Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Rin is going to live in the prison from now on, in the most literal sense.

And yet, he registered no sorrow at his sentence. In fact, Rin felt a perverse relief. For him, this was a preferable exchange. At least here, he would be spared the suffocation of courtly critique, free from the perpetual judgment of the Throne's watchful gaze.

“You are such a dramatic fella, Rin-chan. You make it sound like you are a captive about to be sent to the dungeon.” A stupid grin split his face, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he spoke. That is, Rin’s annoying, meddlesome roommate who got his hand on Rin’s journal, much to his dismay.

How he wished he could get his own room, or at least share a room with someone tolerable who understood the necessity of boundaries and knew how to mind their own business.

Ugh. Rin instantly choked on his former praise for isolation. He was now confined with an encroaching presence that polluted the very concept of solitude.

“My only drama is having to witness yours. Honestly, is anyone actually surprised you've never met a social boundary you didn't immediately trip over? Your presence is an ever-present suffocation, and I assure you, I’d choose the cold dungeon over sharing a room with you if I had a choice,” Rin clipped a venomous response.

The room fell silent for a precious moment, but before Rin could savor the victory, it was violently ruptured by a sudden, cackling laugh.

How horrible it was that his sharp insult completely failed to ignite the anger from the boy in the same way Rin felt for his transgression. Instead, the dual-toned color-haired boy gave him back the diary with a laugh, as if Rin had just delivered a witty jest instead of a verbal attack.

Was he truly so dense? Or was this merely a facade to annoy Rin?

If so, then this was an act of pure, unrefined vandalism against his soul. Now, Rin felt the creeping certainty that he was imprisoned with a human interruption device, a clear breach of all diplomatic courtesy. This roommate of his makes Rin consider a choice to spend a week in his family’s ancestral shrine—ritualistic penance his parents prescribed for Rin’s seldom misbehavior, rather than sharing a room with him.

He didn't even attempt to prove Rin's inner monologue wrong as his insolent tenor fractured the quiet, occupying the stillness his infuriating laughter had vacated.

“I think I'm going to enjoy my time here with you, Rin-chan. Just know, I usually don't like the likes of you, but you truly are entertaining, even with that snobbish attitude of yours.” He delivered his brazen speech with a galling confidence, leaning slightly into Rin’s taller form as if claiming the space between them.

The utter insolence of the act made the hairs rise stiffly on the back of Rin's neck.

“The sheer audacity,” Rin mused as he looked at the boy’s hair, focusing on the detail of the harsh, geometric line of the bobcut, split by the crass, dual-toned color, “for someone who mistakes deliberate precision for actual personality.”

Silence. The only reaction he got was that of cheshire grin as he also tilted his head in a way that his yellow eyes abruptly caught the light and transformed into shards of mocking gold.

Rin’s jaw tightened. He had failed again.

The sheer impertinence of that boy!

For the second time, Rin's calculated barbs had slid off without drawing blood. He doesn’t even seem to care of what Rin says as he leans back with his whole frame lengthening in a slow, feline stretch, followed by a deliberate, ungrand yawn that showed off a frankly unnecessary amount of teeth.

Then, without a word, he sauntered to exit. Rin slightly heard the mumbled excuse—something about the clammy, sticky sweat—before the door clicked shut.

Rin registered the moment he was ignored, but swiftly convinced himself that getting upset over this was not worth the precious energy he burned. At least their room is now his—wait, why would Rin even refer to this room as theirs? It definitely is, but Rin fiercely refused to acknowledge it, much less utter it, even within the confines of his own private thoughts.

Rin took a deep, shuddering breath. No, he will not dwell on this ridiculous thought.

With the silence as his witness, he elected to unseal the heavy latch of the first trunk. At least Rin got time to unpack. He could not afford the vulnerability of settling his life into this space while under the scrutiny of that bumblebee.

Dramatic, Rin could vividly hear the phrase delivered in the familiar, scornful lilt of the brazen boy.

He ignores it. After all, a lion doesn't concern itself with the opinion of sheep.

Rin narrowed his focus to the immediate goal, which is to finish this meticulous work with ruthless efficiency.

Rin’s hands, usually reserved for the delicate touch of calligraphy brushes or the strategic glide of shōgi pieces, felt alien and clumsy against the rough, cold brass of the latch. He worked the mechanism slowly, the unfamiliar resistance forcing him to dedicate all his focus to the awkward movement, commencing the practical work of reclaiming his sanity, one cautious finger at a time.

His gaze drifted to the row of two other identical, leather-bound trunks aligned against the far wall. The sight of them was an anchor of absolute dread. He cursed his own lack of foresight. Rin should have simply brought the essentials; it would have been far easier to procure his other needs locally instead of lugging excessive baggage.

You're truly the most spoiled thing I've ever met, echo of another brazen cadence back haunted his mind, an intrusion Rin could no longer dismiss.

He felt a spike of intense vexation whenever those unwelcome thoughts surfaced. Yet, as he took a deep breath, Rin tried to recall all the things the owner of the cold, coin-bright orbs had remarked.

Saying that Rin is entertaining him, as if Rin were some court jester.

Rin caught his lip between his teeth, unable to stifle the flow. His quick mind was a constantly self-poisoning mechanism, and it had completely seized his focus. Now, rather than focusing on unpacking, he was involuntarily saturated by the unwelcome memory and presence of his roommate.

Rin took another deep breath, using the steady intake of air to reassert control and bring order to his fractured focus, but the strategy backfired. Rather than regaining control, Rin found his mind cruelly fixated on the crystalline clarity of his roommate's recent dialogue.

‘The likes of you,’ another thing he had said. Surely he doesn’t mean that—

Rin stopped his thought. He should have known, given that startling insolence, and such a bizarre of hairstyle as if he had no respect for his ancestors, he must have belonged to no proper lineage.

Yet, the perfection of his inherited mannerisms with such flawless, court-perfect composure shatters Rin's certainty. The way he carried himself spoke of an unquestionable grace of a highborn, even as his tongue spoke of the streets.

A faint line creased the bridge of Rin's nose as he recalled the brazen display of the yawn. Had Rin’s etiquette teacher known of such a vulgar lapse, she would have surely wept tears of bitter shame onto her silk robes.

Well, definitely a mistake referring to his manner as perfection.

Rin sighed, suddenly overcome by profound fatigue. His exhaustion was deep-seated, the result of a two-week travel followed by the immediate, demanding scrutiny of the academy's admission process, leaving no time for recovery. Worse, his mind hadn't stopped spinning for the last three weeks, having been constantly plagued by the catastrophic future he feared while awaiting his results. Rin didn’t even relish his time outside his estate.

Now, even his deep exhaustion was compounded by his roommate's irritating presence, which refused to let his mind be quiet.

For a charged moment, Rin did nothing but absorb the space, allowing his gaze to trace every detail of the room's unfamiliar architecture. He cataloged the heavy, dark timber framing the beds, the way the high, arched window dominated the stone wall, and the contrast between the rustic, rough-hewn stone structure and the soft, billowing fabric of the curtains.

His profound exhaustion caused his attention to snap to the bed beside him. Rin slowly rose, compelled to test the comfort of the untouched mattress.

His bed's dressed with crisp white bedding and a single dark pillow; the bed is enclosed by rich sapphire blue velvet curtains detailed with gold trim and starry patterns. These curtains, drawn back with thick ties, offer privacy. Rin was immediately grateful for the bed curtains—a critical necessity when one was forced to share close quarters with a roommate of that particular, intolerable character.

Thinking about his roommate again, Rin’s mind was now anchored elsewhere as he mentally maps the terrain and collects every available scrap of information about the prison that would serve as his home for at least four years.

This academy, aka Rin’s new prison—which is named Blue Lock, so Rin is not being dramatic—was founded not even a decade ago. From what Rin had read, the academy’s foundation was a major scandal, established by the Emperor’s ward on the most contested land. Hence, many openly speculated that the true purpose of the school was to cultivate domestic talent—an ambitious attempt to surpass the prestige of the overseas academies. Others—primarily those loyal to his family—circulated a far darker theory. They contended that the Emperor’s true aim in establishing the academy was to systematically depose the Itoshi family by developing an independent military force meant to rival their own.

While that may be true, the political terrain shifted recently when the academy began accepting a significant foreign cohort, further blurring the lines of allegiance. But this international ambiguity was secondary to the school’s initial promise to accept all classes, from the gentry to the commonalty. This brings back Rin’s immediate concern, which centered on the root of his roommate’s lineage.

Was he highborn or merely an upstart?

Rin knew, with an inescapable moral clarity, that it was fundamentally incorrect to see someone solely through the lens of their lineage. But, he needed to anticipate every scheme, not only from the academy but from the Throne he was about to join by marriage. The court demands perfection, and having a roommate of questionable origin would utterly shatter his reputation. It seemed highly likely the academy was deliberately trying to tarnish Rin’s standing by forcing him into such a poorly calculated pairing. And then there was the Throne. Rin was utterly adrift, unable to distinguish between true enemies and potential allies in the dangerous space between Blue Lock and the royal family.

Rin recalled the memory from the day before his departure.

“Oh, my Love,” his mother had whispered, her voice fractured by terror, “we don’t even know their true purpose for sending you there. I need you to be careful. You have to listen to me, do you understand? Trust no one. Not even your brother. It is so cruel of me to say this, but Sae has spent more of his life with them than he has with us. I don't know who he is anymore, Baby.”

She had cupped his cheeks lovingly, stroking his hair with a deep, consuming affection that made Rin's blood run cold. How could she profess such devotion while simultaneously sowing the seeds of suspicion toward her other son?

It’s not even his choice to leave, Rin clenched his jaw..

The thought of his beloved older brother was like turning the knife in an old, unstanchable wound. No. Stop. He would not permit himself to be consumed by his family affair this early.

He can’t get himself distracted.

Again, Rin took a slow, deep breath—this times, it was an act of unconscious discipline asserting itself. With a palpable effort, he yanked his perpetually slouching shoulders back, pulling them to an immaculate line. He deliberately used the annoyance of his roommate as a shield, letting the man's crass presence push the agonizing memory of his brother from his thoughts.

What was his name again?

The key piece of missing information was the simplest one—to understand his roommate’s roots, Rin needed his name.

Rin changed his attention to the nameplate bolted to the frame of his bed. A thick slice of wood, its rich grain saturated by a deep, mahogany varnish, it bore his own name etched in the cold, alien Western letters, flat, connected sideways, not falling softly down as they would in his culture’s writing systems.

Rin gave his head a sharp, dismissive tilt, forcibly clearing his mind of the nagging thought of Sae and the realization of how his brother must be used to those characters by now.

He then unfurled himself from the edge of the mattress. His feet touched the floor where his trunks yawned half-unpacked. Rin paid no attention to those, leaving them as they were, and crossed the room in careful silence.

When he reached the other frame, his motion fluid and deliberate, Rin held his breath as he let his gaze drift silently over the dark wood, just long enough for the glint of the name etched there.

❁❁❁

“So, how does it feel sharing a room with the first-ranked of our generation, Bachira?”

Noisy, that one—Chigiri. The sound of his voice filled every corner, like the sweep of his long, silken hair catching stray light, a waterfall of roses that shifted whenever he turned. Meguru hadn’t expected that. Back during the Grand Examination, he’d barely said a thing, Meguru had taken him for the brooding, silent type—all composure and distance.

Now? He talked freely, quick and bright as wind through a chime. Meguru didn’t mind. If anything, the chatter felt like proof that Chigiri Hyoma was comfortable around him. His mother would be thrilled to know he had another friend, and his grandmother could finally stop worrying that he was out there shaming the family name—not that Meguru ever lost sleep over what she thought.

“He carried himself with such unyielding, forceful pride that I couldn't help but feel an instinctive urge to bow,” Meguru couldn't suppress a snicker.

“From what I heard, Itoshi Rin’s result is the highest score ever recorded in the history of this academy. Given such a feat, his arrogance is, regrettably, entirely earned.” That was Isagi Yoichi, Meguru’s first friend—the sort who collected details like keepsakes. Meguru had learned to stay cautious around Isagi. The guy could spin information into gossip so polished it almost sounded like art. Through him, Meguru had learned who his roommate was and why his name carried weight more than the history of his family.

“Yeah, you heard. Figures. After all, you don’t exactly strike me as someone who spends his afternoons digging through the academy’s archives,” Chigiri’s lips curved into a faint smirk as he drawled his reply.

Isagi dared to look embarrassed, scratching the back of his neck like scratching his neck like a kid caught red-handed. Maybe that’s why they’d gotten along from day one, during the chaos of the Grand Examination—two odd pieces that somehow fit.

“You totally went full detective mode again, didn’t you? I can already see you flipping through records like it’s some mystery case,” Meguru’s tone was light. Somehow, he found Isagi’s compulsive need to know everything both exasperating and weirdly endearing.

“Hey! It’s a good thing being informed,” Isagi shot back, cheeks coloring, “thanks to me, you won’t end up misbehaving around him.”

“What is this ‘misbehaving’ business? You talk as if he is a King himself, not merely the betrothal of an eventual heir, a precarious arrangement that could be dissolved,” Meguru stated with clear, unapologetic skepticism.

His matriarch was no admirer of the Itoshi, especially after the contemptible stunt they pulled by turning their backs on the Emperor to court those invaders. In his grandmother’s words, their act of bowing to the those foreign powers was a historical stain—a lasting disgrace upon their family's name that could not be erased.

While Meguru stands by his principle that one shouldn't judge a person by their bloodline, he fails to grasp the practical difference that power makes. He doesn't believe he should have to alter his behavior for Itoshi Rin just because of his title—a rank bought through marriage into a foreign kingdom, no less. It was an impossible demand, especially since they shared a private living space. To maintain a political facade within the only space meant for privacy was both exhausting and insincere beyond measure.

The sheer alarm reflected in Isagi and Chigiri's faces made it brutally clear that Meguru was the only one still clinging to that naive interpretation.

“Bachira, do you understand the gravity of this? With Itoshi Rin now bound to the Hispanian Prince and Itoshi Sae already being part of their court, we must align ourselves with them. The Itoshi Clan holds sixty-five percent of our country's military power. Our stability, our very survival, is entirely mortgaged to their goodwill,” Chigiri asserted with a sharp, immediate reprimand. His voice was a low, silken lash, and his face was drawn tight, eyes narrowed with predatory disapproval.

Seeing his expression now, one could almost believe the dark rumors of the Chigiri Clan’s rumored leopard blood were true.

Under the piercing intensity of Chigiri’s beautiful, crimson eyes, Meguru felt every trace of mischief on his own face seize up. His easy grin collapsed, replaced by a flicker of genuine uncertainty. A slow, puzzled tremor ran through his hands, prompting him to rub the nape of his neck. By the time the steam of the communal baths fogged their reflections, the argument had drifted from gossip to open disbelief.

Now, recalling his interaction with his roommate, Meguru was certainly acting like his usual self, which, he freely admitted, was probably too crude for someone headed for royalty like Itoshi Rin.

But it’s not like Meguru offended him, right?

“Honestly, I think my behavior around him is perfectly adequate. Considering the kind of intellect it takes to earn his Grand Examination score, it's astonishing that the Itoshi have apparently neglected to train him in common courtesy and social interaction. The failing is his, not mine.”  The truth was, Meguru's words always escaped before he could filter them.

But he refused to accept their criticism. Alright, this might sound rude or even arrogant, but Meguru really doesn't need Isagi and Chigiri lecturing him. They sound exactly like his nagging grandmother. Which usually means Meguru has already made far too many missteps.

Perhaps he really ought to ask forgiveness for his rudeness—specifically, for snatching Rin's private journal and reading its contents. Wait, no, forget ‘ought to.’ He absolutely must apologize.

“Did I hear someone say ‘Itoshi’?”

Meguru had just formed the thought that he needed to apologize when a third, unfamiliar voice interrupted.

He should have known better—they should. The academy’s vast, echoing communal bathroom was no place for a private argument, and this newcomer was proof of that unfortunate truth. Standing right in the entrance archway, he leaned casually against the frame, his arms crossed, with a subtle, beautiful smirk fixing his features.

Meguru's attention immediately snagged on the crisp color of his uniform, which gave away his identity as their senior.

That was genuinely odd.

Unlike the first-years, who relied on the communal area, senior students were typically granted private, in-room bathing facilities. He quickly attempted to deduce if the senior's presence signaled a low rank, yet everything about the man's demeanor and the deep, rich color of the sash across his chest argued against it.

“Pardon me, good Sir, but are we now past the hour of the curfew? If this is the case, we offer our profound apologies. I sincerely trust that with your generosity, my comrades and I shall not suffer a point deduction for this slight transgression,” a saccharine voice, deceptively soft and light, slipped into Meguru’s deep thought, instantly halting his mental review of this stranger.

It was Chigiri—God bless his soul—he was already out of the thermae. Meguru didn’t even realize it; only when his attention finally snapped to him, Meguru could see that Chigiri was already presenting himself in a simple Yukata. He deftly took up the role of their orator. Though the damp silk of his Yukata clung lightly to his shoulders and water still beaded in the crimson strands of his hair, it did nothing to diminish his sharp focus.

“You’re quite the marvel, aren’t you, Wakasama? I must admit, your promptness of thought is rather endearing. Considering you and Itoshi Rin make up half of the Omega cohort admitted this year, it’s only fair that one so beautiful possesses a compensating intelligence. At least they don’t lie about the beauty of the Chigiris.” The words were spoken with a velvety, overly sweet cadence—his voice carrying a patronizing amusement that belied the flowery words.

He then continued as he walked closer. “And given the sincerity of your appeal, it would be remiss of me to refuse. I shall, therefore, extend my assistance as you have so gracefully requested,” with a smugly knowing gaze, he reached out and gently brushed the wet strand of Chigiri’s hair back from his face.

Though political nuance and subtle insults often flew over Meguru's head, the apprentice’s actions left no doubt. The unnecessary touch and the veiled words were blatantly condescending, backed by a beautiful, insincere smile that was pure theater. It was surprising that Chigiri didn't immediately slap the hand away.

His restraint was peculiar indeed.

“For someone who seems to be aware of his own exceptional merits, it is curious that a person of your apparent standing would choose to meddle in the affairs of first-years. While I thank you for not deducting mine and my friend’s points, forgive my insolence, but with you being here, one must assume your peers are currently otherwise engaged, leaving you to seek company amongst those beneath your rank,” Isagi, oh Isagi. He and his honeyed tone, concealing the barbed sincerity of his words—that instantly snagged the attention of the taller apprentice.

The older boy let out a short, explosive snort—a sound of supreme, unfiltered disdain rather than simple amusement. His aquamarine eyes hardened, catching the light like twin shards of ice as he fixed onto Isagi’s sapphire ones with a chilling, arrogant stare.

“Do not allow your optimism to elevate your standing unduly, dear junior of mine,” he declared, his voice smooth and devoid of effort. “Your discussion holds absolutely no intrinsic value. Were it not for the mention of Itoshi Rin's name, I assure you, my attention would not have condescended to notice it.”

Isagi's annoyance was visible, hardening his features and reflecting sharply in Chigiri's own strained eyes. Meguru knew the redhead was at his breaking point—if Chigiri opened his mouth, the polite facade would certainly be lost.

For a tense moment, no one spoke.The silence hung heavy until it was abruptly cleaved by the familiar, aged creak of the door opening. The sound was quickly followed by two soft shushes—the distinct friction of a cautious step against the bathroom's unyielding stone, before silence again swallowed the air.

Meguru groaned internally. Not again.

They should have known better; they absolutely should have! He cursed their folly. They should have left the moment someone interrupted.

Now, they are about to be interrupted by someone else.

“My patience has been exhausted by hearing my name repeatedly misused in this public facility. Let us dispense with the pleasantries. What purpose justifies your discussion of me? I exclude you, of course, roommate, but I assure you, except for him, any of you are entirely unknown to my acquaintance.”

Meguru found his gaze snared by the new arrival—no stranger, but Itoshi Rin himself. Meguru was utterly conflicted, unsure whether he should laugh at the irony or weep at its brutal timing.

He remained frozen in the doorway—the very spot the haughty, icy blue eyes senior had occupied before. Itoshi Rin’s features were polished smooth, yielding no hint of the thoughts or emotions stirring beneath the surface. Yet, it was easy for Meguru to see the catastrophic shift within his eyes. Gone was the flat, exhausted teal of the dormitory. Now, his eyes were a reflection of a stormy sea—they held a fierce, glittering hue, like perfectly cut jewels where green light met blue.

“Oh, Rin! Perfect timing, come in and join us!” Meguru forced a bright, utterly misplaced pleasantry out of his mouth. The sudden, forced geniality was jarringly out of tune with the room's intense chill, doing nothing but highlighting the gulf between them.

 No longer was he held by one alone. Now, the collected light of four sets of eyes—a constellation of icy judgment, sapphire, and jade combined with crimson fury—bore down upon Meguru's soul. His fate was sealed in that unforgiving stare.

The silence snapped shut—the prologue was over. The disastrous consequences belonged entirely to Meguru’s own foolish tongue.

Chapter Text

The cold was the only truth, and the silence was merely the shadow it cast upon the world.

Long ago, there was a princess known as Kaguya-hime, born from the gleaming node of a bamboo stalk. Her luminescence compared to moonlight on winter snow. Yet, her life on Earth was a fragile, borrowed dream, and her fate lay waiting in the serene, unyielding cold of the Moon Palace—a destination of such absolute beauty that the human heart could find no sanctuary there

☾︎𓃠

Rin took his vigil on the cold lip of the engawa, the wide, lacquered veranda where his chamber ended and the night began. The pale moon, thin as a shattered shield of silver, poured its light—a piercing, high-born light that promised frost to the very marrow—through the vast, gaping throat where the shōji panels should have hung. The light struck the floor of gleaming tatami, and rather than reflecting, it bled into the woven rushes, scattering into a soft, diffused wash of pearl upon which Rin's silhouette lay, a dark, fractured stain.

Silence held the empty estate, a cold, crushing weight broken only by the distant, hungry whisper of the midnight wind. It slid like a thief through the porous cedar-shingled roof, sighing as it stirred the dry bamboo leaves beyond the eaves, a sound like paper crumbling to ash.

By day, this same view from Rin's engawa bloomed with a deceptive vibrancy. The central pond, its waters alive with the flash of carp and the mirrored dance of pine branches, would draw the eye. Nearby, his grandmother’s cherished flower pavilion—a delicate, open structure—overflowed with blooms, a thousand rare flowers and exotic trailing plants illuminated by the sun's brilliance, a testament to fragile, fleeting beauty. But at night, this beauty suffocated, leaving the entire domain heavy and oppressive. Nothing remained to soften the darkness or to hold the eye, save for the faint, shifting gleam of the surviving moonlight on the pond's black surface.

Against the cloying, scented warmth sealed behind heavy silk sudare blinds and painted fusuma panels, the outside air pricked Rin's skin like a cloud of frozen needles. Yet, Rin didn't move away from the chill, which in itself was strange. Rin typically avoided cold and was meticulously careful to remain warm. In lieu, he lingered on the very edge of the engawa, savoring the familiar weight of the stolen quiet before his life ceased to be his own.

It felt like an impending grief.

Though the sentiment was not about the low, graceful lines of his family's manor walls, nor was it truly about the sprawling land with its perfectly engineered beauty, that he was about to leave behind. Neither was it triggered by the sight of the manor's sacred well, whose stone mouth marked the beginning of their land's dominion.

Rin's heart found no grief in losing the House's overt symbols of devotion: the reverent, moss-covered stone path that led to the family's concealed Buddhist altar, or the cold, polished wood of the ancestral shrine where daily offerings were laid, or the vast, sacred lotus pond that lay frozen and still, marking the main gate's center, or even the gleam of the ancient bronze Kannon statue that stood silent watch over the grounds.

These were the cold stones of duty, things to be maintained, not loved.

The ache that settled in his chest was sharper, more intimate than the burden of his lineage. It was the primal, unvoiced need for sanctuary he felt when sitting in this one, specific place.

Rin’s hand, resting lightly on the polished wood of the veranda, tightened into a barely perceptible fist. He did not move, yet a sudden, fierce tremor ran through him.  

“A beautiful shell. That is all they ever built. A building to prove something, to parade their power. They preach lineage and duty, but the only true air here is the cold of the grave, and it’s meant only to preserve the lie,” he murmured to the silence, his voice worn thin by exhaustion and a bitter, cold certainty. The sound was so foreign to his ears, so starkly unlike the controlled cadence of the young lord he usually had, it felt like an accidental confession.

For Rin, only within these walls could he shed the burden of his calculated authority, allowing for the easy relief of his primal need for sanctuary. The only constant he had ever known, the place where the smells of his Lady Mother's gentle humming and Sae's familiar footsteps had once been as real as those silk drapes. It was the one room that truly belonged to him, a place he’d occupied since his mother first held him as a baby, a cocoon that whispered of belonging within the rigid walls of the family estate.

With every sense, he absorbed the memories.

He recalled the cramped, hopeful hours spent hunched over his writing desk, painstakingly writing letters to Sae and sealing them with wax that still carried the delicate, layered scent of kneaded incense, nerikō—it was Rin’s way to make sure the paper lingered with the fragrance of home so Sae would not forget the air they once shared. The King only allowed Sae to write them once every two months, and not even Rin was spared that rule. Perhaps that was why each letter from Sae felt like sunlight slipping through prison bars—rare, blinding, and precious beyond measure. And yes, Rin had gone to their family’s prison once when he was a little child, trailing behind his Lord Father. Back to the letters, Rin would spend days turning his thoughts into careful ink, agonizing over what to say, because there were too many things his heart wished to tell his beloved older brother.

He also remembered the afternoons, rare as falling gold, when his Lady Mother would steal an hour to sit with him, her voice a gentle hum as they shared court poetry. And Rin too reminisced about the exceptional, hushed day when his Lord Father, always busy as the House's heir, had sat on the adjoining tatami, dedicating a full hour to be with his precious youngest son, guiding Rin's hand across the silk paper as they practiced the elegant, difficult strokes of the ancestral calligraphy. Rin might have loathed the stillness of calligraphy, yet if it meant a moment beside his Lord Father, he would gladly endure it. For the time spent with his parents was so rare, so precious, that it felt stolen from the hands of time itself.

And there was Nijiro, his only friend. Always nearby to accompany Rin, either playing shōgi or sitting silently while they both read the same dense book, ready to discuss and argue about the topics they read. That one nostalgia rekindled a calm, unspoken warmth within Rin’s memory—something steady, like the hush before dawn.

Only days ago, Nijiro and he had been reading a heavy chronicle detailing the rise of an ancient Emperor from their land, and Rin, haunted by the knowledge of his lifelong betrothal to the Prince, had been searching for omens between its worn lines.

“Tell me, Nijiro,” Rin remembered asking, his voice thin as silk stretched too tight. “How can the record honor this Emperor as the Heaven’s pillar yet admit that the same Emperor withered the very garden that nourished him since his princeling, turning his sword upon friend and foe alike, until loyalty and enmity bled into the same soil.”

Rin cringed at his own words as he couldn’t bring himself to imagine such a thing.

“Do those bloods not stain the pages?”

Nijiro had not needed to ask what Rin truly meant. They both knew his words were not about the Emperor in the chronicle. The story was only a veil, a safer language for a fear neither dared name aloud—that history had a way of repeating itself, and for whether as allies or enemies, their families had shed too much blood together for this union to ever wash it clean.

Nijiro, sweet and gentle, had always been the quiet anchor that settled the tempest in Rin's heart. The one friend who made his lonely world feel a little less empty. Nijiro makes his presence in Rin’s life as naturally as breath. Though he had been sent to their estate merely as the required companion to Rin, an obligation fulfilled by Nijiro’s father to Rin's grandfather as the Itoshi Family’s vassals, Nijiro’s presence had become an unconditional solace.

As Rin spoke, Nijiro reached out, his hand resting lightly on the frantic white knuckles Rin had pressed against the tatami. He had gently closed the book, his gaze fixed on Rin.

“Those fears belong to stories, Rin. The Prince you’re bound to is not the Emperor’s echo, nor of his blood. He walks under his own sky, a man of his own making, also Sae’s friend. And Sae loves you. He would never stay silent if he believed the Prince could bring you harm. Rin, you will walk into the Capital not as a lamb to the altar, but as the Princess Consort, with Sae beside you—a shield against whatever storms await.” Nijiro's tone was low and steady, imbued with the unshakeable faith he held for Rin’s older brother.

The lingering warmth of Nijiro’s reassurance cut through the cold weight of courtly schemes, as tangible as the moonlight gathering at Rin’s feet, binding this memory to every tender moment the chamber had kept for him. Every memory—whether a fleeting moment of fragile happiness, a hopeful endeavor, or a shard of sharp, profound hurt—was preserved within these four walls, holding an equal and terrible weight in the vault of his heart.

And Rin was going to leave this place soon. He couldn’t give shape to the hollow ache that unfurled within him—only feel it pulse softly, marking the slow, inevitable rhythm of departure.

His Lady Mother had told him this was his duty—the burden their lineage passed to him, the obligation his House demanded from him, the debt this family owed to their people. It was the very same sacrifice his Lord Father had forced upon Sae when he sent his older brother away as a ward to the Throne in a desperate act of diplomacy to stave off crushing defeat in a war they were already losing.

Rin tried to swallow the harshness of this necessity, but they felt like scraps of iron in his throat, cold and heavy—a mantle of sacrifice that never truly settled over the aching emptiness in his chest. The weight of duty pressed against his ribs like a silent hand, steady and merciless. Rin found himself suffocating beneath its unseen grip, reaching for anything tangible—anything that could pull him back from the storm of politics and obligation.

So, he rose from the engawa, his bare feet brushing against the tatami as he drifted back into the hushed embrace of his chamber. The air inside was steeped in the faint perfume of sandalwood and the ghost of old incense, clinging to the silken drapes and painted fusuma. The moonlight followed him, slipping through the open shōji like a pale ghost. Its glow touched the lacquered edges of the low writing desk, the shelves of scrolls and courtly trinkets, and finally, the tall mirror that stood near the far wall.

It was a magnificent thing, a relic of such lavish craftsmanship that it seemed almost estranged from the quiet grace of  Rin’s chamber. The rest of the room spoke in the language of restraint—dark woods, muted silks, the serene austerity of inherited taste—but the mirror refused to whisper. It gleamed too brightly, its luxury too loud. The frame was carved from hinoki wood, lacquered to a deep gloss, its surface chased with delicate inlays of mother-of-pearl and thin lines of beaten gold that curled into motifs of cranes and lotus petals. Its border shimmered faintly where the moonlight touched, casting back an echo of pale fire.

The mirror had been a gift from the Throne, presented in the solemn grace of his coming-of-age ceremony. The envoy had said it was chosen by the Queen herself, though it felt less a gesture of affection than a proclamation, a reminder that the court now regarded him not as a boy, but as one bound to its expectations.

The mirror’s surface caught the moonlight like a blade, and in it, Rin saw himself rendered with merciless precision. He had not intended to look, yet the pale image gazing back refused to be ignored. Rin looked upon the reflection that would have drawn the court’s quiet disapproval. Quite the irony of him, considering the mirror meant to preserve the court’s vision of perfection now showed the very imperfection they would condemn.

He stared at it for a while, the reflection blurring at the edges as if refusing to hold the shape they had forced upon him. The sight stirred neither shame nor defiance, only fatigue.

Tonight, Rin chose to dismiss all concern regarding his own appearance. While he usually took a quiet pride in highlighting his beauty—a habit instilled by his lady mother, who taught him that presentation was power—tonight, Rin had no mood for the farce.

Usually, his dark jade-green hair was gathered into a knot at the nape of his neck, smoothed with fragrant oil, and pinned with silver. It framed his face in order and symmetry. Now unbound, his hair slipped past his shoulders in dark, fluid strands, the sheen of jade dulled beneath the moonlight. The loosened fall brushed against his collar, mingling shadow with fabric until hair and garment became one continuous flow of darkness.

Since his coming of age, Rin's customary garments had been layers of richly embroidered silk combined with stiffly tailored outer robes. But at the nightfall, Rin is free from those heavy robes. In their places, he chose to wear simple, light, night-dark silk pajamas. The fabric was so fine it whispered against his skin, clinging to the lean planes of his body with a liquid grace. It was the color of a moonless sky, stark against his pale skin, the delicate sheen of the silk a silent testament to his lineage, yet it held no softness for his delicate skin.

His gaze shifted, and in the polished reflection, he saw the image of his own jewels. These luminous orbs, fixed on the distant shadows, were not simply colored; they were shards of icy teal, the hue of deep, frozen ocean water that reflected nothing but its own cold intensity. They were the watching eyes of a beautiful, bored predator, wide and perfectly shaped, yet holding a stillness that defied his youth—the perfect stillness of something preserved and unwilling to move.

God. Looking at it—

Rin’s jaw sets, the muscle twitching once as he swallows hard, fighting the urge to empty his stomach.

The gaze snaps laterally with such speed that the movement registers less as a turn of the head and more as a flinching of the optic nerve itself. His eyeballs whip away, causing a faint, momentary blur of color at the periphery of his vision. The motion was sharp and involuntary, as if the image had physically burned him.

Seeing his pale, exposed form in that mirror’s depth made him feel utterly naked, as if the court was already examining him under their collective, cold scrutiny.

“I should have asked Nijiro to accompany me tonight. I don’t think I can survive sleep alone,” the sound caught on itself, stuttering on the last syllable, and twisting into a single, aching thread of sound that felt hopelessly lost in the vast chamber. It was a voice used only for internal thoughts, accidentally broadcast to the quiet room, lacking the conviction to hold its shape against the silence.

Rin had confessed his weakness as he moved, stiffly, toward the familiar refuge of his sleeping space. But the final, brittle truth was the fact that he is terrified of the day that awaits him in the morrow.

Rin is afraid that his heart will find no sanctuary in the place he was bound to.

Little did he suspect that the morning, so long anticipated with dread, held a kindness so sweet that it felt like a gift from Lady Fate herself, a miracle not foreseen by the cold calculus of his duty.

Chapter Text

Michael never liked this garden, nor the time he spent here. He could list a hundred reasons, but chief among them was the absence of one—it was the fact that this place lacked the comforting scent of dried roses and warm, ancient cedarwood that clung to his private chamber.

Instead, his lungs were burned with a clashing chorus of scents: the cool dampness of the stone and vast, crisp open water from the lake, competing with the lush, sweet breath of the garden's thousand blooms. Dominating it all was his mother’s expensive perfume—a heavy cloud of jasmine, blood orange, and saffron—which so thoroughly suffocated the space. It reigned over all, a stifling presence akin to the sun's fiery intensity that poured from the heavens, suffocating the air with the heat it sent forth.

Michael knew the oppressive memory of that perfume would cling to him, a constant reminder of her presence, whether he departed or she dismissed him first. Just as her gaze mirrored his own soul in a painful reflection, her scent would be the final, haunting tether he could never escape.

Yet, Michael’s feelings held no weight.

Not when he was trapped in a domain where the queen's throne and his mother's chair were one. That duality forged an inescapable obligation, compelling Michael to bend to her every command and demand.

Thus, there he was, seated at the table, honoring her specific command to attend the morning repast even if his heart yearned for the peaceful solitude of his own room, where he could sit alone, buffered by the towering bookshelves and the heavy velvet of his raised sleeping nook.

Most importantly, he would not have to endure the queen’s calculated pronouncements of her newest scheme targeting his brother, her other son, and, more importantly, the heir to the throne.

You are my son, Michael. The queen’s correction was always swift and sharp whenever Michael spoke of the Second Prince; her voice was a precise weapon. He is his father’s.

Among the three princes, Michael alone bore no trace of his father's blood.

He was the living portrait of his mother. He inherited her golden strands, her keen cheekbones, and the crystalline, icy blue of her gaze. His oldest brother, the First Prince, merely inherited the beautiful golden locks combined with the heavy build he inherited from their father. And then there was the crown prince of their kingdom, the Second Prince, the King’s chosen heir—the one whom the queen was never permitted for Michael to acknowledge as brother, twin actually, as they were born in the same year, eleven months apart—a perfect mirror of their King Father, his walking incarnation.

Perhaps that was the wellspring of the queen's bitter resentment. After all, she cherished Michael only for the comfort of seeing her own beauty reflected, and scorned his brother for belonging to the man she despised.

“It appears your attention has drifted again, Michael.” His mother’s voice was a chilling reprimand that shattered even Michael’s safest place. Her eyes, pale like winter ice, pierced him. Michael couldn't help but wonder for a brief, sharp moment if that unsettling intensity—that same icy, inherited gaze—was what every other person saw when they looked into his own face.

“How often must I instruct you to abandon these childish traits—this habit of daydreaming, especially in a place where people need your attention. Seize the intellect I bestowed upon you, and exert the absolute control required of your station.” She never needed to raise her voice to ensure compliance.

The queen wielded an unspoken dominance, a sheer presence that forced others into silent submission. He was utterly subservient to her chilling command, submitting to the power that he, too, was capable of using to enforce his own will upon others.

Now, with the conversation turning sharp as a rusty blade, Michael’s only hope was his quick wit and a tongue slick with appeasement to draw the venom from the queen’s rising ire. He relied on his intellect as a flawless suit of armor, using his words as a precise, surgical weapon. A lifetime spent walking on a layer of eggshells had utterly drilled the necessity of immediate self-awareness into his core being.

“My attention is eternally yours, dear Mother,” Michael responded smoothly. “I was simply considering the poor yield of this plan. I don’t think sending the Omega Young Lord of the Itoshi House to the academy will serve us well. It would be best to have him confined within their manor, or ideally, as His Majesty has planned, held here, where you could observe and dictate his every movement.” His gaze drifted to the doves—beautiful, white birds caged within the confines of the queen’s possession.

The view immediately drew Michael's thoughts to the vulnerable figure at the core of the Queen's unfolding plot. His brother’s betrothed, the treasured Omega of the respected Itoshi Clan, and the object of Itoshi Sae’s fierce devotion—Itoshi Rin.

Michael wondered what he was like. Was he the typical sheltered, innocent young master utterly blind to the world’s currents? That seemed plausible. After all, Itoshi Sae’s love for his younger brother was so potent it often superseded his loyalty to his own family. This devotion was the crucial, underlying reason Itoshi Rin had been chosen as the crown prince's bride-to-be, not merely to secure the alliance with the Itoshi, but primarily to hold Sae captive and ensure his compliant behavior within the High Aerie.

How cruel of his father, he had delivered a vulnerable boy straight into the path of his mother's fury—a wrath the King was too apathetic to ever give a single thought to. As a result, Itoshi Rin was already doomed to be a pawn sacrificed in their marital war, a victim collected alongside Michael and his own brothers.

“You misjudge my aims, dear son. I have no expectation for him to pass Blue Lock’s grand examination; I am certain Itoshi Rin will fail.” A thin, vicious smile touched her lips. The queen’s voice was an icy calm, yet Michael could recognize that she possessed the unmistakable ring of absolute authority when she spoke. “And after Itoshi Rin fails, the annulment will be guaranteed, given his betrothal’s temper and arrogance. That misstep will isolate him completely as he will lose his only strong alliance, which also earns him the undying enmity of the Itoshi Clan and Itoshi Sae's full wrath.”

Michael was momentarily speechless, shocked less by the plot's viciousness than by its surprise. He could not believe his mother would grant Itoshi Rin such an easy political out—this was a trifle compared to her plots against Itoshi Sae and the Crown Prince, her own son.

Furthermore, Itoshi Rin was an Omega—his value tied solely to his fertility, not his intellect. The court would quickly forget his shame.

Unfortunately, the crown prince was the clear exception to the rule. His brother would certainly annul his bethrothal to Itoshi Rin the moment the news broke—he had, in the past, sacrificed an entire alliance over a princess he deemed merely too foolish. In his words, she was a soul so brightly, blithely foolish that her words are scattered confetti, incapable of composing a discourse longer than a moment's laugh.

For a moment, Michael frowned, his lips curled as he recognized the deficiency of his mother’s plan.

“Mother, please consider the inconvenience. Without the Itoshi alliance, procuring the specific herbs and rare spices you favor would prove considerably difficult. Moreover, maintaining access to the elite artisans, such as your preferred portraitist, is a connection the Itoshi currently secures for us. We remain dependent upon them as much as they are upon us,” his brow furrowed as his glacier-blue eyes remained fixed on the queen.

Surely his mother recognized this fundamental reality? As fierce as her desire was to depose the Crown Prince, sacrificing the indispensable Itoshi alliance was not a viable strategic option. Especially when they have yet to successfully quell the current rebellion.

She only offered a thin, venomous smile, a chilling gesture full of schemes. For a tense moment, she said nothing, instead dedicating her focus to finishing her morning repast—a plate of delicate, chilled fruit compote served alongside perfectly soft-boiled eggs and warm, fragrant brioche. In the enforced silence, Michael seized the time to force down his portion, which is a necessary act of politeness.

Michael mentally noted that he would need to ask for another meal once he returned to his room. The tension of conversing with his mother had utterly ruined his appetite, making the current food impossible to swallow.

“Did you take me as a fool, Michael? Of course, I don’t plan to lose the alliance with the Itoshi. What I planned is for him to lose the alliances with them.” Michael, trusting his sharp intuition, felt an immediate and profound wave of unease wash over him. “Once that happens, you will secure the Itoshi alliance through betrothal with Itoshi Rin. This will immediately elevate you in the eyes of our vassals, making them see you as the superior heir regardless of His Majesty’s chosen successor.” She gave a look of blatant triumph; the curve of her lips was radiating such arrogance that she clearly felt the victory was already secured.

Michael inwardly scoffed at his own lapse. How could he have momentarily forgotten her consuming ambition to see him seated upon the throne? Itoshi Rin, who had once been a frustrating obstacle to her aims, was now nothing more than a convenient tool to advance her scheme.

“How, Mother, can you guarantee their compliance?” Michael paused, then corrected himself with a sharp intake of breath. “No, that is not the question. How can you be so certain Itoshi Rin will fail Blue Lock’s grand examination? Omega, he may be, but we both know the Itoshi never stint on education; he is no exception. If he is accepted, our path is sealed.” He hoped his mother would fail to detect the bait in his question and simply provide the answer he sought.

Michael couldn’t believe that one day he was going to ask her like this. He could usually deduce her schemes by mere observation, yet this time, his analytical vision failed him.

This scheme presented a rare, frightening blind spot. He grasped none of it. She held no leverage within that academy to orchestrate the sabotage.

“Ray promised me his assistance,” his mother declared, her voice slicing through Michael's thoughts and instantly providing the missing answer without explanation. She then lifted her cup, sipping her tea with an elegance so profound as if she were savoring expensive wine for the victory. “Do not trouble yourself with the details, Michael. Just wait for the Grand Examination results. When the announcement comes, our dream of seeing you on the throne will move closer, thanks entirely to Itoshi Rin. You are dismissed.”

Having gotten the permission to leave, he walked languidly to the exit of the Ivory Keep, the queen’s residence. His only desire was to bury himself in his treasury of books and extinguish every thought related to his mother’s scheme. The crown was his mother's dream for him, but Michael wanted none of it. He had dared to dream it, once, until his father killed that naive hope with the terrible currency of his brother’s blood.

Ah, since when had Michael grown so comfortable using the term brother instead the formal one, especially right after his morning talk with the queen? Usually, he maintained the precise political distance, referring to him by his official titles. Second Prince before the coronation two months prior, and now, the Crown Prince—the name formalized on the same day as his betrothal to Itoshi Rin.

He pushed off the door, a sigh escaping him. Itoshi Rin. The boy had been living free in his mind since his talk with the queen. It was a terrifying sign, as if fate were declaring Rin's inevitable and complete insertion into every corner of Michael's meticulously controlled life.

Dear God, have mercy. Help me evade this betrothal to Itoshi Rin. If not for my own sake, then let your pity shield him from the cruelty of this match.

That desperate plea was the last thing Michael recalled wishing for. Afterward, he sought to erase the potential betrothal between them from his mind by leaving the High Aerie and dedicating himself to his master in the Grey Spire. And just like the eeriness of his castle, Noel Noa's brutality was known to the whole Kingdom and all its neighborhoods. The sheer merciless demands of that training successfully purged every last thought of Itoshi Rin from Michael's exhausted mind.

By the time Michael returned to High Aerie to prepare for his departure to Blue Lock, every trace of Itoshi Rin had been successfully scrubbed from his mind, reduced to nothing more than a faded, inconsequential memory. That’s why he was utterly stunned when his arrival was met with a huge, unexpected feast and the equally jarring presence of his mother, whose icy gaze was sharpened by her palpable fury.

“This is what I’m trying to tell you since we were at Maste Noa, Your Highness.” At his side, his ever-loyal and trustworthy companion, Alexis Ness, tells him what he missed as his eyes trail after the queen, who leaves the great hall. Though Alexis tried to hide it, Michael detected his sharp annoyance at having his warnings disregarded. Despite his masterful control over his expression, Michael could always read his soul with effortless clarity. “His Majesty is currently hosting a feast to honor His Highness the Crown Prince’s betrothed, Young Lord Itoshi. Not only was the Young Lord accepted by Blue Lock, but his Grand Examination score was higher than yours.”

Which means, Itoshi Rin now officially holds the highest recorded Grand Examination score, not only for Blue Lock but for all other academies. Thus, there will be no annulment of the betrothal between Itoshi Rin and the Crown Prince.

A tired breath escaped Michael.

The reason for his mother's fury was now chillingly clear. And it’s not enough for her to stop, nor would she even consider stopping. This failure would only sharpen her resolve. Her next scheme would be devoid of mercy toward Itoshi Rin. As long as he remained betrothed to the crown prince, he would be a permanent, unforgiving target of the queen's malice and schemes.

How Michael desperately wished he had gone straight to Blue Lock instead of returning to this viper's nest.

“Welcome home, Your Highness. Her Majesty requests you attend her at once within her residence.” A saccharine voice, sickeningly sweet and perfectly rehearsed, cut into the moment.

It belonged to the queen’s lady-in-waiting, the precise messenger she always deployed when she needed to compel Michael's presence.  She halted two deliberate paces away from him and Alexis, yet her eyes held a fleeting, cold glint of the her master’s own urgency.

“Very well. I shall be there immediately. You may leave.” The response was crisp and measured as Michael gave her a curt nod.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to meet the queen, Michael. She will vent all her anger on you. We can leave for Blue Lock tonight. I can have our things packed immediately; you need not worry.”

Alexis waited until she was gone to vocalize his opinion; his voice had now hardened, imbued with a stark seriousness. When he spoke like this, the casual façade vanished as he carried himself as the perfect embodiment of his ancient lineage and descendants of the most powerful mage recorded throughout history.

And most importantly, he is Michael’s friend. And just like him, Alexis often read Michael with the same effortless clarity he had. Yet, there were rare circumstances where their mutual comprehension entirely dissolved. As the saying goes, reading the words is not the same as understanding the meaning.

“Sadly, leaving is no longer an option. Too many people have already seen my return to the palace, and they are certainly aware that I know of His Majesty’s feast in three days. To vanish now would invite disastrous speculation. I refuse to allow my name to be dragged through the mud with baseless rumors while I am at the academy.” Michael forced his lips into a brief, cynical smile, a grimace he offered only to Alexis. “Worry not, Lexi. She knows I am obligated to appear at the feast. For now, she won't attempt anything rash.” Michael spoke with a flat, weary resignation.

Hopefully, that was what Michael left unsaid.

Michael walked calmly toward the Ivory Keep. Located at the heart of the High Aerie, this magnificent tower was easily the largest and most famous structure within the palace grounds. Its dazzling, bone-white marble and pale sandstone exterior, which gave the keep its name, housed the grandest royal banquets and feasts, and served, most importantly, as queen’s official residence.

“You shouldn't have come if you didn’t want to,” a voice stated suddenly, flat and toneless as the blank expression on his face. His eyes were an intimidating colour of deep-sea—cold and unnerving. They held no discernible fire or flicker of thought, appearing instead like beautiful, empty pools.

It was astonishing to find Itoshi Sae standing near the Ivory Keep, and more so to witness him actually begin a conversation with him. Normally, Michael had to coax any words from the King’s ward. It was a pity that, at this particular moment, Michael found himself having no patience or inclination to humor a conversation.

“You shouln’t have come if you didn’t want to,” Michael's reply was pure, cynical sarcasm. His face, Michael was certain, had already snapped back into its customary expression of calculated arrogance and cold disdain. “It would serve you better to heed your own counsel before offering it to others, Sae.”

Michael didn't wait for the younger boy’s reply, nor his reaction to the cruel jab. The words were meant to sting, and they surely did; that was his sole intention. He wanted nothing to do with the Itoshi now, nor did he need their presence polluting his thoughts.

He continued his weary walk toward queen’s residence. The congratulations could wait for the feast; he’d have Alexis deliver his gift and well-wishes through Itoshi Sae instead. After that, he would depart as swiftly as possible with Alexis by his side, leaving this place behind.

The Itoshi be damned. His mother be damned. All of it be damned.

Nearing the queen’s residence, Michael paused to draw a deep breath. He then deliberately chose the longer route, taking time to walk through the very garden where the Queen often held their tense morning repasts. He needed to stabilize his mood before facing the queen, and after he faced her, or else Alexis—the one constant in his collapsing world—would bear the brunt of his wrath.

Let the path of Itoshi Rin be eternally removed from mine, that was Michael’s last thought just as he reached the queen’s chamber and pulled open the heavy door. Even without engaging his sharp intellect, Michael already instinctively knew the boy would be the center of their conversation.

But just as with his very first prayer, God delivered Michael's wish with a stinging, unexpected irony. It seems that the Lord possessed a dark sense of humor. Because right now, on the first day of the opening ceremony for the first year, Michael found his path instantly crossed with the boy who was becoming another subject of his mother's rage.

Just one month prior, Michael had been left wondering precisely what manner of person Itoshi Rin might be. And it was only weeks ago, Itoshi Rin transferred the queen’s fierce wrath directly onto Michael’s shoulders, earning him Alexis's cry and frustration. Right now, the boy stood in the bathroom doorway, face to face with him as Michael removed his hand from his red-haired junior’s beautiful face. Itoshi Rin’s eyes were a reflection of a stormy sea—a striking contrast to his brother’s muted gaze, yet their expression was unnervingly the same.

You must cultivate a relationship with Itoshi Rin. With his intellect confirmed, he is an asset we must acquire. Her voice, still sharp from their last conversation, had returned to poison his mind. With the impossibility of betrothal between the two of you, you must ensure he is given an irresistible option in your court, subverting his loyalty to his own fiancée and brother.

Perhaps when it came to Itoshi Rin, prayer was the very thing to be avoided. His own earnest hopes seemed only to betray his weakness.