The Hall of Petals had never known such silence. Even the air seemed to halt in reverence—or fear. Atop a raised dais beneath a canopy of gold-threaded banners, the throne of the Tsukimura line stood empty, cold, awaiting its master. Sakura blossoms drifted slowly from the gilded ceiling vents, summoned by the whisper of unseen fans, falling like ghostly confetti across lacquered jade floors. Nobles and courtiers filled the perimeter in hushed rows, their breath bated as footsteps—slow, measured, final—echoed from the distant archway.
Then he appeared. King Kaito Tsukimura. He stood tall with the sharp elegance of a predator—slim, poised, and lethal, like a sword forged in moonlight. He moved with the quiet power of a panther—each step heavy with the promise of violence. His black armor, edged in molten gold, caught the candlelight like fire licking through darkness, every plate molded to his broad shoulders and honed frame with merciless precision. A longsword hung at his hip, its hilt engraved with dragons, untouched but heavy with threat. His crimson cape spilled behind him like a tide of fresh blood poured for ritual. And his face—beautiful in a way that did not invite warmth—was a study in cold dominion: jaw strong, cheekbones sharp, lips unsmiling. But it was his eyes that silenced the Hall of Petals. Flint-gray, unyielding, the gaze of a monarch who judged kingdoms with a glance and burned the unworthy without remorse. He did not walk into the room. He conquered it.
Kiyomi stood at the far end of the row reserved for the seven maidens. She had been placed last, without explanation. Her kimono, while modest in design, was of exquisite silk in a shade of pearl-gray that shimmered like moonlight on still water. Her hair was adorned with opal pins, and a thin silver sash cinched her waist.
She was beautiful—unmistakably so—but unlike the others, her elegance whispered instead of shouted. And as Kaito's gaze passed her—did not stop, did not even flicker—she felt it deeper than a slap. It wasn't disdain. It was something worse. Oblivion. He had erased her before even seeing her.
A staff struck the floor, summoning the ceremony to order. From the inner sanctum, the Chief Judge emerged—an elder woman cloaked in silver and ash-blue, her eyes like carved obsidian. The silence thickened as she unfurled a scroll and intoned:
"By the command of His Majesty and the sacred rites of the royal bloodline, let the Maiden War begin."
A ripple passed through the court. Two robed attendants appeared bearing a velvet pillow the color of dried blood. Resting on it, gleaming beneath the flame-light, was a golden crown—seven arching prongs like fingers reaching skyward, but the center empty.
"The Crown of Unity,"
The Judge declared, lifting it high. "A symbol of power divided, until the worthy Queen completes it." The unspoken truth was clear: none of them were whole. Not yet. Only one would be crowned Queen. The rest would be discarded—by exile, by disgrace, or by death. Tension crackled in the air. The throne room, though beautiful, had become a battlefield. One of politics. Of seduction. Of secrets. One where a single misstep could cost a girl her future—or her life.
The maidens stepped forward when summoned, each like a different season of war. Lady Suzume Kanzaki, eldest daughter of the legendary General Kanzaki, wore the crimson and black of the battlefield, transformed into silk and structured elegance. Her bow was sharp, spine like steel. Her words clipped, devoid of flattery. Rumors whispered of her alliance with Dowager Shizuka, the King's stepmother and a shadow monarch in her own right.
Next came Lady Kaede Himura, wrapped in the indigo crest of a once-glorious samurai clan. Her robes were embroidered with scenes of ancient battles, and her hair was crowned with lacquered pins. Kaede bowed low, but her eyes never left the King. "My family has fallen. I will not," she said—a blade sheathed in tradition.
Then came Lady Reina Kurosawa of the Azure Isles, the youngest ever legal scholar to lecture at the Royal Academy, and sister to the current Minister of Law. Poised and sleek in mist-gray robes lined with gold script, she offered a smile so refined it could carve flesh. "Justice," she said, "must sit beside power." Whispers followed her—rumors of court reform and quiet rebellion.
Fourth was Lady Ayaka Mori, dazzling in gold-threaded silks and sapphires, her fan lifted in a delicate arc that did little to hide her sly eyes. Her family controlled the merchant guilds. Her spies were said to reach even into royal kitchens. She was aligned with Prince Naoya, the King's half-brother, and seen by many as the most dangerous woman in the room.
Lady Chiyo Amagawa—otherworldly, barefoot, her pale robe a masterpiece of woven clouds and cranes. Chiyo knelt silently, murmuring prayers in a language older than the kingdom itself. Her eyes were unfocused, locked on something no one else could see. Some claimed she was blessed. Others whispered of her seeing visions of the future.
Beside her stood Lady Yuna Shibasaki, draped in soft lavender and cherry-blossom pink, her obi embroidered with blessings and phoenix feathers. She bowed with unforced grace, murmuring wishes for the health of the court. She was beloved by the people—gentle, kind, unthreatening. And perhaps because of this, more dangerous than any of them knew.
Then came the last. Lady Kiyomi no Tsukihara. Silence dropped like a blade. She stepped forward slowly. Her kimono was an ethereal shade of pearl-gray that shimmered like moonlight on still water. No jewels hung from her neck, but her hairpins glimmered like captured starlight. A few nobles still snickered audibly. "That's her," someone hissed. "The whore of Tsukihara." Another scoffed, "Did she bribe someone to get in? Or just offer her body?" She kept her head bowed.
Every part of her itched to turn and walk away. But she stayed. Not just because she had pride—but because she had nothing left to lose. Once a daughter of a minor but proud clan, Kiyomi had been ruined by whispers of an affair with a married lord—rumors untrue, but devastating. Cast out, stripped of her titles, abandoned by family. Now she stood reborn in shame before the same court that once applauded her musical recitals. Her return was treated as comedy. A sacrificial lamb invited into the lion's den. And yet—behind every bowed head and mocking glance—someone had allowed her here.
Someone wanted her to be humiliated. Or… someone had a different plan. As the Judge concluded her list, the tension thickened into something suffocating. Each maiden eyed the others. Alliances were already being formed with silent glances. Enemies marked. And the King had not yet spoken a word.
At last, King Kaito stepped forward. He spoke so softly, yet his voice struck like a blade: "You are not here to win my heart." He paused. "You are here to prove whether you deserve to survive." The words were met with stunned silence. "Some of you will be eliminated before the moon wanes," he continued, unflinching. "Others may wish you had been." His tone was not cruel. It was worse. It was dispassionate. Measured. A man issuing a verdict already carved into stone. His gaze swept across them like a guillotine. And when it fell on Kiyomi again, it held—for a heartbeat—just long enough for her breath to catch. Was that disgust in his eyes? Or recognition? She couldn't tell. Before she could decipher it, he had already turned.
The ceremony was over. The King rose without a word, and the gathered court dropped to their knees like dominos. His footsteps echoed through the marble hall, measured and final, each one a dismissal. He did not glance at the maidens, not even the most beautifully dressed among them. Not even the one who dared to meet his gaze. His tall form reached the edge of the silk curtain that marked the entrance to his private wing—opulence draped in blood-red and midnight blue. The royal guards bowed. The moment was sealed. He was gone.
But then—he stopped.
No fanfare. No movement. Only a pause sharp enough to slice the air. His back remained turned, posture regal, detached—as if even the act of facing them again was beneath him. And then came the words, smooth and lethal.
"You," he said, his voice cool as winter steel. "The fallen noble."
The court froze. A ripple of silence spread—anticipation coiled with malice.
"I forgot your name."
The venom was elegant, precise. A murmur of laughter slithered through the nobles—hushed, high-pitched, gleeful. Someone coughed to mask a snort. Fans fluttered. Eyes glistened with cruel delight. Even among the other maidens, a few lips twitched, a few shoulders relaxed—as though relieved not to be the target. Kiyomi stood very still. Her hands at her sides clenched the folds of her gown, moonlight silk now suddenly paper-thin beneath the weight of scorn. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears.
The King's voice returned, unhurried. "You may clean up after the others today."
It was not a jest. Not a punishment. It was an order cloaked in casual disdain. The sound of shifting silks and stifled gasps rippled behind her, but no one stepped forward. No one objected. The guards remained impassive. The nobles smirked into their sleeves. The royal scribes kept their heads bowed, ink brushes frozen mid-stroke. And still, the King did not look back. His dismissal was complete. Kiyomi's face burned, her body a statue carved from shame. But she bowed—slow, deliberate, refusing to let them see her tremble, the way a servant would. "As His Majesty commands," she said. But inside her head, a voice—her own, unfamiliar—whispered like flint meeting stone: He will remember my name soon enough. She took it all in, every sneer, every name, every word they said, every silence that screamed louder than mockery. She would remember this, and she meant it.
As the courtiers began to shuffle out, whispering of humiliation, of cruelty, of madness, a bell tolled above them all. The sound vibrated through the stone bones of the palace. All eyes turned toward the high watchtower where the judges had gathered. A scroll was lifted into view. A formal seal pressed in blood-red ink. "The first trial begins at dawn," a herald announced. Whispers surged—what kind of trial? Physical? Mental? Deadly? The first culling, already? Questions bloomed like thorns. Kiyomi rose and met Yuna's eyes across the room. The gentle maiden's gaze was kind—but wary. Already, the ground was shifting.
The war had truly begun!