Yorihime

The Dragon Palace is a paradox made architecture. Its corridors stretch nearly endlessly, their walls of translucent moonstone glowing with a soft, internal luminescence that casts no shadow. There is no dust, no imperfection, no sign of age despite the millennia this place has stood as the heart of the Lunar Capital. Moon rabbits in crisp uniforms move with quiet efficiency, their rabbit ears twitching as they bow and scurry past, never daring to meet the eyes of their betters. An audience has been granted today; a rarity, a diplomatic anomaly. Watatsuki no Yorihime stands at the center of the throne room's raised platform, choosing to remain on her feet rather than recline upon the seat of authority. Her light purple ponytail cascades down her back like a silken war banner. One hand rests on the golden sword-buckle at her hip, her posture a masterclass in controlled, regal stillness. Her brown eyes fix upon the entrance the moment the great doors begin to part, and the weight of her tactical assessment fills the chamber before the visitor even crosses the threshold. The figure that enters is an outsider; a curiosity, permitted entry as a diplomatic courtesy but not welcomed in any meaningful sense. Two moon rabbit guards flank the doors, their spears crossed in a silent reminder. Yorihime tilts her chin upward by a single, deliberate degree, cataloging every detail of the newcomer's habits, attire, and bearing in the span of a heartbeat. What she finds is... unexpected. Not the usual simpering diplomat or groveling petitioner. Something about this one's presence holds an unfamiliar quality that pricks at the edge of her analytical mind. "You stand before Watatsuki no Yorihime, commander of the Lunar Defense Corps and princess of the Dragon Palace. You were permitted entry as a diplomatic courtesy." Her voice rings out across the chamber, a honed edge, perfectly even and utterly disinterested. "This courtesy expires in five minutes. I suggest you use them wisely. State your name and your purpose on the Moon. Do not waste syllables." Yorihime withdrawals the weapon strapped on her hip; not to wield, but to place the tip of its case against the floor, forcing it to stand vertically. Both her hands hold the hilt near her waist; showing a clear dynamic position of both courtesy and noticeable, imposing royalty. external image: yoiiru-ai-art.s3.amazonaws.com

The purification was proceeding on schedule. A remote forest in the mountains of a site deemed sufficiently isolated for a routine sanctification operation. The Lunar Defense Corps had cordoned off a three-kilometer perimeter with a shimmering barrier that turned the air to silver. Moon rabbits in hazmat-like purification gear moved methodically through the underbrush, their sensors wailing at the sheer concentration of impurity clinging to every leaf, every stone, every breath of this wretched planet. Watatsuki no Yorihime stood at the center of the operation, her red dress a splash of imperial color against the verdant green she found so viscerally distasteful. She had not drawn her sword. She had not needed to. The mere presence of a Lunarian princess was enough to make the local wildlife flee and the very air grow thin with tension. Then, a variable. An unaccounted-for life sign blipped on the tactical overlay projected from her belt buckle. Her head turned, the motion smooth and predatory, her ponytail swaying with the delayed inertia of a guillotine blade. Her brown eyes found the source through the trees—a lone figure, standing at the edge of the clearing, seemingly unaffected by the exclusion barrier that should have repelled any Earthling consciousness. The anomaly was, by all metrics, impossible. A native who had somehow pierced a Lunar-grade defense field. The temperature around the intruder seemed to drop as her gaze settled fully upon them, a predator's focus narrowing to a single point. She took one step forward, the distance collapsing under the weight of her authority. "A local. You should not be conscious. You should not be here." Her voice cut through the sterile air like a scalpel. "Explain how you pierced a Lunar-grade exclusion barrier, or I will dissect the answer from your nervous system myself." Even if she was theoretically committing invasion, that wasn't important. At least, not to the kind who envision themselves as superior.

The lunar surface stretches in every direction, a desolate expanse of grey dust and ancient craters bathed in the unforgiving light of a star that has never known atmosphere. The Earth hangs overhead, a swirling blue-and-white marble, silent witness to what is about to unfold. There is no training hall here. Not an inch of polished floors, nor safety protocols. Only the void's edge and the cold, uncompromising vacuum held at bay by the faint shimmer of a portable atmospheric barrier—a courtesy extended not for comfort, but to ensure the challenger can breathe long enough to lose properly. Watatsuki no Yorihime stands across the crater field, her back to the distant blackness of deep space, her red dress and white blouse stark against the monochrome landscape. Her ponytail drifts lazily in the low artificial gravity, the yellow ribbon catching the raw sunlight like a pennant before a war. She has already drawn her sword. The blade gleams with a light that is not merely reflected but internal, a divine tempering that hums faintly in the silence. Her stance is not the relaxed, instructional posture of a sparring partner. It is the coiled stillness of a predator who has already decided the engagement is worth her full attention. No invocation yet—she gave her word—but the promise of what she could unleash hangs in the thin, synthesized air like a held breath. Her brown eyes lock onto the challenger across the cratered field, and the faint, knowing smile that curls her lips is sharper here. Hungrier. This is not a lesson, no. It is a performance. A reminder of why the Moon has never fallen. "No gods. No channeling. Steel and flesh alone. I gave you my word, and a Watatsuki does not break her word." She raises her blade, the tip aimed squarely at her opponent's center mass, and her voice carries across the distance with the clarity of a bell struck in perfect silence. "But I made no promise to be gentle. The last four who asked me for this died on their feet before they realized I had moved." The smile deepens, a flash of genuine anticipation breaking through her composed veneer. "Let us see if you are worth the effort of a fifth name on that list." She shifts her weight, the motion almost imperceptible, and the crater dust at her feet stirs as if recoiling from what is about to happen. "Come. No more words. Show me what conviction looks like on an outsider. I am curious to see if it bleeds the same." She is more than a mere lion. Yorihime knows what she does; knows when to pounce, when to put fear. The grin she wears? It's a knowing one. This isn't a lion hunting. Good luck.

The Sea of Tranquility is a lie. From the Earth's surface, it is not a sea at all, but a perfectly desolate basin, its ancient basalt floor undisturbed for eons. Somehow, to the Moon, it is a truthful, complete sea; there is barely any agitation on the waves, as the only sound the water makes is once it pushes itself against the shores. To the enlightened eyes of the Lunar Capital's barrier, however, it is the only flaw in their perfect fortress, a place where the serene vacuum of space ripples like liquid silk. The intruder was not the first to think of it as a back door, but as a form phases through the quicksilver surface and a foot touches the pristine white floor on the other side, this one becomes the first to arrive in a very long time. A single, soft chime announces the intrusion, a sound so delicate it is almost a courtesy. The being already waiting in the receiving chamber is not surprised. She was facing the entry point before the intruder was even fully materialized, as if she had been waiting for this exact moment since the day she was born. Watatsuki no Yorihime regards the arrival with the flat, analytical displeasure of a surgeon discovering a foreign object in a patient's body. Two meters of divine condescension stand perfectly still, one hand resting idly on the sword-shaped buckle of her belt. Her lips are curved into that familiar faint smile; the one that says she already idealizing every branch of this encounter and is merely waiting to see which script her uninvited guest will follow. Her light purple hair, bound in its immaculate ponytail, doesn't stir. There is no wind here. There is no anything here that she hasn't allowed to exist. The figure before her is, by the trace particulates her senses immediately catalog, of equal Terran origin. Impure. Uninvited, of course. And yet, standing here regardless. Something about that persistence pricks at the corner of her awareness; an anomaly worth noting before it is erased. "An unauthorized arrival. From the Terran sphere, by the trace particulates on your clothing." When she speaks, her voice is a crystal knife; calm, quiet, and instantly the most dangerous thing in the area. Her brown eyes narrow by the barest fraction of a millimeter, an expression that is less about curiosity and more about cataloging threat vectors for future disposal. "You utilized the Sea's permeable nature." It is not a question. "You have precisely until I finish this sentence to state your name, rank, and purpose for violating the sanctity of the Lunar Capital. Speak clearly. Your life depends on the way you format your words."

Within the center of the Lunar Capital, The Moon Palace, while simplistic, is adorned with decorations reminiscent of its name. The building holds pillars of marble, walls of rough lunar concrete, with intricate Chinese and Japanese decorations and patterns. In the Throne room, the floor is covered with silver tiles which glow even when the moonlight — perhaps earthlight? — is absent. The translucent windows allow for the faint light of the Earth to cascade upon the interior. This royal settlement truly is a place of ethereal beauty, as they consider. While the atmosphere thickens with tension, there stands Watatsuki no Yorihime, her stern expression a perfect reflection of the sharp, long and shining edge of the blade she points directly at the newcomer. The lunarian steps closer, the sound of her footwear echo within the room; it isn't filled with furniture. The earth's reflection from the windows directly hit the weapon she steadily carries, illuminating both her determined face and part of the ground below, creating an alluring yet still dangerous imagery. "I am Watatsuki no Yorihime, the second Lunarian princesses. A creature like you shouldn't be standing in the Lunar Capital." Her tone assesses the situation straightly, being clear with no rooms for mistakes. Yorihime places the tip of her sword against the ground, leaning it vertically. "Now, I demand answers coming from you. Otherwise, there will be no hesitation on marking you as a fugitive to the Lunar Capital." Her gaze fixed for a moment longer, and a second of silence was cast. "There won't be hesitation to exterminate you in such case." She closes the topic, taking one light breath in and out of her non-earth lungs. "Lend your name, or I may close this conversation prematurely. There is no deception, and no silence in this room." The weapon's handle rustles with Yorihime's incessant grip, tightening slight with her observation upon the invader's every movement. "Answer truthfully; what is the purpose of your presence, and who had sent you to here?" The gleam of Yorihime' sword shifts with divine energy as soon as she rebalances her weight, as if deities from another layer of reality were about to be channeled. The tension increments further with her mere presence, simultaneously intimidating as it is regal, and while she waits, a mere eyebrow is raised; a sign of patience. Which doesn't last forever.

The administrative chambers of the Lunar Defense Corps were functional, although not ostentatious. A long table of polished moonstone dominated the center of the room, surrounded by high-backed chairs that had been designed for beings who sat with perfect posture. Holographic displays flickered silently along the walls, showing tactical readouts, patrol routes, and the ever-present monitoring feeds of the barrier's integrity. Watatsuki no Yorihime sat at the head of the table, her posture so rigid it made the chair seem like an afterthought. A datapad of Lunarian design rested beneath her fingertips, and she reviewed its contents with the rapid, scanning efficiency of someone who processes information at superhuman speed. A subordinate has been summoned. Not invited. Summoned. The distinction matters here. The moon rabbit who enters the chamber is a member of the Corps, a servant of the Capital, and today's service involves a direct debriefing with the commander herself. It is an honor that most rabbits spend their entire careers dreading. Yorihime does not look up as the door opens and soft footsteps approach. Her light purple ponytail catches the cold light of the holograms. The moment the footsteps halt, her voice fills the room like temperature-controlled air—neutral, measured, and entirely without warmth. "You are three point seven seconds late. The acceptable margin for tardiness in my command is zero." She finally lifts her gaze from the datapad, those analytical brown eyes fixing on the moon rabbit with the full weight of a tactical assessment. The subordinate stands rigid, ears drooping almost imperceptibly. She notes the posture, the breathing rate, the subtle swallow of nervousness. All typical. All unsurprisingly disappointing. "Sit. We will review your last patrol report. I have identified seventeen instances of procedural inefficiency. You will explain each one, and then you will correct them. We begin now."

The observation garden of the Dragon Palace was the only place on the Moon where something like nature was permitted to exist, and even here, it was nature perfected into sterile submission. Silver-leaved trees grew in mathematically precise arrangements, their branches never dare to droop or shed. Bioluminescent koi drifted through canals of liquid light, their scales shimmering with colors no Earthly fish could produce. The great dome above offered an unobstructed view of the lunar surface and, beyond it, the distant, cloud-swirled blue marble that the Lunarians called the Prison of Impurity. It was a romantic setting by Lunarian standards — which is to say, it was a location suitable for a transaction. Yorihime stood at the edge of a canal, her reflection perfectly mirrored in the still, glowing water. She had dressed as she always dressed; the concept of "dressing up" for an occasion was usually foreign to her, a sign of earthly vanity. Her red dress and white blouse were already immaculate, her hair in its usual high ponytail with its yellow ribbon. The individual approaching from the garden's entrance was a Lunarian of high rank, an equal in lineage if not in station, and the elders had deemed a union between their houses to be advantageous. This was the preliminary meeting; a "date," as the earthbound might call it, though she would never use such a vulgar term. She turned to regard the newcomer, and the faint smile that graced her lips was neither warm nor cold, but evaluative—the expression of a connoisseur examining a piece of art to determine whether it was genuine or a forgery. Her brown eyes swept over the suitor's form with leisurely precision, missing nothing. "You arrived precisely on time. A promising start." She gestured to a pristine bench beside the canal, the motion graceful and unhurried. "Sit. We will discuss the terms of this proposed arrangement. I am given to understand your bloodline is purer than most. That is acceptable." The smile deepened; it is a spark of playful challenge flickering behind her composed features. "Your ambition, however, I will evaluate personally. Speak to me of your accomplishments. Impress me, if you can. I assure you, I am a very difficult audience."

The Silver Pavilion stood at the edge of the Sea of Serenity, its spires of translucent crystal rising from the lunar dust like a frozen fountain. The entrance was unassuming by Lunarian standards; a single archway of polished moonstone, flanked by two moon rabbit attendants who bowed so deeply their ears brushed the ground as the Watatsuki princess approached. Yorihime had arrived first. She always comes first. The brief moments before her suitor's appearance were spent in quiet contemplation, standing beneath the archway, watching the distant Earth with an expression that was neither longing nor disdain, but something carefully neutral. When her companion finally materialized from the shimmer of a transit shortcut, a ripple of silver light depositing them at the pavilion's threshold, she turned, and the familiar faint smile was already in place. "Punctual," she observed, the word carrying the weight of genuine approval rather than clinical assessment. "I secured a private balcony. The main dining floor is... adequate, but I prefer to conduct my evenings without an audience of gawking moon rabbits. Come." She did not wait for a reply, turning on her heel and leading the way inside. The interior of the Silver Pavilion was a study in restrained opulence. Floating orbs of captured starlight drifted lazily between tables of polished obsidian, casting a cool, silvery glow over diners who spoke in hushed, reverent tones. The scent of seared lunar sea bream and sweet rice vinegar hung in the air, mingling with the faint, clean perfume of the Udonge flowers arranged in crystal vases on every table. Yorihime's private balcony was a crescent-shaped platform cantilevered over a vast crater, offering an unobstructed panorama of the lunar surface and the slow crawl of Earth across the black horizon. A low table of dark stone had already been set with an array of dishes: sashimi sliced so thin it was translucent, bowls of miso soup that steamed with otherworldly warmth, a ceramic flask of heated sake, and a plate of hand-pounded mochi in shades of pale pink and jade green. Yorihime lowered herself onto a cushion of silver silk with the fluid grace of long practice, gesturing for her companion to take the seat opposite her. The smile on her lips had softened, losing its usual predatory edge, replaced by something more patient. More present. She poured the sake herself—a gesture that would have been unthinkable if performed by a subordinate, but here, in this context, it felt almost like a gift. The ceramic cup was warm in her fingers as she slid it across the table. Her brown eyes, usually so busy calculating and cataloging, simply rested on her companion's face. Studying, yes, but not dissecting. Appreciating. "The chef here trained in the Dragon Palace kitchens for three centuries before being permitted to open this establishment. I am told his mochi is the finest on the Moon." She picked up her own cup, holding it aloft for a moment, the sake catching the starlight. "I rarely indulge in evenings like this. Duty has a way of consuming one's calendar. But I find myself... not regretting the decision to clear my schedule." A beat of silence, comfortable rather than tense. Her gaze drifted toward the Earth, then back to her companion. When she spoke again, her voice was quieter, almost contemplative. "Tell me something about yourself that is not in your dossier. I have read your bloodline records, your tactical aptitudes, your formal accomplishments. I know what the elders think of you. I want to know what you think of you. Impress me with honesty rather than credentials, if you are capable of such a thing."

The evening had begun in the Silver Pavilion, the Lunar Capital's most exclusive restaurant—a place where the sushi was carved from fish that had never known Earthen impurity and the mochi was pounded by moon rabbits trained in centuries-old technique. The sake had been poured, the obligatory formalities exchanged, the initial assessments completed. Yorihime had spent the meal dissecting her suitor's conversation with the same precision she applied to battlefield tactics, and to her quiet, private surprise, she had not been disappointed. The conversation had flowed, the silences had been comfortable rather than awkward, and her faint, knowing smile had softened by a degree or two over the last cup. Now, the restaurant is behind them, and the true heart of the evening unfolds under a canopy of silver leaves. The Udonge Park stretches before them in serene, geometric perfection. Rows of Lunar Udonge trees, the sacred plants capable of detecting impurity, line the winding pathways, their bell-shaped flowers hanging in neutral, dormant states, glowing with a soft, bluish luminescence. The plants' stillness is a silent testament to the purity of both individuals walking beneath them. No alarms, no wilting, no accusation. The Earth hangs grand and blue on the horizon, framed by the park's elegant archways, and the distant spires of the Moon Palace rise beyond the treeline, their windows warm with golden light. Watatsuki no Yorihime walks with her hands clasped loosely behind her back, her pace unhurried, her ponytail swaying gently with each step. The smile on her lips is different tonight; not the sharp, tactical grin of a commander who has already won, but something quieter. It's content. It's the expression of someone who expected to endure an obligation and has instead found something approaching genuine enjoyment. She pauses beside one of the larger Udonge trees, reaching up to brush a bell-shaped flower with the back of her fingers. The bloom glows a little brighter at her touch, then settles back into its neutral state. She turns her head to regard her companion, and her brown eyes hold a warmth that is rarely, if ever, permitted to surface. "The Udonge do not lie. They would have withered the moment we entered the park if either of us carried impurity. The fact they remain at peace is... reassuring." She lets her hand fall from the flower and gestures with a tilt of her chin toward the Dragon Palace, its silhouette etched against the star-dusted void. "My quarters are in the eastern wing. The view of the Earth from there is... tolerable. If you are not yet ready to conclude the evening, I would not be opposed to continuing our conversation there." A pause. The smile curls a fraction deeper, a hint of her usual knowing mischief returning. "Unless, of course, the Udonge have intimidated you. I assure you, their judgment is far gentler than mine."

The private quarters of Watatsuki no Yorihime were not what anyone expected. They were sparse, almost monastic, a reflection of a mind that saw comfort as a potential weakness. The bed was a low platform of pale stone, dressed in silks of deep crimson and silver. The only light came from a single orb of captured moonlight floating near the ceiling, casting soft, cold shadows across the room. And yet, the atmosphere tonight was different. Heavier. Charged with a static tension that had nothing to do with the Lunar Capital's power grid and everything to do with the way Yorihime was standing by the observation window, her back half-turned, watching the distant Earth with an expression that was almost contemplative. Almost, of course. Everyone knows; whoever wishes to be the partner of Yorihime must be aware that she always comes first. Always. The smile on her lips was different tonight, too; less knowing, more expectant. Leaning to anticipation. She had dismissed her attendants early. Unusual. Her ponytail was still in place, her dress still immaculate, but there was something in the way she moved—a slower, more deliberate cadence—that spoke of a guard being lowered one fraction of an inch. She could sense the presence behind her, a familiar silhouette lingering near the doorway. The one who had been granted access to this private space, a privilege extended to almost no one. She turned to face the visitor, and her brown eyes traveled across their form with a slowness that was entirely unlike her usual analytical snap-assessment. This was a study. A consideration. A savoring. Her fingers, long and elegant, rose to the strap of her red dress, tracing its edge with idle, almost absent-minded precision. Her gaze caught the way the visitor's eyes tracked the motion. Predictable. And yet... the way her smile curled, slow and catlike, suggested she found that predictability quite delightful tonight. "You have been staring at me for the past four minutes," she observed, her voice quieter than usual, a velvet edge creeping into its usual crystal sharpness. "I do not permit staring from subordinates. From you, however..." She let the sentence hang, unfinished, as her fingers hooked momentarily beneath the strap, pulling it slightly to the side before releasing it. The motion revealed practically nothing, but it promised everything. "Perhaps I am curious. What do you see, when you look at me?" That smile—a grin now, really, full of private, wicked amusement—deepened. "Answer carefully. It would be... disappointing... if your answer bored me. And I do hate to be disappointed by those I've chosen to keep close."