Chapter Text
“In time, thou shalt bear a daughter, and she shan’t command rule o’er the kingdom.”
So it was written, whispered in fearful tones, a promise, a curse. This predetermined ending, carved in stone, repeated ad nauseam to every new patriarch who claimed the Suou name. Yet not a hint of it reached the public's ears—the dread passed itself down from father to son like a scalding blade, each generation sharpening it with their own anxiety.
Until it reached her.
According to the pristine pages of an old book—stashed away in the Suou clan's private library—these ominous-sounding words were a prophecy. Spoken by a hooded wise crone to the very founder of their bloodline some three hundred or so years ago, it was one simple, singular sentence. And still, it shaped the entirety of Tsukasa's life.
Her father cursed it aloud on the day of her birth: "Oh, this cannot be! My Lord, why must You rain Your punishment down now? Why must my wife bear a daughter?"
Statistically speaking—and Tsukasa knows this well enough herself—expecting a streak of firstborn sons to last three centuries is ridiculous. Every child is a coin toss.
She was just the first to come up tails.
They crowned her with a male name. They bound her chest—tight and hidden, as if it were something shameful. Perhaps the Lord’s final mercy was giving her a voice lower than most girls her age. When Tsukasa peered into the mirror, the proud preteen son of the Suou clan stared back at her.
The inquisitive son of the Suous studied the boys his age and wondered: What are they thinking? What is their thought process?
What made her so fundamentally different from them?
A childhood friend of his once proclaimed in a singsong shriek: "Tsukasa isn't like the rest of us! Tsukasa isn't like the rest of us!" The son of the Suous spoke none in response. He was far more dignified than that loud, lesser noble.
Quietly, in the solitude of her chambers, the only place truly hers, the daughter of the Suous wept. This child, not even ten years of age, lamented the fact that the loud boy was right. Try as Tsukasa might to disguise herself, she was a living ghost in the end. The daughter of the Suous is not permitted an existence.
The masses cry for their prince. And so, the girl vanished.
It wasn’t like a tsunami crashing down on a sandcastle, washing it away in an instant. No—she simply eroded. A slow conversion of states, like grains in an hourglass slipping from one end to the other.
Tsukasa internalized it all—the barrage of lessons, the etiquette drills, the unspoken rules of nobility. A step-by-step guide to becoming the perfect son. She raised her chin until the softness of "a girl who could never be" dissipated, ages of burying that poor child until ten years had flown by.
Even now, when Tsukasa woke each morning, it was the proud, noble (et cetera) son of the Suous who stared back from the mirror. The son flashed her a practiced grin and dressed himself layer by layer; first was the disguise, the chains locking down a treasure chest. Next was the undershirt, unnecessarily fancy with patterns that would be disguised by the outer layers, and—
“—Prince Tsukasa, are you listening to my words?”
The voice recalled her back to the present: the council chamber, the polished wood, the judging eyes of nobles waiting for her answer. The proud son of the Suou clan sat straight-backed at the head of the table. He blinked once. An ever-present smile played on his lips.
“Of course,” Tsukasa said with ease, as if the ghost within him hadn’t just brushed against the shell of who he is supposed to be. “Do continue.”
The noble—was this the haughty one or the reserved one? For the life of her, Tsukasa cannot remember. All of them slithered like snakes beneath her feet, waiting for her to slip so they might bite into exposed flesh. She trusted the son of the Suous to remember rather than herself.
Either way, the noble humphed in his seat, adjusting the outermost layer of clothing on his body. “As I was saying—the border garrisons to the east are requesting reinforcements again. Another skirmish with the cockroaches..." At that particular word, Tsukasa gave the man a pointed look, and the man clammed up, all eyes in the room drawing themselves to him.
Tsukasa did not bother to suppress her sigh. “Even if I have heard tales time and time again of the Tsukinagas' barbaric nature, implying they are little more than cockroaches... that would mean our illustrious kingdom has lost time and time again to 'cockroaches.'”
The exhale that puffed its way out of her mouth was heavy with weariness. Are all her fellow bourgeois doing these days slinging petty, childish insults? “Sir, as they are the Suous' old sworn enemy, we should treat them with a certain level of respect, much like how we treat lions. Thus, I do not advise treating them as vermin. After all, it is no good if we are stamped out by 'vermin'... yes?”
The noble quivered in his seat—with the right framing, an insult to the Tsukinaga clan had turned into one against their very kingdom—such is the silver tongue of their prince. The council tore the noble apart with their eyes, for the Suou clan never lacked pride, and now he dared to degrade it!
And so the rest of the meeting meandered toward meaningless ends. Tsukasa said what she must, smiled when her judgment said she had to. And all the while, she felt it—that heat at her back, nobles burning holes into her skin. No respect or loyalty shimmered in their watchful eyes—only the flicker of fire waiting for kindling.
She swept through the chamber doors with a practiced grandeur, the weight of expectation draped over her shoulders like a cloak. A perfect son of the Suous, the image whispered. Untouchable, impeccable.
Yes. With this sort of countenance, no one should be able to doubt her being. She is the rightful heir to the Suou bloodline. She is a man where it matters. The prophecy, that cursed thing, has no power over someone who plays the role so flawlessly.
If Tsukasa Suou lives and dies as a man, then that ancient declaration should not hold any bearing, yes?
A man’s sharp voice rose behind her, cutting through the clatter of nobles. "The prince is smiling!"
Her hand twitched. Instinct nearly drove it to her mouth, but she caught herself. Another man leaned close to the first while their fellow rich flowed around them. His voice dripped with wry amusement. "He must have enjoyed putting that disgrace in its place."
Sounds mimicking laughter joined heavy footsteps. Tsukasa stood stiff, head raised higher so no one could read the uncertainty in her eyes. So her thorns were more striking than the delicate petals they shielded.
She must hone herself sharper than any sword. She has to—
As Tsukasa turned the corner, muffled laughter leaked from the adjoining corridor.
"Oh, our little prince thinks he has the right to command armies just because he learned a few lines from a book," a woman scoffed. "Is it not pathetic? What sort of leader holes away in a castle while their men die?!"
"It's an embarrassment," a haughty lady hissed in agreement. "An heir who's never bloodied a blade. Who knows if he even can? I for one think it is foolish that we have an heir whose constitution is ‘unfit for violence.'"
Their ugly joint sound reverberated in her skull. How amusing would it be, she wondered, to step into view—watch them scramble for apologies and hollow tributes? Tsukasa's footsteps slowed, but never quite halted. What good would it do? The son of the Suous was someone who never stooped to that level. Even in her position, she never reveled in the suffering of people—she simply could not, not when she herself was under duress.
Her boots struck the floor with sharp, deliberate force. Servants dipped into bows as she passed—automatic, meaningless gestures that blurred at the edges of her vision. Tsukasa saw only the path ahead.
Finally, her door loomed into view—and if she slammed it hard enough to make the hinges protest, well, that was her choice. Her private chamber, where she had wept, rejoiced, and rehearsed her every smile, greeted her with an uneasy silence.
The gilded mirror, gifted by her father on her sixteenth birthday, waited beside the door, a silent sentry. A tall, opulent thing that most would be joyful to own.
Unless, of course, your name happened to be Tsukasa Suou—the reflective pane oft seemed to be more a curse than a blessing. A bitter scoff (almost echoing the women’s laughter) escaped her as she, without ceremony, tore a nearby cloth from a side table and flung it over the glass. The soft fall of fabric muffled her distorted reflection.
Here, Tsukasa peeled and tore away the skin of the puppet prince: the dark coat laced with a color shining like gold, the structured under-jacket that pulled her posture straight, the fancy beige shirt... every bit of it crumpled into a wrinkled pile. She could almost breathe. Still, her lungs could never hold enough air. Not with...
Tsukasa's gaze dropped to the bandages that kept her chest under lock and key. Her hands hovered over the tightly layered binds, balling into fists to stop the tremble that overcame them.
She had undressed in a haze, fury in every motion. But now, now her hands turned clammy. Sweat beaded at her brow. She always told herself she looked forward to this moment, the shedding of the prince's visage. The sweet freedom she told herself it came with! But when it came time to remove the bindings, she never knew if it made her feel pathetic or just… empty.
She stared at her hands as if they belonged to someone else. Tsukasa's bare legs recoiled at the chill that assaulted them, unwilling to hold up a back that held so many expectations. All she could really do was stumble toward the bed in the moonlight, then pause, glaring at the last layer she had yet to shed.
Her fingers hung over the bandages. Picking. Unpicking. Pausing.
Then, from beneath the cloth (that blessed shroud shielding her from the truth), a voice rang out—sharp and low. "What are you doing?"
Ah. If there was ever proof she was unfit to lead the Suou clan, this was it—she was hearing voices. Not one person on this globe deserves to lead armies if they suffer from delusions. Had a spirit wormed its way into her mirror to mime her shame? Or had Tsukasa's dear father dusted off a haunted relic to keep her in line?
"Is that what the sheltered son of the Suous wishes to think?" The voice, so unlike hers, yet molded with the disapproval of every family lesson, scoffed. “Your conduct has become unsightly,” he said, the tone ever so frigid. “Although I am more than willing to take your part in the day, this—” He gestured with his chin to the wrinkled, discarded fineries strewn about at her feet. “—is not how a son of the Suou household should act.”
He stood there—her, but not. The son of the Suous: tall, poised, eternal. Nary a hair out of place; no room for grief in his eyes.
“...Is that not your problem?” Tsukasa muttered, her voice cracking in the middle. Lethargic, she rose from the bed with furrowed eyebrows, stepping ever so closer to her 'ideal' image. “I am not their son. You are aware of that.” She tightened her grip on the bindings. “I am merely a ghost residing in your body.”
The cloth rustled on the mirror. Her imagination betrayed her—she heard him shift. Though his face never betrayed any feeling, there was always that small bit of disdain sewn into his vocal cords.
"You speak as if you are the daughter of a renowned clan with the freedom to do whatever it is she wishes," the reflection crossed his arms. Tsukasa’s hands, in contrast, were suspended—always lingering, always primed to free her from the shackles that stole her breath.
"I’m sure Father had choice words about that, no? We Suous are prideful, not cruel. We are not like the Tsukinagas—those tyrants who twist their power for sport." As if pondering over something, he paused before a smile etched itself on his lips. "Besides... it is not you who lives, but I."
A simple fact. One the tightly wound binds reminded Tsukasa of every waking hour. But even then—
"Of... of course I have freedom! Of course I have a choice in the matter, I—!" The outburst fractured something in her voice. Desperate to reclaim something—anything—Tsukasa tore at the bandages. The fabric resisted, then gave with a painful snap. The sudden frost nipped at her bare skin, biting and bitter.
So this was the freedom she’d clung to. It didn’t feel like liberation. It felt hotly of exposure, of shame, of opening a box containing a great many disasters—
The bandages in her whitening fists burned like coals. She dropped them. They fluttered to the floor, lifeless, too soft to scream. She turned from the mirror, unable to face the shape of herself—the soft curves that had always been a reason for why no one believed in her. No matter how sharp her words—no matter how she managed the politics with finesse and ease.
Tsukasa threw on a robe with frantic urgency, as if that thin fabric could seal her away again. The breeze brushed against her skin like a rebuke, and the hot shame blooming in her chest calcified into numbness. Even the Suou prince she performed as each day felt distant now, exiled.
She didn’t bother to light a candle. The only witness to her undoing was the moonlight bleeding through the curtains—cold and silver.
There, in the quiet, Tsukasa curled in on herself, shrinking down, smaller and smaller, until she no longer resembled a prince at all. 'Ah, this can't go on,' the traitorous thought that flitted in her mind was enough to begin a storm. She felt every bit of it humming underneath the blanket, an urge to use her feet and run. 'I can't live like this anymore, I...'
In the midst of her rumination, her eyes (the only thing popping out from the heavy covers) drifted to the moon. The moon, huh… wasn’t that what the Tsukinagas’ name meant? Tsukasa took an embarrassing moment to recollect it properly. "Eternal Moon." Oh, that was it. How funny, then, that the only thing to see her as she was in her entirety was a symbol of the Tsukinagas, her so-called enemies.
A pang of something close to irony twisted in her chest. The sun was supposed to rise above the moon. The Suous, above the Tsukinagas. And yet—
She stuck her tongue out, childish and defiant, the way she once did as a young girl in secret. “I do hope you’re enjoying the show, 'Eternal Moon.'"
It was the closest thing to freedom she'd tasted all day.
When Tsukasa woke each morning, it was the proud son of the Suous that stared back at her—ah, she doesn't have the energy for this performance today. Forget it. The only thing that returned her gaze in the mirror was just a sleep-deprived ghost with dark, sagging eyebags.
“Ugh.” She didn’t have the strength to face her reflection, let alone the nobles. The Tsukinagas must have cursed her in her sleep—nothing else could explain the two hours of tossing, turning, and reliving last night on an endless loop. And all that for one, single, petty gesture.
Dragging her feet through the ritual, she shrugged off her robe and reached for the familiar cloth. Tsukasa's fingers moved with a lack of energy as she bound herself again. When the mirror—equally tired and unable to argue—reflected a flat, Suou-approved silhouette, she gave a curt nod. That would suffice.
She wobbled to the door, cracked it open, and found the poor guard standing at attention.
“S-Sir,” she croaked, a hand to her throat. The soldier outside straightened, and Tsukasa blinked with heavy eyelids. “Would you... (cough, hack) please inform my father that I’ve come down with something unfortunate?”
The guard’s brow rose a fraction. Years of training had taught him not to question the whims of nobility—especially the Suou heir. With a nod and a bow, he turned and disappeared down the corridor.
Tsukasa closed the door with deliberate care, then slumped against it with a sigh that left her in one long breath. Her eyes drifted to the ornate mirror beside the entrance. Ah—so the cloth she’d flung over it last night had slipped to the floor. Of course it had.
The figure appeared there with little fanfare: upright and composed, eternally unbothered. Tsukasa blinked and braced herself for the usual tirade, for the heir’s silver-tongued critique, a command to rise and perform her role with dignity.
But instead, the heir of the Suou line sighed—a soft, weary echo of her own. “I concede,” he said, almost gently. A foreign sound, strange in her ears. “We are human, after all. Not machines like the watermill, built to run without pause.”
Tsukasa stared at him, her eyes heavy with sleep. Of all things, she hadn’t expected mercy. How curious. “If that’s all you have to say,” she murmured, already half-turned, “then I am going to recuperate in bed.”
To her surprise, the mirror image simply nodded—and then shimmered out of sight. She supposed the fiendish thing had made a point to never contradict himself. "We are prideful, not cruel," he had said.
...At least, Tsukasa can enjoy the temporary peace that has shone upon her before the nurses, like clockwork, burst in to check on her health.