Yukiori loved hearing Momoto Ichi speak of the outside world—a realm, in Momoto's tales, overrun by cursed spirits, fraught with danger.
Momoto hadn't lied, but in the capital, guarded by sorcerers, no cursed spirit dared slaughter civilians recklessly.
"Yukiori, you're safe here. Stay, and if you grow bored… I'll have someone fetch storybooks for you."
Those storybooks, of course, were only given to Yukiori after Momoto's approval.
Momoto wished for Yukiori to remain this pure, a blank canvas he alone would paint.
The mere thought sent a thrill through Momoto, barely contained.
"Thank you, my lord~"
Yukiori was easily pleased, perhaps because he knew no one else would indulge him as his parents once did. No matter how kind Momoto was, he wasn't family.
Yukiori feared Momoto's kindness might one day vanish, so he strove to be obedient, pliant.
Like a small animal—fragile, endearing, instinctively tugging at the heart.
In the courtyard stood an ancient tree, its leaves lush even in autumn. A ladder rested nearby, and Yukiori would climb to perch on a branch, gazing beyond the walls.
He hadn't seen distant vistas in so long. Raising his head, he saw only the courtyard's four walls—Momoto's protection.
Yukiori didn't want to betray Momoto's care, but a young heart's yearning for freedom was unstoppable, despite tales of a perilous world.
This moment, perched on the tree, was glimpsed by prying eyes.
Many sorcerers sought to uncover Momoto's secrets, their curiosity piqued by his heavily guarded courtyard.
Yukiori's silver hair fluttered in the breeze as he reached for the slow-drifting clouds.
His robes swayed, revealing a slender frame, as if the wind might carry him away, stirring an urge to call him back.
Sensing a gaze, Yukiori looked down but found no one. Perhaps it was his imagination.
Here, only the silent servants and Momoto ever spoke to him.
He sat until nightfall.
The evening breeze chilled him, and Yukiori hugged himself, descending the ladder to warm by his room's fire.
A cup of hot tea eased the cold, though he still rubbed his hands together.
The flickering fire drew him into memories.
At this hour, his mother would have held his hands, warming them in hers.
Her touch was so warm, yet Yukiori could no longer recall its comfort.
In that moment, he longed for company—even the mute servants would do.
He glanced at the empty courtyard, then lowered his head.
He wanted to find Momoto, to talk, to confess he missed his parents, that he feared being alone here.
Surely Momoto wouldn't be angry.
With that thought, Yukiori approached a door he'd never opened.
Perhaps the servants never imagined the quiet Yukiori would slip out, so none noticed his absence.
Under a moonlit sky, a flash of white moved through the bamboo grove. Yukiori, lost in vaguely familiar scenery, realized he'd strayed.
Momoto's estate was vast, and Yukiori's courtyard lay at its heart, far from any exit.
After what felt like ages, he spotted a light. Candles burned in a room, its occupant still awake.
Drawing closer, Yukiori heard a familiar voice—Momoto's—calming his heart. He neared the door, ready to enter.
Hesitating, fearing Momoto's anger, he caught another voice—strange, stifled, laced with sobs and whimpers, and…
Yukiori froze, instinct warning him this wasn't the time to enter.
What was happening?
What was Momoto doing, and why those heart-racing sounds?
Raised too sheltered, Yukiori didn't understand the noises, but his human instincts stirred, unsettled by them.
Curiosity overpowered his unease. Like a cat, he peered through the window's paper, eyes tracing the shadows within.
He saw Momoto's back and a young servant boy, about his age, kneeling before him—a boy Yukiori had hoped to befriend.
What was he doing? Why are they like that…
Even Yukiori, naive as he was, realized Momoto wasn't the pure figure he'd imagined.
When Momoto looked up, Yukiori saw his eyes—obsessive, possessive, no different from the monstrous gazes of the cursed villagers.
Stumbling back, Yukiori clamped his hands over his mouth, stifling a gasp.
He couldn't be seen.
He mustn't be caught here.
Fleeing, he didn't hear the murmured call of his name or see Momoto's glance toward the window.
How could Momoto not notice Yukiori's presence? He simply chose not to reveal it.
He wanted to see how Yukiori would react, knowing this side of him. Would he remain the same, or…
Momoto never feared Yukiori's rebellion. He'd subtly shaped Yukiori's heart, fostering dependence.
He'd make Yukiori willingly surrender, relinquish resistance, and learn to accept it all.
"Yukiori, I love you…"
The servant boy flinched, only to be flung meters away by Momoto, crashing into a wooden cabinet.
Momoto spared no pity, despite what had just transpired.
A mere servant, a commoner, was easily dismissed.
He wanted only Yukiori.