Cold came early in the high mountains. It slid down the slopes like a living thing, needling through wool and skin alike, settling in the bones with quiet intent. By dusk the wind had teeth. It worried at Ikari's cheeks and numbed his fingers as he stood above the grazing herd, crook in hand, breath fogging the air before him.
The sheep moved slow and stubborn across the rocks, their hooves scraping frost from stone. Fey paced among them, grey and firm, ever watchful. Below, the valley had begun to drown in shadow, the pines rising dark and sharp against a sky bruised purple and blue. Snow clung to their branches like old ghosts unwilling to let go.
Ikari lowered himself onto a flat stone, easing the ache from his legs. From here he could see far—too far, his father liked to say. The kind of view that made a man restless. He pulled his cloak tighter and watched the last of the light bleed from the world.
"Ikari!"
The voice came thin and breathless, carried by the wind. Ikari turned. Ibe was scrambling up the slope toward him, boots slipping on loose rock and half-frozen mud. The boy's hair was a wild black mess, whipped about his narrow face. His eyes were dark and bright with excitement, and when he grinned, his teeth showed crooked and unashamed.
"You'll break your neck one day," Ikari called, already rising.
Ibe laughed, gasping as he came closer. "Not today." He bent forward, hands on his knees, sucking in air. "Father's calling you."
Ikari frowned. "Calling me? Why?"
Ibe straightened, still grinning. "I don't know. But there are Dalmeer soldiers at the house."
The words struck harder than the cold. "Dalmeer?" Ikari said. "Here?"
Ibe nodded eagerly. "I saw their cloaks. Red trim and steel helms. Real ones."
Ikari's thoughts raced. Dalmeer soldiers had no business in the high country. Their reach ended at the noble city and the fat farmlands below. Men like Ikari's father paid taxes in wool and meat, not obedience and blood.
"What would they want with us?" Ikari muttered.
Ibe only shrugged, the excitement still clinging to him like static. "Father looked… serious."
That decided it. Ikari swung his crook over his shoulder and moved at once. "You stay here," he said. "Guard the sheep."
Ibe's grin fell. "What? No. I'm coming."
"No," Ikari said sharply. "You'll stay."
"I can help," Ibe protested. "If soldiers are—"
"You'll help by doing as you're told," Ikari cut in. He placed a hand on his brother's shoulder, firm but not unkind. "Fey will stay with you. If the herd strays, you call her. If the weather turns, you bring them down slow."
Ibe scowled, but he nodded. "You'll come back?"
Ikari hesitated just long enough for the wind to slip between them. Then he smiled, thin and quick. "Of course."
He turned before the lie could settle. The path down was treacherous, half-hidden by shadow and frost. Ikari moved fast despite it, boots finding purchase by long habit.
Above him, the sheep shifted and Fey barked once, sharp and clear. Ikari did not look back. He pulled his cloak tighter and quickened his pace, the dark swallowing him as the last light of dusk died on the mountainside.
Ikari broke into a run as the house came into view. Smoke still lifted from the hearth vent, thin and steady. The stamp beside the house held three horses, broad-chested and well kept, their coats brushed clean despite the cold. They were no mountain ponies. Their saddles were decorated, leather worked and polished, straps fitted with care rather than necessity.
So Ibe had not lied. Ikari slowed, breath tight in his chest, and moved closer. Dalmeer horses did not wander into the high country by mistake.
He pushed the wooden door open quietly.
The warmth of the room met him at once, carrying the smell of tea and dried herbs. Asa the Farmer sat on a woven mat at the center of the room, legs folded beneath him, back straight despite his years. His long dark hair was tied in a wolf tail, greying at the roots, his beard trimmed but rough at the jaw. His black eyes were calm, steady—too calm for unexpected guests.
He still wore his market clothes. The arm guard on his left forearm remained strapped, leather darkened from use. He had not been home long.
Opposite him, a low table had been set. Cups of steaming tea rested there, untouched. Three Dalmeer soldiers occupied the opposite end of the table.
One sat. The other two stood behind him, unmoving, helmets on, hands resting lightly near the hilts of their curved swords. Asa turned when the door creaked.
"Ikari," he said, as though greeting him at the end of an ordinary day. "Come. Sit beside me."
Ikari obeyed, lowering himself onto the mat. His eyes moved at once, taking in every corner of the room, every shadow. His father's face held none of the tightness it wore when trade went poorly or storms took sheep. That unsettled him more than anger would have.
"Is there a problem, Papa?" Ikari asked.
Asa raised an eyebrow, faintly amused. "No, my son."
Ikari frowned. "Then why are Dalmeer soldiers in our house?"
Asa's gaze shifted toward the men across from them. "These men are here for you."
Ikari turned sharply. "For me?"
"Yes," Asa said simply. "They are soldiers of the Noble City. Sent by the Lord himself."
The words settled like frost. Ikari studied them properly then.
Their armor was unlike anything worn by common soldiers. It was not steel, but plates of hardened hide, dark red in color, layered and fitted with black bindings. The surface bore scars and polish both, worked smooth by time and care, on their breastplates, the coat of arms of the winged dragon. He had heard stories of the native boars of White Haven—huge, violent beasts whose skin could turn blades. This armor came from such creatures. Status worn as protection. Only their helmets were steel, smooth-faced and severe. The swords at their sides curved slightly, edges clean and well kept.
The seated soldier had removed his helmet. He looked Younger than Ikari had expected, his face, composed. A cloak of fur rested over his shoulders, thick and pale, marking him apart even from his own men. His eyes watched Ikari with quiet interest, as though weighing him. The two standing guards did not move at all. Ikari felt the room narrow. Dalmeer armor did not cross the countryside for wool or taxes and no lord sent such men for a farmer's son without reason.
"I am Han," the seated soldier said at last.
He set his cup down with care. The tea steamed between them. "…of the Noble City. We have traveled far for your son. After his showing at the Great Games, the Lord himself asked that he be brought to him."
Ikari felt the words before he understood them. He turned to his father. Asa's face remained firm, unreadable, as though this were a matter of weather rather than fate.
"Why would the Lord have need of my son?" Asa asked calmly. "He is nothing but a shepherd. He is needed here."
Han reached into a small leather bag at his side and withdrew a scroll, bound with a dark cord. He placed it on the table and slid it forward. Asa took it and read in silence.
Ikari watched his father's eyes move across the parchment, slow and steady. He tried to read the room instead—Han's stillness, the unmoving guards, the way the fire crackled too loudly. He felt the moment stretch, thin as ice.
Asa did not look at him. Instead, Ikari's gaze drifted toward the doorway. His mother stood there, half-hidden by shadow, one hand resting against the frame. She said nothing. Her eyes met his only briefly before slipping away. Asa rolled the scroll closed and returned it to the table.
"Very well," he said. The words landed heavy. "But I will make a request."
Han inclined his head. "Yes"
"Please, stay the night," Asa said. "The roads are treacherous in the dark, and my son will not leave before morning. Tomorrow, you may return with him. We have a room nearby, you and your men can rest there till dawn."
Han considered this for a moment, then nodded. "That is acceptable."
The soldiers rose. Steel whispered softly as they moved. Outside, the cold had deepened. Asa stepped out with Ikari beside him as the Dalmeer made their way toward the stamp. Frost bit at Ikari's face, sharper now, as if the mountains themselves were listening. That was when other men entered the compound.
They came in a loose group, boots crunching on frozen ground, weapons worn openly. Their armor was dull and practical, colors darkened by use. These were not Dalmeer. Tax soldiers.
They carried ledgers and spears, and they looked at the horses first. Nothing good ever arrived all at once. The men drew closer, their boots loud against the frozen ground.
Han's eyes moved to them at once. "Who are they?"
"Tax collectors," Asa answered.
Ikari snorted before he could stop himself. "More like bullies."
Asa shot him a look, then raised his voice. "I did not expect collectors at this hour," he called out. "Payment days are still some days away."
One of the men stepped forward. He was broad-shouldered, his beard neatly trimmed, his spear resting easy in his hand. "There are no days for payment," he said. "You pay when we come to your door."
Han tilted his head slightly. "And what are these taxes for," he asked, "that they must be taken at the cool of evening?"
The question hung there. The collectors exchanged glances. Then another man laughed, short and humorless.
"What business is that of Dalmeer?" he said.
"You have no jurisdiction here. These are common lands."
Han's expression did not change. "The Dalmeer," he said calmly, "have jurisdiction wherever they stand. Or do you mean to oppose?"
Ikari noticed it then—the subtle shift. The Dalmeer guards' hands rested on their sword hilts now, fingers loose, ready. Not threatening. Prepared.