The Imperial Palace of Nihonkoku stood like a frozen memory of time, its white towers stretching into the sky like fingers reaching toward the gods. It was a city within a city, guarded by centuries of tradition, an unspoken authority that pulsed through every cherry blossom tree that bloomed inside its courtyard. And it was here, within these timeless walls, that Zen Izami was born.
He did not cry when he came into the world. The midwives whispered that the boy's gaze was too calm, too ancient for a newborn. His sister, Shirayuki, arrived exactly three minutes later, her first breath causing the clocks in the palace to tick out of sync for a moment—so subtle no one noticed, except their mother.
Empress Reika knew. She had felt the same ancient rhythm stir inside her womb long before they were born.
Zen and Shirayuki grew like twin stars orbiting each other. Even in infancy, they shared a bond that needed no words. Zen was quiet, reflective. He could sit for hours by the koi pond in the eastern gardens, watching the fish glide through the water, his fingers gently stirring the surface. Sometimes, the pond would shimmer unnaturally, and the fish would swim in synchronized spirals as though obeying a silent command.
Shirayuki was different. She was always moving—curious, sharp, and unafraid to ask questions that made the scholars uncomfortable. She would sneak into the royal archives at night, reading ancient texts most adults found incomprehensible. At the age of four, she asked a visiting priest if he knew how many dimensions surrounded this world. The man laughed politely. Shirayuki did not.
Every summer, they traveled to Tokyo—the domain of Empress Reika's birth. The Royal House of Akima stood tall over the gleaming capital, a palace woven from glass and steel but rooted in older magic. Here, Zen and Shirayuki met their cousins, Mayamura and Aoi.
Mayamura was a whirlwind. He could summon rain in the gardens when he cried, and when he laughed, the skies cleared. He once guessed every answer to a chess match before it started, unnerving even the Imperial tutors. He spoke quickly, thought faster, and often wandered off mid-conversation to chase clouds or sparks only he could see.
Aoi, by contrast, was gentle. Her presence had a calming effect, like standing in the eye of a storm. Injured birds would land near her, their wings mending overnight. Once, when Zen had a fever, she sat beside him all night humming a lullaby. By morning, his illness had vanished, and the entire palace smelled faintly of lilies.
Though they were royalty, the four children were not raised with the same constraints as others. Their families knew they were not merely heirs to earthly thrones—they were something older, deeper, tied to the very foundation of existence.
Zen was the first to dream of the world before time. He would wake in a cold sweat, his palms glowing faintly with light and darkness swirling together like yin and yang. Shirayuki, who shared his dreams, would hold his hand until the glow faded. She had seen it too—a formless void, a beginning, and an end collapsing into itself.
In the heart of the Tokyo palace, Mayamura once entered a trance and described a storm that hadn't yet happened. "It will strike Kyoto," he said solemnly. "At exactly 3:07 p.m., three days from now. There will be thunder without clouds."
No one believed him. But it happened. Down to the minute.
Aoi's awakening was subtler. A palace guard once drew his sword during a disagreement with an advisor. Aoi, just seven years old, stepped between them. The blade shattered before it touched her. No one could explain it. Later, the guard confessed he felt like a wall of light had pushed him back.
The Empresses of both courts—Reika of Nihonkoku and Sayuri of Tokyo—watched with equal pride and apprehension. The time was nearing. Every thousand years, the balance must be corrected. The gods would descend, walking in human skin, bearing divine purpose. But this time, they had been born, not summoned.
And they were family.
One winter evening, as snow fell gently across the Imperial courtyard, Zen stood with Shirayuki under a bare sakura tree. The branches were coated in frost, the ground silent with hush.
"Do you feel it?" Shirayuki asked softly, her silver eyes reflecting the moonlight.
Zen nodded. "Something's shifting."
She held out her hand, and a faint ripple of energy danced above her palm. "Time is bending around us. We're not like the others."
Zen remained silent for a moment. Then he whispered, "We never were."
At that very moment, Mayamura stood on the rooftop of the Tokyo palace, staring up at the stars. Aoi sat beside him, wrapped in a white cloak.
"They're aligning," Mayamura murmured, pointing to a cluster of constellations. "Same pattern as the scrolls in the Temple of Raijin."
Aoi looked at him calmly. "Do you think it's starting?"
"I don't think," he replied. "I know."
They had always been different—but now they were beginning to understand why.
They were gods reborn. And the world would soon remember.