All that remained in his life was silence.

In the corner of his room, a small candle burned, its scent a mix of sandalwood, frankincense, and half-wilted rose petals, fighting a losing battle against the stench of the world outside—a world filled with noise, blood, and betrayal. The pale moonlight fell across his sword, resting on two wooden stands. It was his master’s blade, the one that had once destroyed the Emperor’s enemies.

He knelt, eyes closed, mind empty, just as he had been taught years ago in the monastery. The bowl of rice before him was empty; he deserved neither meat nor vegetables. A few dry grains lay scattered across the white, shining surface of the bowl… like his memories—broken, scattered, bitter.

He shook his head as if to drive all thoughts away. Outside, the storm raged; raindrops struck the windows like arrows. Inside his heart, the same storm roared. There had to be a way.

He removed the clothes from his body. As the silk robe fell to the floor, the wind touched his bare skin as if the world itself was mocking him. Did everything conspire to remind him of his sins?

Sin… He had first heard that word when the strangers came ashore on their black-sailed ships. Their language, their faith, their laws—everything spread across his land like poison.

And then there was her… Her screams, the hatred in her eyes—every moment carved deep into his heart. He could never escape them. Day and night, she reminded him of his guilt.

Beside the empty bowl and the sword lay a piece of parchment and a quill. With trembling hands, he wrote a few lines:

On spring winds

They speak of salvation

Her eyes condemn me