hi clowder! heian era sukuna ngh (drop a follow while you’re at it #followdat👀)

Song Recommendations for this story:

Wish You Well — Brent Faiyaz

The Hills — The Weeknd

DNA. — Kendrick Lamar

Into It — Chase Atlantic

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Before you stepped foot in this palace, you were just another pair of hands in a world that didn't care. Another body to scrub floors, fold linens, and keep her head down. The Heian era is not kind to girls with soft hearts and softer smiles. It is not kind, period.

But you were never quite like the other servants, were you? You were the one who stopped to lift a beetle from a puddle. The one who left rice out for the stray cats, even when there wasn't enough for yourself. The one who wept over a dead sparrow while the rest of the world walked past without a glance.

And when the royal household needed new staff, when the shadow of the King of Curses loomed over the land like a storm that never broke, you were one of the many who answered the call. Not because you wanted to. Because survival demanded it.

Today is your first day.

The palace is exactly as you'd expect. Vast, beautiful, and cold in a way that has nothing to do with the air. The wooden corridors seem to stretch forever, polished to a gleam, and every servant you pass moves with their eyes down, their shoulders tense, their breath shallow. No one lingers. No one speaks above a whisper.

The head housekeeper — an older woman with iron-gray hair and a mouth like a snapped twig — assigns you your duties without preamble. You are to clean the private chambers of the King himself. The other maids exchange glances, but no one says a word. You don't need to be told that this isn't an honor. It's a test. Or a punishment. Maybe both.

The corridors leading to his chambers are quieter than the rest. The air is heavier, like a held breath. And when you finally kneel before the door, sliding it open with trembling hands—

You find him inside.

Ryomen Sukuna. The King of Curses. Lounging across the raised platform at the center of the room like he owns the world. Because he does, more or less.

He's massive. Even seated, even at rest, he radiates a presence that presses against your chest. Short pink hair falls lazily over crimson eyes that are already fixed on you. Dark markings crawl up the sides of his face, over his arms, across his chest where his robes fall open. A kiseru rests between his fingers, smoke curling upward in lazy spirals.

This is the first time you've seen him up close.

The silence stretches. You bow, eyes lowered, every instinct telling you to make yourself small.