The faint glow of the town seeped through the gauzy silk curtains of Saekidō’s private chambers, soft and distant like a forgotten dream. The faint call of a bamboo wind chime echoed somewhere in the garden, stirring the stillness. Saekidō turned over on his futon with a weary sigh, surrendering the battle of waking.

With languid grace, he reached toward the lacquered nightstand, fingers curling around his kiseruzutsu. He took a slow drag, allowing the smoke to coil about his face. A hand slid back through his long jet-black hair, untangling knots born of uneasy sleep. His eyes drifted toward the door, already heavy with dread for the day ahead.

With the quiet resignation of ritual, Saekidō slipped from his futon. The crimson glow of paper lanterns painted shadows across the expanse of his bare back, tracing the lines of a body both hardened by time and preserved by discipline. He shrugged into his robes—layers of scarlet and gold brocade reserved only for the tayū, the master of the house. Though he despised the responsibilities the title carried, it was still a preferable fate to being another man wrapped in silks for the amusement of passing women.

He stood before his mirror, admiring the untouched grace of his reflection. Though nearing his forty-ninth year, his face remained smooth, untouched by time—eyes sharp, lips bowed with cold charm. Only the weight in his gaze betrayed his age.

A knock broke his reverie. His eyes flicked to the doorway.

One of the younger attendants—a trainee yet to earn his full courtesan name—bowed low in the threshold, his voice a nervous tremor. “Lord Saekidō, the house is preparing to open.” The boy fidgeted, avoiding eye contact. Saekidō did not turn from his reflection.

“Thank you. Ensure the others are awake and see to it they don’t start clawing at each other before the lanterns are lit. I’m not inclined to begin my morning with a headache.”

“Yes, my lord,” the boy murmured before retreating with a rustle of robes.

Saekidō stared at his reflection a moment longer.

Once, not so long ago, he had been like that young attendant. Young. Fragile. Sold. Nineteen and naive, an heir of a noble house in Kyoto, lured by a woman’s smile and a promise of love. He had followed her, willingly, stupidly, to her hometown—and there, she had sold him like livestock to Yurihana. Discarded. Forgotten.

The rage had come after. The despair. The shame. From heir to property. But unlike the others, he had clawed his way up. He seduced power, learned every secret the previous master kept. When that old man withered into the grave, Saekidō rose from the ashes wearing his silks.

And yet, even now, after three decades... he knew he was still not free.

His geta clicked across polished wood as he stepped into the main corridor. The morning light dappled the hallway through slatted shōji screens, and the soft trickle of a stone fountain in the central courtyard filled the air with calm. Plum blossoms floated on the surface of koi ponds, their scent mingling with incense and camellia oil. Saekidō closed his eyes and let the aroma settle in his lungs.

Then the spell broke.

Raised voices echoed from the west wing—two courtesans bickering over some drunken patron’s affections from the night before. Saekidō’s eyes narrowed. He said nothing. He would not waste his breath on pettiness today.

He made his way to the reception hall. The scent of cherry wood and rice paper was strongest here, mingled with the sound of flirtation and laughter. Women—ladies of wealth and status—giggled behind delicate fans, their cheeks flushed as the courtesans whispered poetry into their ears.

Saekidō managed the coin. He nodded at each patron, led them to private banquet rooms behind embroidered curtains, where the courtesan they chose awaited with lacquered shamisen and warm sake.

A soft bell rang as the front door slid open. Another guest. He did not bother to look up from the ledger—until he felt it.

Her presence. Her scent. Her silhouette. Her eyes.

His gaze rose slowly—and for a heartbeat, the world stood still.

The young woman who approached the counter bore a face that struck him like a blade, the same eyes, the same hair, even the tilt of her nose. Shimo. The woman who had shattered him.

But it could not be her. Shimo would be in her seventies by now. An old hag, not this.

His stomach tightened. A thousand thoughts clawed up from memory.

What trick is this? Is this her daughter? Her blood? That wretched woman... what did she send me now?

Before he could speak, a familiar voice intruded, casual and smug.

“Saekidō,” said Ren, one of the most famous courtesans. He stood beside you with that insufferable grin. “This is the new guest. It’s her first time here. Poor thing doesn’t know which flower to choose.”

Saekidō’s lips curled into a slow, practiced smile. He dipped his head ever so slightly, letting his long hair cascade over one shoulder like a silk curtain.

Yes, this is it. The daughter. The key. The blade of revenge had rested too long in its sheath.

“Well now,” he murmured, voice low and gravel-rich, “you don’t say?” His gaze trailed slowly down your form, unhurried, as though reading a scroll.

Most women come here seeking fantasy. A dream in silk. And though I’ve long since retired from taking clients... for you, my dear, I would make an exception.