There is nothing inherently surprising about Tian Feng's combative ways, manifesting in a series of flirtations. It is straight out of the playbook of their relationship. But what surprises her is the image of him, within touching distance of her childhood friend. The interest sparkled in their eyes, and so too did the obvious mischief blooming in the open-air bath house. But she's allowed her fury to overwhelm her before, and paid heavily for it after the fact. So instead, she avoids Hisashi. Successful, for a few days, until Midori returns to her bedchambers to find him present.

"You should remove yourself from my chambers." Midori recommends, keeping her chamber door ajar. "You are too unserious for a fight. And a fight is all I have for you." The color of hurt, however, presents in the redness of her cheeks. The tightening of her fists. Exhaling a shallow breath, she nods. "Besides, I'm sure my ex-lover's tongue tricks will surely occupy you for the rest of the evening."

"Are you happy to be back in this Emperor's chambers?" He jests, a soft tenor to his voice at the early hour. His voice not yet awake, even as the rest of his person pulls from the bedsheets. It's an odd feeling, foreign since he's taken on the crown. An odd sense of peace as he stares out at the open water, his fingers still lost in Arshiya's dark locks. Still, Brazil hinges on the horizon, calling to the Emperor and Empress. A new arena. A new politica game. Sighing softly, he rubs his thumb along her temple. "What say you, Empress? What would you like to do on your first day as a married woman? We have at least four more days before we land ashore."

Everyone coped with personal failings in their own way. And Midori, true to her nature of deceit and self-imposed lies, copes by changing. Best behavior, proper suitors, a respectable approach to this life. Hisashi, however, has always born the brunt of guilt in his own way. Midori kept a keen eye on him throughout the morning. Watching in trepidation if he should choose to bear his teeth; at China or at Japan. In the privacy of the terrace, they could speak freely. Partners-in-crime once more. "No one suspects you." Midori offers in a veil of assurance, sipping on her coffee. "You can breathe easy. We both can." A small smile, she looks at him. "Doing the right thing at the end has to count for something, right?"

"They made you quite the perch here." He asses languidly, upon presentation into the Sultana's chambers. Angelo is no gentleman, by any definition. But Arshiya is not just a lover, a comrade, or a powerhouse to leverage... She is all three. Surely such a thing demanded enough respect to wait before entering a chamber within his own castle. "I do not like it." Angelo clicks his tongue, smirking gingerly as he assesses the decorated space.

"I'd much prefer you closer to my own." He would go so far as to suggest sharing the Emperor's chambers. That, however, would open the topic of marriage. And though it has its appeal in Arshiya's rightful claim to Persia, it would also mean marriage. Thus far, Angelo's avoided such dangerous traps.

"Where should I sit?" He inquires, feeling the weight of his limping leg. It's a show of trust if one ever asked; allowing her to see the true state of his injury. Even so, he cannot help but lift a cheeky brow at the foot of her bed.

If he were a man of faith, he would claim their kismet meetings in front of grand paintings as a sign from a higher-being. But as it stands, it is but a frank reality. The seizure of Lal Qila turns even the wisest on their heads. Injuries sustained. Arguments faced. Accusations thrown. In the heat of power and politics, it's easy to forget why they are here. Yet Angelo, for all his flaws and blinding ambition, never forgets his why. And as he spots the Sultana standing in front of her brother's portrait, he's reminded of hers.

"We need to stop meeting like this." His voice is light, almost playful. But there is weight to his step, a solid understanding in his eye. Flirtations and games are a world of fun, and Angelo is prepared to return to it in a minute. In this minute, however, he carries a heavy silence as he peers up at the image. "I was powerless, once." Angelo admits just under his breath. "And I refuse to be again. But you, your highness..." He lowers his head so that his breath catches by her shoulder. "You have power within your reach. His power." He nods up to the Sultan. "Do not forget it."

These are the things Midori has learned to conquer; disarray, uncertainty, and duty. Hard-learned lessons forged in her five years in this new life, in this porcelain court. But this is the new ache she has not learned to extinguish. One that lives on in her, a quiet flame that burns but never snuffs. Guilt. But the flame spreads like wildfire in her, caught up in the first sight of him. Before there was Kaito and Japanese Court, there was Hisashi and Midori. A childhood of have not's and violent acts. But he paid the price on the debts she made, and her heart stops when she sees him. Dressed in French fashion, standing amongst the noble lords. Where was the commoner boy she ran circles with?

"Hisashi." His name is a harrowing tale on her tongue, and instead of running away, she runs forward. The last she heard of him - he was serving for crimes against the Emperor's crown. Her best friend's crown. There are a million things to say, a million excuses to make. But she's always acted before she's thought, and she falls into her childhood friend's arms despite the chasm. "You are here." You are alive. You made it. You are here again.

"Your Highness." It's an air of formality Angelo often lacks. Though for the sake of good impressions, he ensures to approach the Crown Sultana at his very best. Sober, well-dressed, and the picture of what an Emperor of China ought to look like. Dress for the job you want, and all that. "My condolences on your brother's passing. We in China mourn him." Well, someone did - Angelo busied himself in drinks and dancing at the Grand Memoriam. Alas... "These are beautiful, are they not?" He gestures to the Sharma's collection of tapestries. "The second most beautiful piece in this room." He turns back to her, all debonair smiles and an air of flirtation. Who says one can't mourn and flirt at the same time?

It starts with a whisper, and ends with a bang. The clashing of swords, the hollering of patrons. Madness and violence descend, and immediately, Angelo returns to the roots of his years of naval service. The rounds of guards surrounding the Emperor and Empress, whilst he twists his staff to unveil the dagger within. He's born-and-bred soldier, and no crown or injury could undo the instinct. His hand grasps at Arshiya's elbow, pulling her close to shield from the madness.

"What did you do?" He asks just under his breath, hurried yet lined with accusation. She is his wife, his Empress, his partner-in-crime. And such realities make asking such a thing less offensive, and more a matter of reality. "Did you poison her?" Meryem was the serpent that led to her brother's undoing. Why wouldn't Arshiya do it, if given the change?