After The Gala

The palace hadn't slept. Not truly. Not after a gala like that. Silk had rustled over stone tiles well past the fourth watch, and the scent of crushed plum wine still clung to the lotus corridors. And though no official proclamations had been made, the court already hummed with the conviction that something had changed. The King had danced-but only once-with Lady Chiyo. And of course, there was Prince Naoya, whose smile toward Kiyomi had been so publicly polished that even the koi in the east pond were rumored to be gossiping about it.

"They say she spent the night in his chambers."

Someone whispered at the tea garden, loudly enough to be overheard.

"Don't be absurd,"

replied another, fanning herself too fast.

"Everyone knows the Prince only sleeps with danger."

"Exactly,"

came the reply.

Rumors bloomed like mold in the morning heat. One claimed Kiyomi was working as a spy sent by a rival clan to seduce both the King and the Prince simultaneously. Another said she hadn't danced at all-that it had been a clever illusion orchestrated by Prince Naoya to throw the other maidens off.

Even the King's silence added to the confusion. He hadn't spoken a word about her. Not in public. Not in council. Not to the Dowager. And that was precisely what made the whispers grow teeth.

"If he hated her, he'd dismiss her. If he desired her, he'd visit. But silence? That's worse. That means he's watching."

Kiyomi heard these rumours, but said nothing. She smiled at no one. She spent the morning polishing her calligraphy brush and writing a letter she did not send. The quiet unnerved them more than a threat.

"Still waters,"

her maid Hana murmured,

"Often hide monsters."

But even Hana couldn't say whether she meant the other maidens... or the King.

The palace continued to buzz like a hive doused in honey and secrets. By dawn, the corridors were already bloated with whispers. Word of the gala had spread like fire across dry silk. Some claimed Prince Naoya had kissed Kiyomi's hand twice-twice!, in full view of the court. Others swore she had whispered something into his ear that made his cheeks flush a scandalous shade of crimson.

A few particularly dramatic maids insisted the King had left the gala early and had changed after the gala. Something in his gaze-colder, sharper. That he'd refused wine that night, his goblet left untouched, rim kissed only by moonlight. That he hadn't spoken to Prince Naoya in private since the last dance, which was scandalous in itself-brothers didn't go silent without reason, especially not when a woman was involved. Especially not that woman.

Then came the rumors that he'd returned to his study immediately after the festivities and drawn a portrait of Kiyomi by candlelight, lines obsessive, her eyes too alive. That he stared at it for hours before throwing it into the fire... or hiding it beneath his bed... or bringing it to the Royal Temple to have it blessed by the High Priest, though even Jirou would not confirm. One maid claimed she saw him gazing into the flames, lips parted like he'd been kissed by a ghost. Another swore he whispered her name-"Kiyomi"-as if it were both a curse and a prayer.

The court artists were divided. Some argued no such portrait could exist- Kaito only drew when disturbed. Others said he always sketched the women he wanted... just before destroying them. 

"He's either obsessed,"

 one court lady whispered behind her fan, 

"or he's preparing her funeral."

And still another dared to suggest he already knew her. Had always known her. That this life was not the first where they'd met. It wasn't just the royals under scrutiny. Naoya, ever the charming serpent, had been unusually quiet the next morning. His servants said he didn't rise until noon. That his sheets were untouched. That his tea was cold. That he'd smiled when no one was looking. Or perhaps it wasn't a smile at all, but the kind of smirk one wears when a plan is going exactly as intended.

Regardless, the outcome was the same: Kiyomi no Tsukihara wasn't just the disgraced noblewoman. She was the mystery. And the mystery was dangerous.

Among the other maidens, the air turned tight. Ayaka started wearing kohl to make her eyes more "regal," and Suzume began sleeping with rose quartz under her pillow, claiming it kept her aura pure. Reina requested a private audience with a temple priestess who specialized in "male attention spells," while Chiyo began fasting-allegedly to cleanse herself for divine favor, though everyone noticed she'd also begun eyeing her competition with a strategist's hunger.

Meanwhile, Lady Kaede hired a shaman from the mountains, paying in pearls just to be told which color of sash the King's heart beat for. It was blue. Or red. Possibly both. The shaman died the next day from "sash confusion."

None of them suspected Kiyomi's greatest weapon was neither magic nor vanity-but silence. That, and the ability to observe. She knew who woke early. Who left their room at night. Who cried when they thought no one could hear. She watched, and she waited. Like a blade beneath a pillow.

The King had made no public remarks about the gala. But the garden maidens said his windows stayed lit long after midnight. That he'd broken a brush mid-stroke while writing in the royal archive. That he'd refused to take tea. The court spun these crumbs into whole conspiracies. Had he danced with anyone? Only once with Lady Chiyo. But even that had ended early. One rotation, one cool nod, and he had returned to his throne with the grace of a winter storm. Cold. Predictable. Except when it came to her.

And then came the rumors of the next trial.

Across the palace, the maidens began preparing. Or what passed for preparation among women who had never fought for anything but vanity and marriage. Lady Suzume sharpened her fan like a weapon, muttering about strategy. Ayaka tried to buy a love charm from a monk, only to be told that curses cost extra.

Reina was caught interrogating the court astrologer about the next full moon, as if starlight could undo rivals. Even Chiyo, always serene, had reportedly burned an effigy in secret and prayed to a forgotten spirit for favor. The court hadn't seen ambition like this in decades. It wasn't just politics anymore-it was performance. Every maiden wanted to be the story. But Kiyomi already was.

By the next day, whispers of the second trial had begun to spill beyond the court. No one knew the truth. No one official, that is. But someone had leaked a phrase-a single, cryptic phrase-scribbled on a parchment being spotted near the Royal Shrine.

"Shōjun – Submission."

The name alone-Shōjun-was enough to ignite a wildfire of absurd, tantalizing theories. It slid off tongues like a forbidden prayer, ancient and unspeakably ominous. Within hours of the parchment being spotted near the Royal Shrine, it had already become palace poison: whispered in lacquered hallways, scribbled into folded fans, and murmured behind painted screens like some half-forgotten curse. No one really knew what the word meant, but that didn't stop anyone from pretending they did.

Would the maidens be forced to kneel before the King and surrender a secret? Strip away pride and offer a kiss to prove their loyalty? Or worse-bleed for him? One version, popular among the kitchen staff, claimed it was a brutal rite where the women had to confess their darkest shame while walking barefoot across burning embers.

Another, more theatrical theory from Lady Kaede's seamstress insisted the trial involved whispering monks lined in a corridor, each demanding a different truth in exchange for safe passage. The youngest servant girl swore she overheard a noble say the King would sit on a throne of swords and

"Judge the softness of their hearts by the sound of their screams."

Everyone gasped. And everyone believed her.

Some said it was a trial of silence, a test of endurance so harrowing that not even a breath could escape their lips. Others claimed it would involve cold-ice baths, winter fasting, the chill of isolation. Suzume, who had begun wearing white jasmine behind her ears

"To please the ancestors,"

Declared it was definitely about fire. Her evidence? A fox-shaped scorch mark she found on her sleeve.

"A sign,"

She said gravely, though many suspected she'd stood too close to the incense brazier.

By midday, Reina was weeping in the temple garden, demanding the gods

"Tell her if her love would burn or bloom,"

While Ayaka refused her midday rice to make her spirit lighter, so she could "float over any flames." Chiyo locked herself in her chambers and sent for three separate fortune tellers-none of whom agreed on anything. One said she would emerge victorious. The second said she would bleed. The third said she'd lose her favorite sandal. Chiyo immediately ordered a dozen new pairs, just in case.

Meanwhile, Kiyomi said nothing. She did not ask Hana for ointments. She did not burn offerings at the ancestral altar or pray to questionable spirit jars like Reina. She spent her time copying ancient poetry in near-perfect brushstrokes, letting silence drape around her like a robe. And that silence? It made the others furious. What did she know that they didn't? Was she arrogant? Or clever? Was she blessed... or cursed? No one could tell. And the more she said nothing, the more everyone talked.

And Kiyomi? She just polished her brush.

That night, as the lamps dimmed and the corridors emptied, a shadow stopped outside her screen door. Her heart stuttered. One step. Then two. The rustle of silk. A pause.

"Kiyomi," came a voice, low and quiet.

Not Naoya.

Not Hana.

She turned. Slowly.

And there, outlined in moonlight, stood the King.