Chapter 6: The Poisoned Plum

Chapter 6: The Poisoned Plum

Lord Nobunaga arrived on a wave of cloying plum blossom perfume and quiet, arrogant authority. He was the poisoned plum her father intended to force-feed her—beautiful on the outside, rotten to the core. He was exactly as the rumors described: tall, elegantly attired in silks the color of a stormy sea, and handsome in a way that was sharp and predatory. His face was a mask of courtly perfection, but his eyes, narrow and dark, held a cold, dismissive light that appraised everything and everyone as though calculating their worth, and finding it wanting.

He was everything Akina despised, a more polished, more venomous version of the nobles she had mocked at the poetry gathering.

She met him in the grand receiving hall, the same room where she had recited her insulting poem. Today, however, the mood was not one of elegant boredom, but of thick, political tension. Her father, Lord Satomi, was effusive, his laughter a little too loud, his praise for Nobunaga's clan a little too lavish. Akina stood beside him, a perfect porcelain doll in a kimono of pale lavender, her face a serene, emotionless mask.

Behind her, near the painted screen depicting a tranquil mountain pass, stood Kenji. Since their clandestine meeting in his quarters, he had retreated further into himself, becoming more shadow than man. The professional distance between them was now a chasm of unspoken things. Yet, Akina was constantly aware of him. She could feel his presence like a low hum beneath the surface of the stilted conversation, a grounding force in a world of slippery words and false smiles. The memory of his rough, warm hand in hers was a secret anchor.

"Your daughter is as lovely as they say, Lord Satomi," Nobunaga said, his voice smooth as polished jade. His gaze swept over Akina, lingering for a moment on the mole beneath her eye. It was not a look of admiration; it was the look of a merchant inspecting a prized mare before purchase. "A jewel for my household."

"She is spirited," her father replied with a weak chuckle. "She has a keen mind for the arts."

"I am sure she does," Nobunaga murmured, a thin, cruel smile playing on his lips. He turned his gaze to a young servant girl refilling a sake cup, his eyes lingering on her trembling hands. "Discipline and a firm hand can sharpen any tool, can they not?" The servant flinched and spilled a single drop of sake on the lacquered tray. Nobunaga's smile didn't waver, but a coldness radiated from him that made the girl go pale.

Akina's blood ran cold. This was his nature. A casual cruelty, wielded with the same effortless grace as the fan he now opened. He would not just cage her; he would break her wings, feather by feather, for his own amusement. A surge of defiant terror rose in her throat. She would rather die. She would rather throw herself from the highest castle wall than belong to this man.

And in that moment of desperate clarity, a plan formed. It was a wicked, dangerous plan, born of fear but sharpened by the memory of Kenji’s protectiveness. Nobunaga was a poison, but perhaps she could use that poison to draw out an antidote. She could use her genuine hatred for this man to shatter the last of Kenji’s infuriating control.

Later that afternoon, under the pretense of showing their guest the famous Satomi gardens, she put her plan into motion. Her father, occupied with Nobunaga's advisors, had left them to a supervised stroll. Supervised, of course, by Kenji, who followed a discreet ten paces behind, his gaze sweeping the surroundings, his posture a study in coiled readiness.

Akina led Nobunaga toward a secluded part of the garden, a quiet alcove formed by weeping cherry trees and moss-covered stones. It was beautiful, serene, and offered just enough privacy to feel intimate, while still being in Kenji’s line of sight.

"Your estate is… peaceful, my lady," Nobunaga observed, his tone suggesting it was a flaw. "My own lands are closer to the border. The air is sharper there. It keeps the mind from growing dull."

"Some might find peace a worthy goal, my lord," Akina replied, her voice sweet, but with an edge he couldn't miss.

He stopped and turned to her, his smile tightening. "Peace is the luxury of the protected. Women and priests pray for peace. Men make it." He stepped closer, invading her personal space. "You will learn the difference when you are my wife."

This was her moment. She did not shrink back. Instead, she looked him directly in the eye, a flicker of her old defiance surfacing. "And what if I have no interest in learning such a lesson?"

Nobunaga's mask of courtly grace finally cracked. A flash of genuine anger darkened his eyes. "You have no 'interest' beyond what I deem it to be," he said, his voice dropping to a low hiss. "You are a political bargain, Lady Akina. A beautiful, well-bred vessel for my heirs. Nothing more. Your opinions are trinkets you will soon learn to discard."

He reached out and seized her arm, his grip surprisingly strong, his fingers digging into her flesh through the fine silk. "You will learn your place, little songbird. You belong to me now."

The touch was reptilian, cold and possessive. A wave of real panic, hot and suffocating, washed over her. Her clever game had suddenly become terrifyingly real. Her performance dissolved into genuine fear.

"Let go of me," she gasped, trying to pull away, but his grip only tightened, bruising her.

"Not until you understand," he sneered, pulling her closer.

"Kenji!"

The name was torn from her throat, a cry that was half-command, half-plea. It was not the call of a lady to her guard; it was the cry of a woman in peril, calling for her protector.

The world seemed to slow. Nobunaga froze, startled by the sheer force in her voice. He turned his head just as Kenji’s massive form filled the space beside them. He had covered the ten paces in what felt like a single, silent stride. He wasn't even breathing hard.

Kenji did not draw his sword. He didn’t need to. His presence alone was a physical force, a wall of pure menace that sucked the air from the peaceful garden alcove. His eyes, fixed on Nobunaga’s hand clamped around Akina’s arm, were not the calm pools she knew, nor the cold, lethal lights of the market. They were something else entirely. They were blazing with a raw, possessive fury that was utterly terrifying and deeply personal. It was the look of a man witnessing the desecration of something sacred.

"Lord Nobunaga," Kenji’s voice was unnaturally quiet, a low rumble that vibrated in the air. "The lady is feeling unwell. She requires rest."

It was a formal excuse, a diplomatic lie, but the tone was an unmistakable threat. It said, Release her now, or I will tear your hand from her arm, and damn the consequences.

Nobunaga, for all his arrogance, was no fool. He was a predator who recognized a more dangerous one. He saw the promise of brutal, immediate violence in Kenji’s eyes. A flicker of fear, quickly masked by fury, crossed his face. With a contemptuous sneer, he released Akina’s arm, shoving her slightly.

"Then by all means, see to your fragile mistress," he spat, his glare promising retribution. "It seems she needs a keeper more than a husband." He straightened his fine kimono, shot one last venomous look at Akina, and stalked back toward the main house.

The silence he left behind was deafening. Akina stood trembling, rubbing her arm where the ghost of his grip still burned. Kenji did not move. He was staring at the red marks beginning to form on her pale skin, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle jumped rhythmically beneath his beard. The fury in his eyes had not subsided; it had simply been banked, like coals glowing white-hot in a forge.

He finally raised his gaze to meet hers. The world of duty, honor, and social chasms collapsed in that single look. All she saw was the raw, unguarded truth: a dangerous, protective jealousy that went far beyond the duties of a simple guard.

"You should not provoke such men, my lady," he said, his voice strained.

But Akina heard the words he did not say. I cannot bear to see him touch you.

She had played with fire, and now the whole world felt combustible. She had her proof. The unbreakable man was not only breaking, but he was prepared to burn for her. And looking at the controlled inferno in his eyes, Akina felt a terrifying, exhilarating thrill. The game was no longer a game. It was a war, and she had just chosen her champion.