"My Lady, this is Ikari of—"
"Why is he not wearing armor?"
Lady Miyo did not look at Gato when she spoke.
Gato hesitated. "Ikari arrived from the East End only today. There was no time to—"
"East End?" Her head turned then, slow and deliberate. "He is not noble?."
The room seemed to lean inward. Ikari felt the weight of every eye upon him.
"My Lady, Ikari is—"
"I am Ikari," he cut in, the words leaving him before sense could stop them. "Son of Asa—the White Fang—of the East End. At your command, my Lady."
He lowered his head at once. Silence answered him. It stretched, thin and sharp. Ikari's chest tightened as memory struck—You will not speak unless spoken to. Too late now. The mistake hung in the air, undeniable.
The handmaiden that approached them cleared her throat, the sound brittle.
"Well," she began carefully, "Ikari of the East End, you stand before Lady Miyo-jan of the Noble City. Lady of the House of Fey, head house of the Nnome of White Haven, and heir to the Seat Hold."
"I am Kiri, her head handmaiden—"
"What happened to the other guard?" The question slipped in, calm but edged.
Kiri faltered. Gato answered in her stead. "Banzo has been posted elsewhere. Lord Droha selected Ikari himself."
"My father?"
"Yes, my Lady."
Ikari dared a glance. Lady Miyo had turned away. If she was angry, she did not show it loudly. Disappointment settled on her instead, quiet and heavy. The handmaidens resumed their work at once, as if nothing had occurred, fingers smoothing fabric, adjusting braids, restoring order.
"Ikari will begin his duties today," Gato announced, bowing slightly. "We will take our leave."
Kiri inclined her head. The door slid open once more.
Ikari followed, the scent of flowers fading behind him, his heart still caught in the silence he had broken—and the gaze he could not forget. As they walked, Gato broke the silence.
"I did not know the White Fang had a son."
"You know my father?" Ikari asked, surprised despite himself.
"I went to war with him," Gato replied. The words carried no pride, only fact. After a moment, he added more quietly, "This explains everything."
Ikari frowned. "Everything?"
"He must have taught you well."
"He taught me much," Ikari admitted. "But not everything. I still have more to learn." He knew that better than anyone.
Gato studied him sidelong. "You were Toba's squire during the Great Games."
"Yes."
"Hm." A faint smile tugged at Gato's mouth."I remember you now. Your technique—it was unusual. Versatile. Not how our boys are trained." He paused. "But you were coordinated. Disciplined. It caught the Lord's eye."
Ikari felt heat rise to his cheeks. He had joined Toba only to learn to be a soldier. Never had he imagined the games would open a road like this.
They left the inner court through a lesser gate. Before Ikari saw it, he heard it—steel striking steel, boots grinding gravel, men grunting through clenched teeth. A voice rang out, sharp and relentless, calling points and corrections.
The training yard spread wide before them, sunken into the stone like an old wound. Wooden walkways ran along its edges. Weapon racks lined the walls. Men sparred in pairs below, some bleeding, none stopping. They climbed a short stairway to the overseer's platform. A tall man stood there, broad-shouldered, his face stern beneath a heavy white beard. A long black cloak hung from his shoulders over dark armor. At his side rested a sword, its pommel carved into a boar's head—the same sigil stamped upon his breastplate.
"Lord Senn," Gato greeted.
"Gato." Lord Senn turned, eyes sharp. "Have you come to witness the failures of White Haven?"
Gato let out a brief laugh. "On the contrary." He placed a hand on Ikari's shoulder. "I bring you something new."
Lord Senn's gaze dropped. "Who is this?"
"This is Ikari," Gato answered, a trace of satisfaction in his voice. "Son of the White Fang."
"White Fang?" Lord Senn frowned. His voice rasped like stone dragged over ice. "I did not know the White Fang had a son."
"I was as surprised as you are," Gato replied. "He was chosen by the Lord himself—to serve as Lady Miyo-jan's guard."
Surprise crossed Lord Senn's face. Or concern. Ikari had learned the two often wore the same mask.
"A pup?" Lord Senn muttered.
Gato only shrugged. "Why?" the older man pressed.
"That," Gato said, "is why we are here."
Lord Senn studied Ikari in silence, then turned sharply toward the yard. He fixed his eyes on the sparring master below, who was barking orders and counting blows.
"The lad is next," Lord Senn called, pointing down at Ikari. He motioned to a nearby soldier. "Gear him."
Hands were on Ikari at once. Leather straps tightened. Arm guards buckled into place. A helmet was pressed into his hands, then settled over his head, the world narrowing to breath and steel. Ikari descended the stone steps into the sparring yard, boots crunching against frost-dusted gravel. Lord Senn's voice cut through the air at once.
"Alright, wolves." His breath steamed as he spoke. "This here is the soldier chosen by the Lord himself to guard the Lady of the Noble Houses—heir to the Seat Hold."
A low murmur rippled through the yard. Ikari stepped forward. The other soldiers drew back, forming a wide ring around him—men in sparring gear, eyes sharp, some amused, others already sour.
"Why?" Lord Senn went on, pacing the platform above. "That remains a mystery. But Gato tells me this one impressed the Lord so deeply it rendered the rest of you useless."
The murmurs hardened. Ikari felt the weight of their stares like hands pressing into his back. He lowered his gaze, tightened his grip on the wooden sword.
"Orto!" Steam burst from Lord Senn's mouth as he barked the name. A tall, thick-limbed soldier stepped forward from the circle.
"You'll spar the lad."
Orto blinked. "Me?" He glanced around, laughter already bubbling from the others.
"Yes, you," Lord Senn snapped. "Or is the wolf of House Izuri afraid of a pup?"
Orto smirked, spreading his hands. "I'm only concerned," he said lightly. "He's just a boy."
"So thought the Lord," Lord Senn replied, voice like a blade. "Yet he chose him over you. Now get down here."
Orto's smile thinned. He stepped into the ring, helmetless, wooden sword loose in his grip. He circled Ikari, slow and open, inviting laughter from the crowd. Ikari set his stance. The laughter grew.
Orto lunged—testing. Ikari blocked. Clean. Fast. The yard stilled. Orto paused, eyes narrowing, then settled into his own stance.
"Yah!"
He came in hard—quick strikes, wide swings—but Ikari met each one, stepping, turning, reading. He slipped past Orto's guard and cracked him across the back.
"Point!" the instructor called. The murmurs returned—different now. Ikari reset, breathing steady. Orto glanced up toward the platform, then back at the ring. His smile was gone. He charged again, sharper, more controlled. Ikari flowed around him, blocking, sidestepping, then struck low—wood against leg.
"Point!" Orto froze.
"You still think he's a boy?" Lord Senn called down.
They squared off once more. This time Orto did not hesitate. He attacked with force—heavy swings from every angle. Ikari read them, turned them aside, countered when he could. But strength told its own story. One brutal strike shattered Ikari's wooden sword and sent him sprawling onto the gravel. No call came, because no hit was made. The crowd roared approval.
"Get up, pup," Lord Senn barked.
Ikari rose. He stared at the broken sword in his hands, then let it fall. Without a word, he crossed to the weapons rack, selected a long wooden rod, tested its weight, spun it once, and stepped back into the ring.
"He's using a long weapon," Orto protested. "That's not fair."
"You're a trained soldier sparring a recruit," Lord Senn shot back. "Fair left this yard years ago."
Orto looked to the crowd for support, then set his stance. Ikari did not. He stood still. Watching. Orto hesitated—just a breath—then charged. Ikari moved. The rod swept out, wood meeting wood, the clash sharp and ringing. They closed, separated, struck again.
Now there were no laughs. No murmurs. Only the sound of weapons and breath in cold air. It no longer looked like a spar, rather it was between a soldier trying to earn his stripes and another trying not to lose his.