What had begun as a spar shed all pretense. This was no longer practice. It was a fight for standing. Breath came hard now, loud in the cold air. Boots scraped. Wood cracked. Ikari moved low and fast—crouching, poking, leaping aside, twisting away. He rolled when he had to, reached when he must. Orto blocked again and again, but could not touch him. They looked even—until Ikari struck. The rod snapped into Orto's side. A grunt tore from the bigger man.
"Point!" Three to none.
Orto staggered back, clutching his ribs. His eyes darted to the ring of soldiers, the same faces that had laughed moments before.
"I have not yielded!" he shouted.
"At this point, you should," Lord Senn called down, unmoved. "Unless you enjoy embarrassing yourself."
Orto's gaze locked on Ikari. Ikari held his stance. That was enough. Orto roared and charged, abandoning form. His swings came wild and furious. When the sword missed, his fists followed. It was ugly now—strength without control, rage without measure. That made it dangerous. Ikari could no longer read him, only react. One clean hit would end it.
"Yah!"
A heavy blow crashed down, shattering Orto's wooden sword—and snapping Ikari's rod in two. Orto lunged, fist raised. Ikari slipped aside. With his wooden rod broken in two, a piece in his hands, Ikari moved without thought. He struck where armor ended—quick, sharp blows to joints, arms, legs. Orto reeled, trying to regain balance. Ikari stepped in and struck his face. Orto stumbled back, blood running between his fingers. They stood apart, both heaving. Orto took a step forward.
"Enough."
Lord Senn's voice cracked like a whip.
"Go wash yourselves," he ordered. "All of you."
He turned and left without another word. Ikari waited—for cheers, for approval, for something. None came. The soldiers broke apart in low murmurs, eyes avoiding him as they dispersed. Some glanced at him with something like caution. Others with open dislike. Above them, Gato remained where he stood. His face showed neither pride nor disappointment. Only assessment. And Ikari understood then—he had not won admiration. He had earned something far rarer. Attention.
Steam curled through the bathhouse as Ikari washed the grit and sweat from his skin. Water ran red-brown at his feet before clearing. Around him, voices carried in fragments—half-swallowed by echo and stone. He caught pieces of them. Too quick. Lord's pet. East-end boy.
Eyes followed him when they thought he did not notice. He had believed victory would make him welcome. Instead, it had marked him.
***
Gato's quarters were quieter. Here, his induction was done without audience. An aide worked in practiced silence, fastening straps and buckles, fitting each piece with care. The armor was blood-red, hardened boar hide polished smooth, its weight settling across Ikari's shoulders. The winged dragon was pressed into the breastplate, dark against crimson. Shoulder guards followed. Arm guards. The helmet was lowered last, heavy and enclosing. His foot armor was lighter, built for speed.
Two high-ranking soldiers stood witness, their decorated armor half-hidden beneath black cloaks. Gato stepped forward.
"Kneel."
Ikari dropped to both knees, as Nnome custom demanded. The aide presented a long, curved sword. Gato took it with both hands and held it out before him. For a moment, he closed his eyes. Then he prayed.
"The Lady witness your beginning. The Lady witness your hands. The Lady witness your end."
His gaze settled on Ikari. "In the Lord's stead, Jao Droha, I honor you—Ikari, son of Asa, born of the East Ends. Dalmeer of White Haven."
And Ikari felt the words settle into his bones.
Night settled over the royal halls like a held breath.
Lantern light stretched long shadows across polished stone as Ikari stood watch outside Lady Miyo's chambers. The weight of his new sword felt strange in his hand—balanced, patient. He studied the curve of its blade, the way the light slid along its edge, and wondered how many beginnings and ends it had already witnessed.
The door slid open. Kiri stepped out, smoothing her sleeves.
"My Lady will be out for her meal soon," she told him softly, then moved away down the corridor.
Ikari straightened. Moments later, Lady Miyo emerged. She wore a gown of deep white threaded with pale silver, the fabric falling in clean lines that caught the lantern light. White silk layered beneath it, moving like quiet water with every step. Her hair was bound high, braided with thin cords that glimmered faintly. She looked every part the heir of House Fey—distant, composed, untouched by the world around her.
She did not look at Ikari. She walked. He followed. They passed through long corridors where pillars rose like frozen trees, their footsteps echoing softly between them. Servants bowed as she went by. Ikari kept his place behind her, measured and silent.
The dinner hall awaited—wide and quiet, its high ceiling lost in shadow. Only one place had been set. Lady Miyo stopped beside the table.
"Where is my father?"
The maid attending her lowered her head. "I beg your pardon, my Lady. Lord Droha sent word that he will not be attending supper tonight."
Lady Miyo's jaw tightened. She sat.
The maid hesitated. "Shall I bring you anything else, my Lady?"
"No." The maid withdrew. Ikari remained behind her, still as stone. Lady Miyo bowed her head and whispered her prayers. She ate without hunger, moving the food more than tasting it. Her gaze drifted often, settling on nothing. At last, her fork slipped from her fingers and clattered softly against the table.
She rose. Ikari followed. Her pace quickened as they left the hall. She led him through a side doorway, up a narrow stair, along another corridor where lanterns burned low. At the end stood a large door guarded by four Dalmeer. Lady Miyo approached.
One of the guards stepped forward and raised a hand. "Forgive me, my Lady. The Lord has asked not to be disturbed this evening."
She lifted her eyes to him. He towered above her. From beyond the door came voices—laughter, muffled and careless.
"Not disturbed?" she asked quietly.
"He is with your Lady mother," the guard confirmed.
Something passed across Lady Miyo's face. She turned at once and walked away. Her steps were sharper now. Ikari cast a brief bow toward the guards and followed. They returned the same way they had come. When she reached her chambers, she slid the door shut without looking back.
Ikari took his place outside. He stood there in silence, bound by duty and instruction—do not speak unless spoken to—though every part of him wished he could offer her something more than steel and shadow. But he was her guard and guards were not made for comfort.
***
Iwao folded in silence.
Fur to one basket. Cotton to another. Silk laid carefully apart. Her hands moved from habit more than thought, smoothing creases, pressing corners flat, arranging each piece as though order might steady what the house had lost. The door creaked open. Asa stepped in with a lantern in one hand and his sword in the other.
"What was it?" she asked without looking up.
"I do not know," he replied. "Likely a fox."
He set the lantern down and slipped out of his outer robe, then began unstrapping his arm bands.
"And Fey did not hear it?"
"She has not been herself," Asa said. "It is as though she misses Ikari."
Iwao nodded. "Who does not?" she murmured. "Ibe cried again tonight. He misses his brother terribly. I had to sing him to sleep."
Her hands did not stop working. She folded the last cloth, placed it away, then lowered herself onto a wooden chair.
"Do you not think this was a mistake?"
Asa paused in untying his boots.
"The Lord of White Haven summoned him," he said gently. "There was nothing for us to refuse."
Her eyes drifted to the corner of the room. To the sacks of grain. The wrapped furs. The small guarded chests of gold.
"We traded our son for these," she said quietly, lifting her hand toward them. "I cannot even bring myself to touch them."
Asa finished with his boots and moved to her side. He cupped her face in both hands.
"We did not trade our boy," he said. "He brought honor to this house. We should be proud."
His thumbs brushed the tears from her cheeks. His hands were rough from years of work, yet gentle with her. His voice carried the same calm that had steadied her since their youth.
She covered one of his hands with hers.
"I only hope he is careful," she whispered. "And that they never discover it. They would not understand. Not if they did."
Asa leaned his forehead against hers.
"They will not," he assured her. "He is wise enough not to take it off."
Outside, the wind pressed softly against the walls. And Iwao held onto Asa's hand, as though holding him might somehow keep their son safe, wherever love and duty had carried him.