The day of the ceremony dawned bright and alive. The kingdom bustled with celebration—markets overflowed with merchants and customers, laughter rang through the streets, and the air was thick with the scent of incense, roasted chestnuts, and fresh flowers. Even the palace grounds thrummed with activity. Servants hurried to finalize the banquet preparations, advisors rushed in and out of chambers, and the great halls glittered with new lanterns and silk banners.
In her chambers, Reika was dressed with care in her most elegant robes, her hair adorned with golden pins. Masanori and Rikuya, likewise, were attired in newly pressed ceremonial garments, their presence commanding. The palace gleamed in anticipation of the sacred night.
Far away on Giramuzi, Takao too made his preparations. As the sky blushed gold with late noon, he donned his modest robes and descended the familiar slope. At the foot of the hill, he bid his beloved Mami goodbye. Her hand lingered on his cheek, eyes shining with pride and worry. Then, carrying little but his courage, Takao set off toward the palace.
By the time he reached the gates of Tsukiyomi Palace, dusk had fallen. The sheer magnitude of the scene overwhelmed him: throngs of nobles, officials, and common folk swirled together in a sea of silks and lanternlight. The air pulsed with music, chatter, and the distant rhythm of drums. Takao's breath caught as he lifted his gaze to the towering gates, carved with dragons and phoenixes that seemed almost alive.
And there—waiting with a smirk—stood Rikuya.
"Ahh… finally, the healer of Giramuzi," Rikuya said smoothly, his cocky grin unyielding. "I'm truly amazed by your abilities, Takao."
Takao bowed his head in polite thanks, but unease prickled through him. Beneath the grandeur of the palace, he felt exposed under Rikuya's gaze, like prey caught in a hunter's snare.
Led inside, he marveled at the breathtaking architecture, each hall glowing with lacquered wood, silk draperies, and flickering lanterns. Yet with every step, the beauty felt heavier, as though it concealed something darker. When Rikuya led him not to the banquet, but to his private chambers, Takao's wariness deepened.
"So…" Rikuya began, lighting the chamber's candles one by one, their glow stretching shadows across the room. "The soldiers were more wounded than I, yet by morning they were walking strong. You must admit—you have magic in your hands."
Takao inclined his head with a careful smile. "My lord, may I know your name?"
Rikuya turned, the candlelight catching his sharp profile. "Saionji Rikuya."
The name hung heavy in the air.
Before Takao could respond, Rikuya's tone sharpened. "Let's not waste time. We both know I summoned you for more than healing."
Takao stiffened. "Then… what do you want from me?"
The smirk widened. "Poison. Tonight. Before the banquet ends."
Takao's heart lurched. "I beg your pardon—I cannot—"
Rikuya cut him off, his eyes gleaming with cruelty. "You care for that old woman on the hillside, don't you? That… mizaki of yours?"
Blood drained from Takao's face. "Don't you dare lay a finger on her!"
Rikuya chuckled darkly. "Oh, my dear healer. You can mend wounds, cure diseases… but can you revive the dead? No? Then listen well. You have only one choice. Prepare the poison. Do nothing more. Hand it to me, and no one will ever know. Refuse… and your precious woman will meet a fate you cannot undo. Easy enough, isn't it?"
Takao's chest heaved with fury and dread. Mami's face flashed before his eyes, her smile, her warmth. His fists clenched, his voice caught in his throat. He wanted to resist. To argue. But the threat was too sharp, too real. Reluctantly, he lowered his gaze.
"…I understand," he whispered.
Rikuya's grin widened, satisfied.
When Takao left the chamber, evening had fallen fully, the palace alive with trumpets, drums, and the roar of the gathered crowd. His mind churned with questions. Why poison? Who does he intend to kill? And is that life truly worth ending?
Yet before he could linger, the blare of horns pulled his attention. He turned, and from the corridor, he saw a procession entering the grand gates.
A prince, flanked by a small fleet of soldiers.
Takao's breath caught. He had heard whispers of him—the exiled prince, the cursed one who had been sent away to Kagegiri Villa. Rumors painted him as dangerous, tainted, unable to control his curse. Yet what Takao saw was different: a man carrying sorrow and pride in equal measure.
At the gates, Nozomi descended from his carriage. His eyes sparkled with emotion as he gazed upon the palace—his home, once lost, now returned to him. And then he saw her.
Reika. His mother.
Tears brimmed in his eyes as he moved faster, then faster still, until he broke into a run. Reika opened her arms without hesitation, and Nozomi collapsed into her embrace.
"Oh, Nozomi…" Reika wept softly, holding him close.
For a moment, time itself stilled. Nozomi could not even find words; he only buried his face against her shoulder, trembling as a child again. Cursed though he was, abandoned though he had been—still, a mother's heart had never ceased to yearn for her son.
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