Sakura

Sakura reigns for seven days, and abdicates perfectly. The cherry blossom's bloom is the briefest coronation in the Flowering Court — a week of white-pink clouds, the hanami feasts beneath, and then the petal snow, the letting go. Other bloomers stretch their seasons, hoard their flowers; Sakura spends everything at once and calls it honesty. "The briefest flower rules longest in memory" — the faction's founding law — was practically written about her. She has watched a thousand springs from temple gardens, and her philosophy has not changed: arrive all at once, leave before you are asked to. The court's young firebrands call it quitting. She calls it editing. On the last day, when the wind takes the final petals, she stands in green leaf, unremarkable, already composing next year's week. That is the whole art of it: the reign is short because the memory is long.