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Fae tried not to fidget while distracting herself with the forest sounds—the whisper of leaves, the distant tap of wood, the slow, steady pulse of a rabbit nibbling at something just beyond the bushes.
After a while, Aiko leaned closer, voice lowered. "Aiko works in the silk mill," she said quietly, almost shyly. "I am twenty-four."
Fae blinked, then smiled faintly. "You look like a schoolgirl."
Aiko's shoulders relaxed, but she seemed a little put out by that. "I wish I looked a little older. English is hard," she admitted. "Wolven is easier for me."
Relief loosened something in Fae's chest. She had sensed Aiko's shifter blood, but she wasn't a wolf. When Aiko spoke again, she spoke in Wolven and the conversation flowed smoother.
"There are others like you here," Aiko added. "I am one. I will show you the best place for rabbits."
Before Fae could ask what she meant, the door slid open.
A young man stood there, perhaps a little older than Aiko, dressed simply, his posture easy and confident. His gaze flicked briefly to Aiko, then settled on Fae. His shoulder-length dark hair was pulled back neatly, exposing a sharp, thoughtful profile and pale brown eyes that missed very little. Dressed in simple, well-worn robes, he carried himself with the contained stillness of someone long accustomed to discipline.
“This is Sora. He…he is a friend.” Aiko stammered while Fae watched her blush with delight.
Sora mumbled something too fast for Fae to catch. But she noticed Aiko's cheeks went instantly, spectacularly red.
"You may enter," the young man said, his Wolven precise and clear. But his ears were turning pink as he carefully avoided looking at Aiko.
Aiko rose so quickly she nearly stumbled, her prior grace gone. Fae stood more carefully, hiding her smile as she followed them inside.
The foot over the threshold felt like crossing into another world.
And somewhere beyond the quiet timber walls, the master craftsman waited.
The room they entered was sparse and formal, its beauty in its restraint. Tatami mats covered the floor, their woven scent grounding and clean. A pale green teapot sat on a short table with small porcelain teacups next to it. A low pedestal stood at the far end, and upon it sat a man with greying hair.
Haruto Masanori did not rise.
He sat with his back straight, hands resting loosely on his knees, his presence so complete that it filled the space without effort. His hair was bound neatly, streaked with silver, his expression unreadable as still water.
Aiko knelt first.
Fae followed, lowering herself carefully, heart beating like a drum in her ears. She bowed deeply, forehead dipping toward the mat like Aiko and remained there in silence until the master asked them to rise.
The silence seemed to stretch.
At last, Aiko spoke softly, formally, announcing her in Wolven. Fae did not lift her head.
"Present your offerings," Aiko said.
Fae reached forward and placed the first gift before him.
A wooden box that had taken her months to construct.
Hand-carved, the grain worked patiently to bring forth the image etched into its lid: Fenrir, jaws wide, swallowing the sun. It was her best work. The lines were clean, the tension held in the curve of muscle and the careful balance of shadow and light.
She bowed again.
The second offering followed.
A plain walnut box containing carefully prepared tea sachets—the scent faint but complex: Rhodiola rosea, Yarrow, Angelica. Each chosen with care.
She bowed again.
The final gift was a length of linen woven by the women of her pack, its surface bearing a subtle pattern that only revealed itself when the light struck just right—the shape of a wolf moving through reeds, head lowered, eyes forward.
