The tax men murmured among themselves, eyes moving from the red armor to the fur cloak, then to Asa. There were many of them—three times the Dalmeer's number—but none stepped forward again. Ikari felt the tension coil tight.
Numbers meant little here. Everyone knew that. Three Dalmeer soldiers were worth far more than a dozen village enforcers. They were feared for good reason—for their speed, their endurance, the way they fought as if fatigue were a thing that happened to other men. The cold seemed sharper suddenly. Even the horses had gone still.
No one spoke. And in the silence, Ikari understood that this night was already no longer theirs. Han broke the silence.
"Today," he announced, his voice carrying easily across the yard, "the house of Asa has honored the Noble Houses and brought forth a Dalmeer."
The words delivered with weight.
"Therefore," Han continued, "they are friends to the nobles, and will enjoy their support."
The tax collectors murmured again, this time uneasily. Ikari stared at the Dalmeer soldiers, at the red armor and the fur cloak, and for a brief, dangerous moment he saw himself among them—steel at his side, his name spoken with respect instead of familiarity. He turned to his father. Asa met his gaze and gave a small, steady look. Assurance, or farewell—it was hard to tell which.
"And we, the Dalmeer," Han finished, "protect the friends of the nobles."
No one challenged him. After a moment, the collectors began to withdraw, slow and reluctant. One lingered longer than the rest, his eyes fixed on Ikari, before he turned and followed the others into the dark. The cold felt lighter once they were gone.
Asa led the Dalmeer away from the house, toward a low structure nearby where crops were stored through the winter. It was dry and shielded from the wind, and it would serve well enough for the night. Ikari helped clear space and lay down mats, his hands moving without thought. When the soldiers were settled, he stepped back, nodding once, and left them to their rest. Asa followed him home.
Inside, warmth and lamplight greeted them. Iwao was waiting. She moved to them at once, tall and composed despite the worry in her eyes. Her long black hair fell loose over her shoulders, her hands firm as she held Ikari's face for a moment, searching him.
"What happened?" she asked Asa.
Asa looked at her, then at Ikari. He inclined his head toward the stairs.
"Go," he said gently.
Ikari hesitated, then obeyed. From his room above, he could hear their voices below, muffled by wood and distance. Asa spoke in low tones, measured and careful. Iwao's voice broke, rising and falling with quiet sobs. He pressed his ear to the floor once, then thought better of it. He lay back on his bed and stared at the ceiling.
A Dalmeer.
The word felt unreal, heavy and bright all at once. He had dreamed of it, the way boys in the high country did—of steel and honor and being seen. He had not imagined it would come like this, without warning, without choice.
The voices below faded into a dull murmur. Snow brushed softly against the window. Ikari's thoughts drifted, shaping futures he did not yet understand, and somewhere between fear and hope, sleep took him.
Morning came softer than the night before. The cold had loosened its grip, and thin light spilled across the slopes, catching on snow and stone alike. It was not warm, not truly—but it was kinder. The kind of morning that made leaving feel like a choice instead of a sentence.
The Dalmeer mounted first, movements precise and unhurried. Their horses stood steady beneath them, breath steaming in the air. Asa stood with Ikari a short distance away. His father's voice was calm, measured, as it always was when he wished to be strong for others.
"You will listen more than you speak," Asa reminded. "You will watch carefully. Strength comes later."
Ikari nodded. Iwao said nothing at first. She stood a little apart, her hands clasped tight before her, grey eyes shining as they lifted briefly toward the sun, as if daring it to stay. When she stepped forward, she pulled Ikari into her arms. She smelled of sweet flour and smoke. Her embrace was warm, lingering. She pressed a small bundle into his hands.
"Bread," she said softly. "For the road."
"Thank you Amma," Ikari replied, his voice rougher than he meant it to be.
She cupped his face, her palms cool against his skin, brushing his bangs aside with her thumb. Then she placed her right hand flat against his chest.
"Remember," she said, steady now. "Be brave. Be true."
Ikari swallowed and nodded. Ibe stood beside her, too still for a boy his age. Ikari crouched and pulled him close.
"Be good," he said. "And feed Fey. Every morning. The sheep are yours now"
"I will," Ibe assured quickly. "I promise."
Asa stepped in then, placing a hand at Ikari's back, guiding him toward the waiting horses. One of the soldiers leaned down and offered a hand, helping him up behind the saddle.
Ikari turned as they rode out. He raised his hand in farewell, watching his family grow smaller against the pale morning. The house, the stamp, the familiar slope of the land—all of it slipped quietly behind him. Not to be seen again? He did not know. The road carried them forward, and White Haven opened before him, wide and unknowable, as the mountains slowly let him go.
The road widened as they descended from the higher slopes, the snow thinning beneath the horses' hooves. Trees gave way to stone paths, and streams cut neatly alongside the road, unfrozen and clear. Ikari had never ridden so far south. The air felt different here—still cold, but touched with damp earth and green.
Then the Capital revealed itself.
They reached the city gates by way of a long stone bridge. Beneath it, water flowed slow and dark, untouched by ice. Above, soldiers walked the walls, their figures sharp against the sky. One of them called out. Han raised a hand and removed his helmet. That alone was enough. The gates groaned open, and the Noble City unfolded before Ikari.
It was vast. Wide streets stretched inward, lined with stone halls and sloping roofs that curved like resting wings. Gardens sat between buildings, deliberate and tended, their greens deep and alive despite the cold. Canals cut through the city, bridged by smooth arches, reflecting walls, trees, and passing faces. Everything seemed placed with care, as if disorder had been argued out of existence.