History never asks if you're ready.
It simply opens the door—
And waits to see if you step in...
or die on the threshold.
⸻
🌸 Morning, Day of the Invitation
I had barely finished brushing my hair when Dōsan entered my room without knocking.
"He arrives at sundown," he said. "Lord Oda Nobunaga. With a retinue. And a proposal."
Now he was being formal, when just the other night, he'd been sneaky. Tsk.
I stared at him, hairpin mid-air.
"And you're telling me this now?"
"Would you rather I told you with Nobunaga standing at your door?"
He tossed a robe onto my bed.
White silk.
Red embroidery.
A crane rising from fire.
"This is the robe of a consort."
⸻
I blinked.
Then blinked again.
The robe glimmered in the sunlight, as if dipped in moonlight and scandal.
Its neckline plunged scandalously low, while its sides flowed like water, parting just enough to reveal bare legs with the slightest move.
It was elegance—woven in seduction.
My entire face flushed red.
"I—I am not wearing that."
Dōsan just laughed. "Then don't."
"Seriously, I wouldn't be caught dead—!"
"Well, then make sure you stay alive," he said with a wink, strolling toward the door. "Do what you want, little one. Just don't keep the the man waiting."
⸻
I pouted and picked up the fabric like it might bite me.
"...What kind of idiot wears this to meet a man who might propose and kill her?"
But even as I muttered, my eyes lingered on the crane.
It looked like it was rising from ashes.
Like a warning.
Or a promise.
⸻
🌸 Later, in the Garden Courtyard
I was pacing.
And breathing.
Mostly breathing.
I had no plan.
No strategy.
Just nerves tangled like thorns in my chest.
When a shadow fell across the stone path.
"You're early," I said aloud, trying to sound composed.
"You're dressed for war," came the voice behind me.
I turned—
And froze.
A man stood there.
Wearing a mask.
Half porcelain, half steel.
It covered one eye, but not the one that gleamed like fire behind a storm.
⸻
My breath caught.
A strange recognition coiled deep in my stomach—
as if I had seen him in a dream that clung to my skin long after I woke.
Or maybe... a memory not quite mine.
"You followed me," I whispered.
"You led," he said simply.
The wind stirred between us, brushing the edge of my sleeve—
like even the air was unsure of what came next.
"What's your name?" I asked.
"Katsuro."
"That's not your real name."
"Neither is Nohime."
Touché.
My fingers curled into my robe.
"Why are you here?"
He didn't answer right away.
Then, softly—like the truth was heavier than it sounded:
"To make sure Nobunaga doesn't do anything foolish again."
"Foolish... you mean me?"
"No," he said, gentler now.
"You're the right kind. Not just for him."
"Then what?"
He tilted his head.
And through that single visible eye, I felt something ancient flicker—
"Lady Helena. You shouldn't have come."
...
And then, just like that—
he was gone.
As if the wind had never parted.
As if he had only been a whisper in my unraveling fate.
What was that about?
I shouldn't have come?
And how did he know my name?
⸻
🌒 Sundown – The Arrival of Nobunaga
The procession thundered into the courtyard—
Samurai in black lacquered armor.
Horses draped in gold-threaded banners.
Drums pounding like the pulse of war itself.
And at the head of it all—
A warhorse.
Tall. Fierce.
Its coat shimmered like obsidian under the waning light.
And riding it—
Oda Nobunaga.
Dressed in white—the color of bold defiance, not surrender.
A ceremonial kimono layered with silver-gray accents,
lightly dusted from the road, but no less regal.
The hilts of his twin swords gleamed at his side.
His hair was tied high, his eyes sharp beneath the shadow of dusk.
The sun, dipping low, caught the edge of his sleeve—
and for a moment,
he looked like a god riding out of history.
My breath hitched.
He was real.
He was the man from the party.
The one who kissed me like he already knew how it would end.
And now he stood before me—
a name I had only ever read in books,
etched into time like flame on parchment.
Not yet the Demon King.
Not yet the man who would rewrite maps with fire.
But already—
carrying the storm like a cloak on his shoulders.
⸻
Oda Nobunaga.
The syllables echoed in my head like warning bells.
And suddenly, the flickers returned—
Cherry blossoms.
A path dappled in pink.
I was walking with him, laughing softly, petals caught in his hair.
Then the scene shifted—
A cliffside.
His hand in mine.
Below us, a castle bathed in moonlight.
Above us, the quiet ache of stars that felt too familiar.
And then—
An embrace in the dark.
A closeness I didn't flinch from.
As if knowing the shape of him, the scent of him, had always been inevitable.
I blinked. The world stilled.
Ink-stained pages.
A quiet library.
A book open on my lap.
That name—bold and inevitable in the footnotes of history.
I had read about him.
Long before I ever met him.
But how?
How did I know him before I even arrived here?
⸻
He walked toward me with the confident calm of a man who had already read tomorrow's headlines.
"Lady Helena," he said, voice like silk-wrapped steel.
"You summoned fate when you danced under the moon.
I came to see if destiny truly favors you."
⸻
My knees bent in a curtsy.
But my lips—trembled.
"And do you believe it does?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
He looked at me—really looked at me.
His gaze slow, tracing my eyes, my posture, the tension in my shoulders.
⸻
Then he smiled faintly.
But it wasn't amusement.
It was something darker.
"That depends," he said. "Will you change history...
or will you become its tragedy?"
I stood frozen, unsure how to reply.
My mind reeling.
A name from a book.
A man from a memory.
A kiss from a stranger.
And somehow...
they were all the same person.
⸻
The banquet hall glowed in soft candlelight.
Silken tapestries lined the walls.
Servants moved with the grace of shadows, refilling cups and placing trays.
We were seated across from each other—
Not beside. Not near enough to touch.
But close enough to feel it.
The pull. The weight. The eyes.
I picked at my food.
Fish glazed in something sweet.
Rice that had gone cold on my plate.
But I barely tasted any of it.
My mind was far too busy conjuring images I didn't remember living—
But somehow missed.
The glint of a blade.
The ache of a goodbye.
The weight of armor pressing down on my chest—
but it wasn't mine.
I looked up.
And he was staring.
Oda Nobunaga.
The man from the party.
The man from my fractured dreams.
The man whose gaze made every phantom memory feel like a truth I had forgotten.
And still—he stared.
Steady. Unmoving.
As if by sheer force of will, he could piece together who I used to be.
I stared back.
And in that heartbeat—
the world slowed.
The sounds faded.
And all I could hear was the sudden thrum in my chest—
Faster.
Louder.
Sharper.
Pain crept up, curling beneath my ribs.
My hand moved to my chest, fingers pressing hard.
Across the table, his eyes flickered.
A crack in the mask.
Just for a moment.
A sliver of panic—raw and real.
He tried to hide it.
But Saitō Dōsan saw.
The old man drank slowly from his goblet,
And smiled.
As if amused.
As if expecting this.