The city was alive with movement. Common folk passed with baskets and tools, traders called from small stalls, and nobles walked wrapped in layered fabrics and fine embroidery. Many wore fur—thick collars and mantles, heavy and costly. Ikari had heard of such things. Fur was not worn lightly. It was bought with silver and status.
The horses moved quickly through the streets, hooves striking stone, giving Ikari little time to take it all in. Still, what he saw was enough to leave him silent. This was a place few from the countryside ever walked, and fewer still belonged to.
Another bridge rose ahead, and beyond it, another wall—higher, cleaner, guarded with greater care. The Inner Court, Ikari thought. The place where the Lord himself lived.
The horses slowed. At the gate, they dismounted. Watch guards stepped forward, careful but respectful. Han greeted them by name, and they returned the courtesy, wishing him safe passage home. The gates opened.
"From here, we walk," Han said.
The other two soldiers remained behind, speaking with the guards as the horses were led away toward the stables. Ikari followed Han through, his bag strapped across his shoulders, his steps measured.
The Inner Court was different. Quieter. Wider. The air itself seemed calmer. Stone paths ran between open courtyards and shallow ponds, their waters clear and still. Snow-dusted trees stood watch beside them, their branches heavy but unbroken. Buildings here were fewer but grander, their roofs trimmed with gold, their walls pale and immaculate. Nature was not merely present—it was arranged, guided, made obedient.
At the far end rose the tallest structure of all, layered and commanding, its steps broad and clean. They climbed. A soldier met them at the entrance and bowed. Han asked if Lord Moro was present. The soldier nodded.
Inside, halls stretched long and open, supported by thick pillars carved smooth with age. Light spilled in from exposed gardens tucked between wings of stone, ponds resting beneath bare trees powdered with snow. People moved through the space with purpose—soldiers in quiet ranks, maids carrying linens, men dressed in robes Ikari had never seen before. They wore strange round caps and heavy beads around their necks. Teachers, Ikari realized. The learned men his father had spoken of—keepers of words and wisdom.
He followed Han deeper into the heart of the court, his footsteps echoing softly, aware with every step that the world he had known was already far behind him.
They entered a wide courtyard where a great tree rose at its center, old and thick, its branches spreading like a crown. Beneath it sat a small group of musicians, fingers moving over strings and flutes, their notes soft and measured.
Before them lounged a heavy man, seated on cushions, dressed in layered robes unlike any Ikari had seen before. The fabric shimmered faintly, and strange ornaments hung at his neck. The soldier who escorted them stepped forward. The man turned, waved a hand for the music to continue, and rose with a grunt.
Han bowed low. "Lord Moro."
The man's eyes settled on Ikari. Lord Moro was round and soft, his face full, his hair thinning at the crown. He smelled strongly of perfume—sweet, almost cloying. He circled Ikari slowly, then lifted one of his arms.
"Lean," he noted. "But healthy."
He squeezed Ikari's arm once, then placed two fingers against his lips, parting them slightly to look at his teeth. His mouth twisted in faint irritation as he did so.
"Strong," he muttered. He glanced at Han. "His parents did not wail, did they?"
"They were not happy," Han replied carefully. "That is all I can say."
"Well," Lord Moro argued, releasing Ikari at last, "that is why they were compensated."
He reached up and tugged lightly at Ikari's hair. "Have this washed and trimmed," he said. "I cannot tell if it is black, or merely ash."
Then he turned away, already losing interest. "He will be introduced by Gato," he added, waving a hand back toward the musicians. "And do something about that smell. We do not want our Lady knowing he was a sheep herder."
With that, he returned to his cushions, the music rising around him once more. Ikari was taken away. Handmaidens bathed him and dressed him in fine cotton garments, soft and light against his skin. He knew the feel of good cloth—his mother sewed—but this was finer than anything he had worn. When they reached for his hair, he stiffened. He had kept it as long as it would grow, hoping one day it might fall like his father's. It did not matter. They trimmed it all the same.
When they were done, he was brought before another soldier. The man was tall and broad, his black hair cut short in a clean military line. His armor sat heavy on his frame, worn with ease. Ikari could not tell if the man's stare was confusion or simple assessment.
"Follow me," the soldier ordered.
Ikari obeyed. As they walked, the man spoke without turning. "Listen carefully," he said. "You will not speak unless spoken to." Ikari nodded.
"When you see Lady Miyo-jan, you will bow," the soldier continued. "Your eyes will remain down. If they rise, you will lose your head entirely. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir," Ikari replied. The soldier grunted once and kept walking.
The soldier slid the door aside and stepped in. Ikari followed. The room swallowed him whole. He had not known a room could be this vast, nor so alive. Flowers climbed pale pillars and spilled from hanging pots. Greenery crept along the walls as if it had been invited and dared not refuse. Warmth lingered in the air, carrying a scent so gentle it unsettled him—sweet, clean, unreal. Paradise, he thought dimly. Or a dream meant to trick men.
Handmaidens moved in quiet patterns. White Sisters passed like ghosts, their steps soundless, their hands busy. All of them circled one place at the heart of the chamber, though Ikari could not yet see who held their attention.
"Gato."
A handmaiden straightened at once and turned toward them. She was slim, dark-haired, her eyes large and alert, her smile curious rather than welcoming.
"We were not told to expect Lord Droha's call," she remarked, studying the soldier.
"No call was sent," Gato replied evenly.
The woman blinked. "Oh?" Her gaze slid to Ikari. "And who is this?"
"This is Ikari of the East End," Gato announced. "He is to serve as the Lady's new guard."
Ikari lowered his head. He felt her eyes weigh him.
"He is rather small."
The voice came soft from within the gathering, unbothered, almost idle. The room stilled. Ikari lifted his eyes.
Behold, she sat where the light from the tall windows spilled freely, catching her as though the sun itself had chosen her. Her skin was pale beneath layers of white and green—the proud colors of House Fey. Heavy robes rested on her shoulders as if they belonged there. A handmaiden worked slowly through her long black hair, combing and braiding with care. Her eyes found him. Light green. Clear. Measuring. Not warm. Not cruel. Watching.
Ikari had grown up on stories of her, the little lady of the noble houses. Songs whispered by drunkards. Warnings murmured by mothers at night. Tales of a monster hidden behind noble walls, of rot dressed in silk. None of them survived the moment.
Her face bore marks no court poet would dare praise—small pits and scars scattered along the right side, trailing down her cheek and neck like the memory of an illness long endured. Old wounds. Half-forgotten pain. And yet she did not look broken. She looked enduring.
To Ikari, she was no monster from a fireside tale. She was something older, heavier. A figure stepped from the edge of legend.
The Painted Goddess. The Lady of the Beginning.