either. If I were you, I'd spare him the embarrassment."
Kaoru's brows knit; her gaze darted past Seijiro to Harunobu. He stood a few paces away, arms crossed, expression set in resigned irritation; his eyes met hers for half a second, silent, exhausted, honest.
Listen. I tried.
Kaoru clicked her tongue and turned fast on her heel. "Kami help me. Loud. Obnoxious. Inconvenient," she muttered under her breath, quickening her pace toward the seating area reserved for the Zenin delegation.
If she could just put distance between Seijiro and her father, she might salvage the fragile illusion of control she'd spent months rebuilding in a damp cell.
Behind her, Seijiro's soft chuckle grated on her fragile nerves. "Saying hello," he said breezily, falling into step beside her as if they were old friends. "Is that illegal now, in Nagoya-go?"
It is when you do it like a siege.
Kaoru kept walking, gaze forward, jaw tight; her fingers twitched at her sides with the urge to strangle him. She didn't need to turn around to know he was smiling, because Seijiro Gojo smiled the way some men breathed.
"You know," he went on, ignoring her sipence, "you could just explain to the old man that a marriage like that won't get him anywhere. Unless you found a way to make eunuchs useful for heirs."
That was it. Kaoru stopped mid-step so abruptly Seijiro nearly walked into her. The room—sensibly, irritatingly—noticed; nearby voices dipped, a couple of heads tilted. The spectacle became a spectacle.
"What," Kaoru enunciated, "do you want from me?"
Seijiro tilted his head, frost eyes gleaming delighted, and for a moment, his expression softened like for a moment he found the same infuriating Zenin heir who had helped orchestrate his escape; the rival, the equal, the person behind the mask.
"Oh." His lips twitched. "There you are, Kaoru-sama." He said it lightly, teasing but not unkind. "The real presumptuous Zenin prodigy scowling at me. I was starting to think you'd left him behind."
Kaoru bit the inside of her cheek and her glare faltered against her will; the faintest trace of a smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. She hated that he could draw it out with a single sentence and she hated that she didn't entirely mind.
She straightened, her composure sliding back over her. "And you," she retorted, tone crisp as lacquer, "are still as arrogant and insufferable as ever, Seijiro-sama."
She turned away before her face could betray anything worse.
Which was when Masanari's voice cut in from her other side, cutting enough to slice the remaining dignity out of the situation. "This is obscene. He's tailing you like a dog," he muttered.
Seijiro's smile sharpened at him. "I'm right here, Hattori-dono."
Masanari didn't even glance at him. "Unfortunately."
Kaoru kept moving, faster now, eyes forward, determined to reach her seat before her father noticed any more than he already had. Politics truly is a comedy. She settled gracefully onto the zabuton prepared for her, her hands folding neatly in her lap.
To her right, Masanari lowered himself onto his zabuton with far less finesse. He exhaled through his nose, disgusted, then, with the weary fury of a man who had already decided he hated the ending of this story, Masanari leaned slightly closer to Kaoru and hissed, "If he draws a blade, I'm stabbing him first. For the sake of peace and my sanity.""
On her left, Tatsuhiro hesitated, bright-eyed and nervous, darting glances between Kaoru and the empty zabuton—
—and then Seijiro slid into the space ignoring every etiquette. "Ah, excuse me," he said lightly, tone unapologetic as he settled himself. "Clan heir, clan business, all of that. I'm sure you understand."
Tatsuhiro froze, blinked, then bowed so fast he nearly hit the tatami. "Of course, Gojo-sama," he stammered, retreating with great admiration that bordered on worship.
Seijiro rewarded him with a crooked smile—charming, effortless, as the boy retreated a step, starry-eyed. Kaoru inhaled slowly through her nose, fingers brushing her temple as she willed herself not to commit a crime; behind her, Harunobu shifted as if he could feel the silent accusation radiating from Kaoru.
This is what I asked you to stop.
From the seats of honor, eyes pinned to them: Takahiro Zenin's gaze narrowed in disapproval concealed behind impassive control; Akiteru Gojo's brow furrowed in a subtler reprimand, annoyance without surprise. The Kamo patriarch, however, looked positively delighted as though this unexpected arrangement was the crowning achievement of his neutral peacekeeping career.
And the hall—oh, the hall was alive now. Whispers multiplied.
"Six months ago, they said—"
"—he tried to kill the Zenin heir in Iga—"
"—under the Hattori roof—"
"Surely not here—"
"Under the Kamo roof? Surely not—"
Someone near the back murmured, "If the blood feud reaches its climax here, the Kamo will never hear the end of it."
Another voice answered, "...But wouldn't it be historical?"
Masanari stared straight ahead, cup in hand. Then, without moving his mouth much, he murmured to Kaoru, venomously calm, "Congratulations. Now the man who 'tried to kill you' sit at your side. Very subtle."
Seijiro's eyes glittered as he surveyed the controlled chaos he'd created. "Then it's a good thing I'm behaving."
Kaoru didn't look at him. "You are sitting where you are not supposed to sit."
This fool will be the death of me, she thought, patience fraying.
The Kamo patriarch rose, voice warm and grand, cutting through the murmur and silencing them. "Welcome, our esteemed guests," he began. "Tonight, we gather in unity, unity that will safeguard our nation and preserve the spiritual balance of out society we hold dear. Let us honor the distinguished clans among us… particularly the Zenin and Gojo, whose young heirs averted a great crisis in Iga not long ago."
Seijiro's shoulders shook with suppressed laughter while Kaoru shot him a warning glance.
Averted, she thought dryly. Yes. Absolutely. We averted it by almost starting a war in your courtyard.
She sipped from her sakazuki in silence, aware of Seijiro mirroring her movements out of the corner of her eye; the clink against the table followed hers by a heartbeat, the timing too deliberate to be coincidental.
Leaning in slightly, he propped his elbow on the table, resting his chin on his hand, voice pitched low. "So," he murmured, "Pretty boy. That night. I'd say you pulled it off."
She hesitated, caught off guard. The teasing lilt in his tone didn't match the gravity of what he referred to. "And you convinced your father to let the matter go."
Not a question, an acknowledgment.
Seijoro's expression faltered briefly before he steadied it, then he masked it with a smirk. "Of course I did," he said simply, the words lacking his usual bravado. "Why wouldn't I, after you begged?"
Kaoru ignored the jab; her thumb traced the rim of her sakazuki in a slow, controlled motion. The absurdity of them sitting here, under false praise, with a man who'd tried to kill her pretending to be her ally and a man accused of killing her acting like a bored prince, was almost… laughable.
When it came again, Seijiro's voice lowered further. "Why did you take the trouble?" he asked. No teasing now, just the question.
Kaoru's breath caught—annoying, inconvenient, human.
"I…" her lips parted but she hesitated, the words sticking in her throat. The truth was, she didn't really know, or maybe not as she liked to think. She answered anyway, because something in her had been tired of lies for a long time. "You saved my life in Iga," she said quietly. "Twice. Why did you take the trouble?"
Seijiro blinked, genuinely caught. "Why?" he echoed, as if the thought had never occurred to him; he leaned back slightly, his fingers tapping against the table as he considered her words. After a moment, he shrugged in a dismissive motion. "I don't know. Maybe," he said, too casual for the words, "it was the right thing to do."
A bitter, humorless laugh escaped Kaoru's lips. "Exactly," she murmured. "And for once, it was my choice. Not my clan's, not my father's. Mine." She glanced just once toward the seats of honor, where Takahiro Zenin and Akiteru Gojo, their fathers, sat in their careful dance of false civility. "For once," she went on, voice soft enough to be swallowed by the hall, "I didn't do what was expected of the Zenin heir. And look where it's gotten us."
Seijiro followed her gaze, his lips curving into a bitter smile of his own. "Ridiculous," he muttered, tipping his empty sakazuki toward the pathetic scene. "Polite words and hidden knives." His voice took on a sardonic edge as he gestured vaguely at Masanari. "Sitting here as though we're all allies."
Kaoru's mouth curved into something faint and sharp. "If they're ridiculous," she asked, "what does that make us?"
Masanari, without missing a beat, muttered, "A mistake," he muttered, tone devoid of real concern. "Spectator to this country's ruin."
"Spectators? No." Seijiro's grin flashed. "Willing players," he corrected, raising his sakazuki toward them both. "To the unity of the sorcerer clans, Kaoru-sama, Hattori-dono. And to the ruin of everything."
Kaoru lifted her sakazuki with composed irony as her gaze lingered on Seijiro for a moment longer than she intended. Masanari followed half a breath later like a man toasting his own execution. Their cups clinked softly, and Kaoru, staring into the middle distance as the Kamo patriarch continued praising "unity," let her smile die.
Kyoto. The Big Three clans. The Mitsuboshi no Yari. Their fathers. The country breaking along the borders.
"This is going to be worse than the first time."
.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.
The night had settled over the Kamo estate, over its arranged inner gardens and imposing halls; frost clung to the edges of wooden beams and engawa as winter bled through despite the warm glow of lanterns lining the paths. Light was comforting from a distance; up close, it only made the cold of the politics more obvious.
Akiteru Gojo sat in the chambers assigned to him, the Gojo guest quarters placed with strategy at the far end of the estate, comfortably distant from the Zenin and their affiliates, likes a map drawn in the architecture: we are here, you are there, and nothing touches unless we allow it.
He reclined with ease, one hand idly stroking his trimmed silver beard. The day had unfolded predictably, in the way all performances did when you already knew the script, and yet the taste it left in his mouth was bitter all the same. His son's antics—his public display of unity with Zenin scum, of all people—had drawn whispers exactly as expected. Seijiro was a creature of spectacle, always eager to defy him in public, always testing the room, always playing his role flawlessly even when he believed he was rebelling against his father's will. The seating arrangement, the casual proximity, the smiles, humiliating, deliberately provocative.
Akiteru had endured it as he always did. No, more than that, he had welcomed it this time.
Because Seijiro, for all his arrogance, had never understood the simplest cruelty of being born a Gojo: even his defiance was usable, even the little act of that day was something his father had already anticipated and was ready to use against the enemies of the Gojo.
Perfect, Akiteru thought, the faintest curl of satisfaction at the corner of his mouth. Even in rebellion, my son is perfect. He doesn't even realize it.
A soft rustle outside the shōji interrupted him; someone crouched in silence, waiting for permission to exist within his space.
Akiteru's fingers paused mid-stroke, as his voice remained perfectly even. "Enter."
The shōji slid open with a shh, and Rensuke stepped in, moving like a shadow.
He knelt and bowed deeply, keeping his distance, forehead nearly brushing the tatami. Akiteru watched him for a beat, taking in the tension threaded through the shinobi's posture; Rensuke was disciplined, his best shadow, but discipline always left traces when something was annoying. He always had that posture when Seijiro was planning something stupid.
"Well?" Akiteru prompted, tone devoid of impatience.
"Gojo-dono," Rensuke began, deferential. "Seijiro-sama appears to be planning to sneak out of the estate tonight."
Akiteru's expression didn't change; only a flicker of amusement betrayed itself, subtle. "Is that so," he murmured, mock surprise not veiled. "How shocking."
Rensuke hesitated just long enough to confirm he was reading the room correctly, then continued. "It seems," he added carefully, "that he intends to… further engage with the young Zenin heir."
That earned Akiteru's attention. His fingers stilled against his beard, and his gaze drifted, not to the shōji, but to the day's images: Seijiro's insolence in the hall, the Zenin heir's composed face, the way the two of them had created a spectacle simply by sitting too close. And beneath that, six months ago, the accusation, the spear, the convenient story. For reasons Akiteru neither fully understood nor cared to dissect, his son had found some manner of shared understanding with Kaoru Zenin of all people, a connection built on misguided notions: mutual respect, camaraderie, a belief that personal will could outrun blood and history.
Foolish. Both of them.
Seijiro was chasing something fleeting and insubstantial: friendship? Alliance? A childish fantasy that a Zenin heir and a Gojo heir could build a bridge over a feud that had been cultivated for decades?
None of those things existed between their clans.
Seijiro would learn the cost of such naïveté soon enough, bitterly and painfully. He would learn that trust was a fragile lie and loyalty could shatter as easily as glass once pressure was applied in the right place.
But that lesson didn't require Akiteru's interference tonight because none of it mattered in the way Seijiro believed it mattered. It was simply another thread to pull.
Rensuke shifted slightly, glancing up once before lowering his head again. "If you wish, Gojo-dono, I can ensure he does not leave the estate."
Akiteru lifted a hand, halting him with a single gesture. "No," he said, contemplative. "Let him go."
Akiteru's voice remained mild as he continued, indulgent. "Let him play his part, let him believe he's forging something meaningful behind my back, let him tarnish the name of the Gojo clan if he must." The faintest pause, then, softer: "It matters not."
He turned his head slightly, eyes sharpening. "Allow him to grow closer to that Zenin heir. As foolish as it is, we'll have use for this connection soon enough."
Rensuke's brow tightened, barely, but Akiteru saw everything that mattered. "I assume Kamo-dono has granted his cooperation, then?" the shinobi asked, carefully neutral.
Akiteru felt his eighteen invisible limbs rise behind him in anticipation. His real hands clasped behind his back as he crossed to the candlelit wall. "Of course he has," he said. "It is in his interest. The Kamo do not choose sides, they choose outcomes. For now, our interests align. We can rely on his assistance." He turned then, and the look he fixed on Rensuke was hard, not the one of a father speaking about his son. "I want to know everything," he ordered, tone firm. "Every word exchanged between Seijiro and the Zenin heir, no matter how trivial it may seem. Leave nothing out."
Rensuke bowed deeply. "It will be done, Gojo-dono."
Akiteru watched him withdraw; the shōji closed with a click, sealing the room back into its silence.
Left alone, Akiteru allowed his composure to loosen by the smallest degree. Not enough to be visible in public. Only enough to feel the grind of old anger beneath the calm.
Patience was the Gojo clan's greatest strength. They could wait for years, decades, if necessary, until an enemy grew complacent, until the world shifted, until an opening appeared like the first crack in river ice.
But they never forgot. Never.
Akiteru stared at the dancing candlelight until the image blurred, jaw tightening as the resentment he kept buried for decades stirred, slow and inexorable.
Not a day goes by, Takahiro Zenin, when I do not remember what you did to my family.
.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.
"Where the hell were you, Rensuke?" Seijiro hissedl with impatience as they slipped into the shadowed pathways of the Kamo estate's inner courtyard.
Rensuke followed one step behind, unhurried, unbothered. "Observing from a distance," he replied flatly, his signature blend of detachment and dry wit intact. "It looked painfully dull. I didn't think you'd miss me."
Seijiro rolled his eyes and pulled his kosode tighter, as if fabric could block both the chill and the day's humiliation; he'd traded his formal indigo haori for plain black, his sash tied in a hurry, hakama tucked into sturdy kyahan and boost; a far cry from postures and embroidered mon. He didn't move with Rensuke's silence—Seijiro never did—but his steps carried an impatient, spring-loaded eagerness that telegraphed intent.
"This isn't the first time you've left me to rot in a den of snakes," he muttered, cutting across a darker corner of the garden where lantern light failed to reach. "You're supposed to be my trusted second, or have I got that wrong?" He turned just enough to flash Rensuke a mocking grin over his shoulder, bright as if the Kamo estate hadn't spent the afternoon trying to choke them with forced diplomacy.
Rensuke met it with a faint shrug, utterly unimpressed. "Being your second is exhausting," he said, and gestured vaguely at the estate as if presenting evidence at trial. "Just look at us now. Do I need to remind you why this is a bad idea, Seijiro-sama?"
"No need," Seijiro replied cheerfully. "I'm perfectly aware. Just don't tell my father and we'll be fine."
Rensuke didn't answer, and Seijiro kept moving anyway, boots crunching over frost-stiff gravel. He had no real reason to feel restless, sneaking out had become second nature and Kyoto's streets at night were familiar for him; anonymity had always been a kind of mercy when one were an important clan heir, but tonight had a specific pull.
Kaoru Zenin.
His so-called rival, the Zenin pride, the heir who stood too straight and spoke too carefully, almost inhuman. And Seijiro loved nothing more than trying to dent that composure. He grinned to himself, imagining the look she would give him: exasperation, the twitch at the corner of her mouth, irritation buried under etiquette. It wasn't that he cared about Kaoru Zenin—no, not really—he told himself that often enough, like a mantra.
It was just that… the cracks in her mask had been there, once. Accidental. Human.
And Seijiro, who had worn masks since childhood, couldn't stop wanting to pry at hers. He felt the maddening urge to prove there was a person under all that Zenin perfection, someone he could genuinely spar with and someone who could push him back just as hard. Just like that night on the road back from Iga, when they'd stopped at that hatago, and Kaoru had seemed as composed as ever until Seijiro had challenged her to an arm-wrestling match.
A ridiculous contest with no stakes but pride. And then Kaoru Zenin had laughed. Seijiro Gojo wanted to see that again.
Rensuke shook his head once, as if filing it under hopeless, and followed along the covered engawa leading toward the Zenin guest quarters.
It didn't take long for Seijiro's Six Eyes to do what they always did: peel back distances, locate presences. "Found him," he muttered, as he pointed toward a steady glow spilling from a shōji.
And, as expected, Harunobu stood sentinel in front of it, rigid, immovable, one hand already resting on the hilt of his katana, the other did nothing at all, because Harunobu didn't need two swords to communicate "no." The moment Harunobu spotted him, his eyes narrowed with the sort of sheer exasperation reserved for disasters who should know better but never, ever did.
Seijiro lifted a hand in a lazy gesture of surrender. "No need to make a scene," he murmured. "I promise, I come in peace."
Harunobu's jaw tightened; he flicked a glance toward the shōji behind him. "Gojo-sama," he said with respectfully restrained irritation. "Your presence here is… inappropriate, and—" another glance to the shoji, sharper this time, "—easily misunderstood." His eyes shifted, briefly, to Rensuke, who stood like a neutral concept given human form. "Perhaps your personal retainer should offer better advice."
Rensuke didn't blink. "Perhaps," he replied, making absolutely no effort to defend himself.
"Perhaps," Seijiro interjected, folding his arms and leaning against a beam, "you could stop being so damn overprotective. Heaven forbid anyone gets too close to your cherished heir, he might shatter if someone so much as looks at him wrong."
Harunobu didn't rise to the bait, but his clenched jaw spoke volumes.
Seijiro took a step forward, clearly intending to slide the shōji open and Harunobu's arm shot out, barring his path.
"Kaoru-sama's time is not yours to waste," Harunobu said coolly. "If you have a message for him, I would be happy to deliver it."
Seijiro's smirk faltered for half a heartbeat before returning with full force. "Of course," he drawled. "Because that wouldn't be awkward at all." He leaned in slightly, voice dropping into conspiratorial teasing. "Just a little night escape to Kyoto. Kaoru-sama's been carrying that ridiculous mask all day, he needs to relax."
The samurai didn't flinch. "Kaoru-sama does not wear a mask," he said with frustration. "Gojo-sama. Tomorrow begins a council critical to the nation's future," he continued flatly. "Leave. Or I'll—"
"Or you'll what?" Seijiro cut in. "Go ahead. Call Zenin-dono. I'll wait." He tilted his head, smile sharp. "I'm sure your Clan head'd love a midnight visit from me."
Harunobu's eyes narrowed dangerously and his grip tightened on the katana's hilt, knuckles whitening. For a moment, Seijiro genuinely wondered if Harunobu might decide enough was enough and physically remove him from the estate by the collar. Then Harunobu exhaled, resigned.
"Wait here, Gojo-sama," he muttered begrudging, and turned on his heel. He slid the shōji open and disappeared inside.
Seijiro didn't bother hiding his satisfaction; his grin went wide and smug. "Tell Kaoru-sama to wear something comfortable!" he called after Harunobu with sweetness.
Rensuke let out a low sigh. "You're really pushing it."
Seijiro's grin didn't waver. "And that's why it's going to be worth it."
Inside, Kaoru knelt on the tatami of her assigned guest room, fingers dragging a comb through her hair with the slow patience of someone whose day, no life, had been weaponized against her. The voices beyond the shōji pulled her from the haze of her thoughts; She didn't need to strain to recognize Seijiro Gojo's voice. That man announced himself like a festival.
"Harunobu," she said flatly as her retainer entered and bowed, then knelt at a respectful distance, katana rested at his side. She tilted her head, a small smile tugging at her lips despite herself. "He's testing you again, isn't he?"
Harunobu sighed heavily, rare enough to be practically a confession. "Kaoru-sama," he said, long-suffering, "please do not make me deal with Gojo-sama again."
Kaoru almost laughed; she settled her collar instead, adjusting the white juban at her throat. Tomorrow would bring long hours of hollow politeness and men carving the country into pieces with smiles. Kamo-dono; her father; the regents; the threat of Edo and Kyoto pulling apart. And Seijiro Gojo, as ever, had decided tonight was the appropriate time to stroll into the Zenin wing. Harunobu exhaled again, longer this time, eyes closing briefly as he reached for an extra reserve of patience.
"What does he want this time?" Kaoru asked, as she brushed hair back over her shoulders.
Harunobu opened his eyes and gave her the look of a man about to say something unforgivable. "Your presence," he said finally. "To sneak out and wander through Kyoto's nightlife."
Kaoru stared. For a heartbeat, indignation rose quickly. "He wants to—what?" she said, too incredulous to keep her tone dignified. "He's out of his mind. Why didn't you send him away?"
Harunobu hesitated and Kaoru noticed immediately; she'd lived with him long enough to recognize the exact shape of that pause, the one he took when he was about to tell her something she wouldn't like but couldn't argue with.
He didn't look away as he said it, simple as a fact. "I thought Kaoru-sama might want to go."
Kaoru blinked, mouth parting in disbelief before she snapped it shut. "Want to?" she echoed. "Why would I want to do something so reckless—"
Her words faltered and silence stretched.
She bit her lip, eyes sliding toward the shōji; her father would lose his mind if he found out she'd left the Kamo estate with Seijiro Gojo. It was reckless, unthinkable, the kind of rumor that could end her life.
And yet—
Another chance to do what I want.
The thought landed in her chest, immediately followed by a wave of self-disgust.
Oh no. Damn you, Harunobu. You know me too well.
Harunobu had been her shadow for years; of course he'd learned to recognize the moments when Kaoru wanted something beyond duty, something stupid that belonged to her.
She bit her thumbnail—nervous habit, traitor habit—and stared at the shōji.
Harunobu, as if the universe needed to humiliate her a little more, added carefully, "Gojo-sama said you don't know how to relax."
Kaoru shot to her feet, cheeks flushing with outrage. "Of course I know how to relax!" she snapped, and even she could hear how defensive it sounded. "Does he think we don't know how to have fun in Nagoya-go?"
Harunobu's silence was devastating; his brow lifted by the smallest margin.
Kaoru froze mid-breath. She hated him, she hated Seijiro for making her say it out loud, she hated herself for the spike of indignation that wasn't just indignation, but pride—stupid pride—at the idea of being misunderstood.
Her protests fizzled.
She shouldn't. She really, truly shouldn't.
"I'll get my travel cloak," she muttered suddenly, moving before her dignity could tackle her and pin her to the tatami.
Harunobu's lips twitched, quickly smothered; of course she would go, he had expected no less. "Kaoru-sama," he called flatly after her.
"What now?" Kaoru asked, glancing over her shoulder as she crouched by a small chest.
Harunobu gestured vaguely at her, meaning clear without needing to elaborate. "You should… you know. Change."
Kaoru paused, hand hovering over fabric; ger gaze dropped to the loose juban, and then she straightened too fast, folding her arms across her chest like that would restore lost honor.
"Right," she mumbled, turning away quickly to adjust, ears burning.
This was ridiculous. Stupid. Irrational. Reckless. Absolutely inappropriate for the Zenin heir.
And yet, beneath the fear of consequences, an unbidden smile tugged at her lips, small and treacherous.
"Stupid Gojo," she mumbled under her breath, resolve wobbling as she reached for her cloak. "And stupid me for going along with it."