Chapter Text
Cold. So cold.
Like snow on a December night, like the wind sweeping jade floors.
Despite being away in a stone Fortress, up in the unrelenting mountains of Toyama, the Barracks of that compound have never felt as cold as the old wooden floor of the Inumaki hall.
It's spring now. Or it should be, anyways, with the snow slowly melting away, disappearing off the ornate rooftops of Kamakura. Yet here, Yuta's hands remain rigid, ensnared by the cold, as they lie atop his knees over the sombre folds of his dark blue hakama. This should have felt like freedom after the stifling winds of his mountain exile, but the oppressive air of the clan's hall grips Yuta's very essence, shackling him to their crest before any vows are made.
"It's better than seven more years on that mountain," Yuta mutters to himself, a mantra to shroud his turmoil and bring solace, albeit fleeting. Something in him stirs, and he knows the rising anxiety so intimately by this point, recognises her claws, her grip over his heart. It makes him afraid. Makes him unsettled. Even so, he takes a deep breath and repeats to himself, "It must be better. It must."
It's a tough sell, even for him, even given his circumstances. The hall seems to possess an insatiable appetite for life force, a vacuum draining his vitality with each passing minute. For over half an hour, Yuta kneels, devoid of any address or acknowledgment, left only with his maddening worries that do nothing to calm the cursed energy inside him. His eyes dare not lift from the floor, adhering to custom, fixed on the glint of his katana laid before him in a gesture of reverence. And he's not alone, as much as he wishes he were, because even that would be preferable to his current situation. He kneels at the centre of a grand room for the pleasure and scrutinising gazes of the clan elders lining the walls. Yuta observes their bristle, white robes blending seamlessly with the stark banners adorning the red pillars that reach to the sky. Their faces are unreadable, shrouded by crimson veils etched with ancient cursed sigils, evoking old folk tales of malevolent spirits and a long-forgotten curse.
They're all dressed in white, like a funeral pyre. They're all hoping for his demise, and the lingering anxiety inhabiting his chest clarifies.
With a fleeting glance, Yuta discerns the conversation swirling around him. The eyes of the elders betray their thoughts—fear, disdain, and an undercurrent of paranoia. They must think of him as the bearer of a curse, a bad omen sent to bring ruin to the Inumaki heir like he did with the Orimoto lady. Yuta supposes they are not wrong to believe that, as he himself thinks it must be true after all he's been through. Even so, part of him wishes he'd have the strength to be kind to himself. He wishes he were anywhere but here, ensconced in this cold, colossal hall, awaiting the head of the family to ascend onto the dais and extend a formal welcome.
The lord is behind schedule. However, Yuta refrains from expressing that thought. It must be a deliberate test, an examination of his allegiance to the cause. His commitment is resolute. There's no alternative, he reminds himself of his cousin's words, as his gaze lingers on the lengthy tabard enshrouding his katana. A crimson braid intricately woven near the hilt adorns the obsidian wood. Underneath it, Yuta remembers, without even wanting to, the splinters of wood which jab at the fine threads where there once was a silver family crest.
Finally, the imposing iron doors before him groan open. A sudden draft sweeps in, chilling him to the bone, akin to death itself strolling into the room. Yuta knows he's being too fearful, too dramatic even, like he's stuck in a court play. But he can't help it, not when his new life, the new chance at life, depends on this very moment. As such, he dare not raise his head or utter a word. He dare not let them into the curse he bears. A week of relentless travel on horseback led him here tonight. He ought to be appreciative that the clan's head and their kin have deigned to spare time this evening to greet a lowly ronin.
At last, someone addresses him. Yuta figures it's one of the elders, as his years, trained in years of battle, quickly pick up the direction.
His gaze ascends, and he's finally graced with the sight of the Inumaki family, who, to Yuta's eyes, look almost like royalty, positioned upon a wooden dais, kneeling atop silken pillows. Yuta would recognise the crest embroidered in the Haori of Takehiko Inumaki anywhere - the crimson fang seal intricately sown in pristine white silk, like blood staining snow red - a symbol both revered and feared throughout the Shogunate.
The emblem repeats itself across the room, adorning the robes of samurai sworn unwaveringly to the clan. Something stirs within Yuta. He wonders what's one more guard to the Inumaki clan, who has the strongest army in Nippon. He wonders why him, an exile of a lowly Samurai clan, who's not even allowed to bear the Okkotsu tomoe anymore. Lastly, even though he doesn't want to think of that, he wonders why would any clan could place trust in him after the events of three years past.
All of those thoughts silence when the head of the family, a man in his fifties, commands his attention. His visage, cleanly shaven, bears the marks of weathered experiences, etched with a rough, bitter demeanour. He adorns himself in robes, blending the stark contrast of white and black, accentuated with the clan's emblem. He's tall, sturdy-built, and Yuta is sure the man could wield a katana and split bamboo shoots clean in half, if he ever chooses to. The Inumaki clan does respect strength and aptitude above all. Their commander must be strong in spirit and body alone, for else the clan would wither.
Kneeling behind him, his family regards Yuta from their designated positions. Seated with dignified pride upon a raised pillow, the lady of the family, whose given name Yuta is afraid has forgotten from his cousin's briefing, nestles almost engulfed in her pale-coloured junihitoe. The outer robes, magnificent and long, wear the proud markings of the Zen'in Sun. He tries not to stare. Three years in a military outpost made sure Yuta nearly remembers what a woman looks like. Still, it's not that that makes his heart ache - Yuta recalls encountering only one woman adorned in twelve layers before. A young woman who's now long gone and would never smile at him again. Eventually, Yuta manages to escape his lingering, painful memory, particularly as the woman's penetrating gaze seems to reach into the depths of his soul. She's strikingly beautiful, youthful, with hair as dark as night and a slender, almost hollow face. The well-sought-after features of the Zen'in lineage.
Her spitting image, their children sit by their mother. To her left, the daughter of the clan, a young beauty in her own right, dressed in a silken kimono of cream and pink hues, eyes Yuta with an intensity that makes him advert his gaze. Even from where he stands, he can feel her cursed energy - it's thick, powerful, and plentiful, but wild, uncontrolled. She's got the raw talent of her two bloodlines combined, and she wears it proudly on her face. By comparison, Yuta hides his in shame. He'd rather no one have to feel the sinister tinge coating his aura unless he doesn't have a choice.
Finally, to his mother's right stands the figure Yuta assumes to be the Heir of the Inumaki clan. A young boy draped in white pristine garments, his raven hair a reflection of his mother's. Adorning his haori are the same red fangs as his father's, the emblem of their lineage. Yet, as Yuta is graced with a shy look from the young Heir, an unsettling feeling takes hold. His cousin mentioned that the boy, his new lord, should be of similar age to him. Gojo, ever so playful, made it a point to drill into Yuta that the closeness would be a benefit to them, even though Yuta failed then and fails even now to see anything other than disadvantages to that. However, despite the brief information that's been given to him, the young Heir appears no more than eleven or perhaps twelve, trying earnestly to wear a brave, proud face akin to his father's.
Yuta's unsure what to make of this. The unsettling feelings of before return, snaking their way around Yuta's poor hearts, and the floor seems colder still. The boy— man who's supposed to be Yuta's liege is just nine short months away from his twentieth winter, marking his passing of age. It's the reason why Yuta's here now, after all - to protect the young Heir until he claims his birthright from his father, who is just ruling now in his stead.
A rough cough reverberates through the heavy silence of the hall, akin to wind sweeping snow. It emanates from Yuta's side, the same elder yet again. He discerns it as his cue. Shuffling slightly on the floor, he straightens, feeling the tension press against the strain in his muscles - a reflex from his old habit of hunching down. Clearing his throat, he finally speaks, head respectfully bowed, "O-Okkotsu Yuta. Retainer of Clan Gojo. I… I wish to humbly request permission to bear the responsibility of protecting the esteemed Heir of the Inumaki clan, Inumaki Toge."
Yuta's voice falters, and he's unsure why. For all his shortcomings, this has never been an issue before. He supposes it might be the chill that seeps in from the courtyard or the piercing cold looks directed at him by both the lord and the lady, akin to a drawn great bow. The arrow strikes his heart as soon as the name of the Heir is uttered. Or perhaps it is the word Heir itself that makes everyone in the room tense up as the young lady's cursed energy betrays her emotions. Either way, Yuta realises he's made another mistake somewhere, but he's uncertain when. A low, rumbling murmur echoes in the hall, coinciding with a rumble within Yuta himself.
"Despite your past transgressions , the Inumaki clan will acknowledge you as its loyal and servile subject," Lord Inumaki finally addresses him. Deep and grave, his voice carries weight, resolute and intimidating, fitting the commanding title of the 16th head of the Clan of the Fang.
As the unfathomable silence looms, Yuta comprehends that a response is anticipated. "S-sir," he murmurs softly, lowering his palms and pressing his forehead onto the chilly floor. Before him, the katana remains resolute, unmoved.
Pleased, the grand figure of authority before him shifts. "From now on, the clan shall be your abode. The clan shall be your existence. The clan shall be your grave. You live and die by the clan, and act only in the interest of the Fang."
The grounds sprawl larger than Yuta had ever fathomed, eclipsing even the expanse of the Gojo estate, the Mountain Pass Fortress, and dwarfing the Orimoto palace. Guided through the compound by the head of the Red Fangs, a man towering over him by a full head and twice as broad, Yuta strains to absorb everything around him—the bustling servants, the myriad structures composing the Inumaki grounds, the training fields, and barracks. Even as the encroaching night drapes the heart of Kamakura in a frigid blue shadow, the clan's dwelling pulses with life. Dozens, perhaps hundreds, of servants traverse the narrow pathways between the compound's buildings. At its centre stands the grand family palace, stately and towering, adorned with red pillars proudly bearing the banners of the clan, encircled by administrative edifices devoted to clan records, training facilities, barracks, and halls. Yet what captures Yuta's gaze most are the towering walls enclosing the grounds, formidable and impenetrable, guarded by sentries clad in crimson attire.
It's a breathtaking sight, witnessing the might of the Inumaki clan. This is the very power that commands the Shogunate, rumoured to surpass even the Imperial army. Yuta refrains from commenting on such matters; a mere exile from an inconspicuous clan, his presence here owed solely to his lineage within one of the four families of the Jujutsu World and the uncertain motivations of his estranged kin. With these thoughts swirling as they pass countless soldiers, Yuta can't help but ponder - if the Heir needed a protector, why not someone close to the clan? Why not someone older, with more experience, with a powerful cursed technique?
Why entrust the shadowing of the Heir to someone with blood on his hands?
These questions linger, unanswered and unvoiced. Yuta suspects they'll never see the light of day or that the answers would bring him any solace nonetheless. All he yearns, for now, is being able to let go, as he hoped he would, if only he were to come to a new place, a new life, a new role to play. But every moment here feels like a tightening grip, a cruel reminder of his youth, locking his heart in fear and anxiety. He hasn't even exchanged a word with the boy for whom he is meant to become a guardian shadow.
Nothing seems to ease the situation. Yuta asks shy questions, drawing his simple grey Haori closer around him. Although it's a chilly March evening, the Kamakura weather itself feels inhospitable, mirroring the disposition of the servants, guards, and family alike. The Captain leading him, purportedly responsible for acquainting him with the premises, remains mostly silent, offering nothing beyond the occasional discontented grunt or brief regulations when he deems Yuta should be made aware.
Yuta's impression of the man wanes by the minute. He would have assumed that safeguarding someone as crucial as the Heir to one of the four esteemed clans would entail a sense of urgency, a fervent desire to protect and cherish, so careful rules would be drilled into Yuta by the moment he stepped foot through the Iron doors. Yet Toge Inumaki's name is conspicuously absent. His ascendancy to the family head never spoken of. His habits, likes, whims or the possible dangers never bothered to be brought up. It's all about the clan's interests, and Yuta feels the disdain in the air.
The Captain's words make it crystal clear—Yuta is unwelcome. The scrutinising gazes of the servants, elders, and functionaries reinforce this, his presence deemed a muddy blot on the otherwise pristine banners of the Fang.
Lost in his contemplations, Yuta scarcely notices until the Captain salutes one of the washer girls, who bends over a basin teeming with servant dishes. As they navigate through the compound, the main ancestral residence, at the heart of the grounds, appears to drift further away. They traverse the outskirts of the servant quarters, distinguished by the rich, deep blue of their yukatas, meticulously tailored and woven from fine cotton. Yuta wants to stop, to question the Captain about their destination. This isn't the residence of the Inumaki family, where personal guards are traditionally allotted a small room near their liege. It also doesn't resemble the barracks or the Captain's quarters, where a retainer serving the clan might lodge. But he refrains, knowing every uttered word will be dissected, each misstep weighed against him. Maybe the Heir had arranged an alternative meeting place for tonight. Perhaps it will all eventually align.
Nonetheless, the Captain lacks the patience or willingness to entertain any of Yuta's inquiries tonight. He appears content to be rid of the unwelcome presence intruding into their clan.
Soon, They slip into what seems to be the gardens. As the snow dissolves, shy buds start their tender bloom, heralding a shift from the frostiness that had just ensnared Yuta's heart in the hall—an unexpected but not unwelcome reprieve. At last, Yuta catches sight of what he presumes to be their destination, gauging by the Captain's brisk pace, eager to be free of Yuta. Ahead, a rather modest dwelling stands near the edges of the garden, nestled close enough to the servants that, were it not for its more refined materials and delicate woodwork, Yuta could easily mistake it for another of the servant's quarters. Anchored beside a vast pond, the house is framed by a grand cherry tree growing behind it, its blossoms just days away from unfurling. While such a sight might be commonplace in other gardens Yuta has encountered, within the Inumaki grounds, it's an extraordinary spectacle to behold.
Then it dawns on him, what the house in front is - he's heard of places like this before, read about it in scrolls singing about the beauties of the Imperial courts in Kyoto. The unassuming yet refined structure appears to match the description of a day dwelling—a novel but exquisite concept where the lady of a wealthy family finds her own tranquil haven during the day, separated from the onerous discussions within the grand clan halls. Here, she might write, paint, or engage in happier pursuits, distanced from the ominous conversations echoing through the cold grand hall supported by blood-tinted pillars, as if soaked in the essence of the Inumaki clan's battles and warmongering. It all adds up, Yuta thinks, reflecting on the chill that gripped him in the clan's grand hall as if he were a sacrificial lamb standing before the culling.
Here, however, the air is clearer. The night is calmer, yet somehow denser. There's a lingering feeling shrouding the small house - it's serene, yet something is askew, off, as if things shouldn't be the way they are. Yuta still feels like he is being led around to an unknown destination for unknown hidden reasons, and the energy inside him stirs, almost as if telling him to run, for his life is about to change as soon as he steps past the little pathway leading to the house. He shrugs it off, determined to make this endeavour succeed, lest he be condemned to return to that accursed mountain, and as he well knows, no one makes it ten years alive there. Amidst the whirl of emotions, Yuta remains resolute, knowing he can't… can't afford to waste his life anymore. It's not what she would have wanted for him, not after her sacrifice.
He attempts to focus on the present rather than linger between a painful past and an uncertain future. Yet, distraction lasts for merely a fleeting moment before the Captain halts abruptly. Two young girls, clad in dark blue yukatas with grey aprons, hurry past them, exchanging whispers. They scuttle by, heads bowed, offer a salute to the Captain, and barely spare a glance at Yuta. Even the servant girls here are either keen to ignore him or openly regard him with disdain. As the girls hurriedly depart, Yuta senses a pervasive unease lingering around the little house—a sense of abandonment, a weariness that emanates from everyone leaving it behind, and an apparent trepidation in those approaching it. It seems whatever is housed there is either meant to be ignored, relegated to a dark corner, or openly scorned.
Before he can pose any questions, a slender figure emerges, offering a respectful bow. The woman is dressed in a striped yukata, seemingly of a lesser quality than those worn by the two girls. Strands of grey thread through her hair, tightly wound into a simple bun. Her face bears wrinkles earned from hard labour, and her palms are calloused from toil. However, her eyes carry a warmth that instantly captivates Yuta—it's the first time he's been met with a welcoming gaze since arriving at the gates of the Inumaki estate.
"Lord Inumaki insists his son keep to himself until the Spring Prayer. You tell him that the lord will not hear otherwise, and his decision on the matter has not changed," the Captain interjects, his voice booming across the garden. Each word resonates with a clarity and edge that prompts an involuntary step back from Yuta, his fingers twitching toward his obi, where the katana rests against his thigh.
Attacking the Captain of the family guards would undoubtedly be a bad look. Yuta takes a deep breath or perhaps two, reminding himself that reigning in his simmering anger and anxiety is crucial. Instead, he observes as the woman's countenance stiffens. From the practised mannerisms playing out before him, it's evident—this is a well-rehearsed scene; they've performed this ritual before, with the Captain issuing curt directives and the woman offering a bow, a show of obligatory tradition rather than genuine respect.
The Captain shifts, crossing his arms over his broad chest. There's a discernible tremor in his lips, indicating a desire to say more, yet he refrains. Yuta notices the telltale angle of his feet, signalling that the Captain would prefer to flee than linger any longer than strictly required near this house. "Now that that is settled, this is the new retainer. Arrived from Toyama today. You were informed he would be lodged here instead of the barracks—"
"The girls have just finished preparing the room, sir," the woman interjects. Her voice is kind yet cunning. Yuta finds himself drawn to her—she appears meek, yet her words are edged with a quiet, steadfast strength. For a lowly servant, she carries herself with an air of confidence that commands respect, more than one might expect.
With a final grunt, the captain motions towards Yuta, who instinctively takes another step back. He turns on his heels, mutters a final "Behave, or we'll speak of it" towards Yuta, and promptly vanishes, as if standing a second more on this very ground is too uncomfortable for him.
The woman watches him trail away, her hands tucked in the sleeves of her yukata. It's properly night now, Yuta notices—the journey, the awful first meeting of the family, the clipped and tense tour of the grounds... it's all wearing on him, weighing on his shoulders. He would have hoped for a chance to at least formally introduce himself to the little boy he's supposed to protect without his father speaking in his name. However, Yuta can't say he thinks it will happen now that he's clearly just been handed over to a maid to be shown his living quarters.
"You're so young. Younger than I thought," the woman speaks, startling Yuta, completely throwing him off his game. He turns towards her, flustered, unsure of the appropriate way to respond, but even so, she gives him no chance. Her kind smile widens, and she adds, "Perhaps this time, the young lord will take more kindly to you."
Yuta strains his eyes, acutely aware that the woman, whom Yuta has not even been introduced to, is commenting on his age. He's not sure if it's a good or a bad thing. The fact that he's not being stared at with mean intentions and ushered away makes it hard for him to know what to say. Eventually, he recalls formalities, bows, palms balled up in fists by his side. "O-Okkotsu Yuta. Retainer of Clan Gojo. I… I'm here to—"
"For the young lord, yes, yes," the woman interrupts him. Yuta's starting to get a feeling that she does that often, like she has a habit of completing people's sentences or speaking for them. If not for the strange situations he's found himself in all day, Yuta would think it's a rather rude behaviour of a servant, if not at the very least uncanny. Either way, he nods, and she smiles, offering him a courteous bow. “I’m Inumaki-sama’s servant, Miyo. Let's get you inside, alright? You must be tired after all that travelling…"
The woman shuffles inside, deftly pushing the sliding panel aside to make room for herself and Yuta, who has no real choice but to follow her. She talks. A lot . It's an absolutely eerie experience, especially since Yuta has barely been spoken to since he arrived at the clan halls. Everyone has been so distant, so cold, like their white banners and the freezing snow melting around them. But Miyo is warm, kind, jovial. Past her youthful days, she remains quick on her feet, so bright that Yuta starts to wonder how she is so different from the other submissive servants he's interacted with all day. She swiftly guides him through the house, asking about his travels, the weather, his favourite food—everything happens so fast that Yuta barely has a chance to register. He feels bamboozled, almost as if he's being ambushed, as she takes him from one room to another, whispering about where everything is. Before Yuta knows it, and it happens quickly due to the house's size, they stop in a more considerable hallway, where at the end, two larger sliding doors are closed. Behind them, light shines through, casting a warm glow on the paper panels, making Yuta feel his hands warm up.
"You wish to meet the young lord, no?"
Yuta turns towards her, finally registering her words. His brow shoots up in apparent confusion. There are so many things he wishes to say, to ask—from telling her he's met the lord to asking why he would be here, inquiring about the house or his duties, to expressing concern about the late hour. But the look on the woman's face is piercing and puzzling, and Yuta barely manages to string a couple of pathetic words. "N-now? You mean, well, here ?"
"It's where the young lord lives after all," she says matter-of-factly, as if the Heir of a clan with such tradition always lives cut off from the rest of his family, in what's a bit more than a summer house, reserved for lounging during the day, instead of a palace surrounded by guards. As if the Heir of a shogunate would live in such—such simple—
Before Yuta can voice any concerns, the woman continues, "We'll see if he feels up to it. The young lord has been… well, it's a difficult situation, with his father and all… but he must wish to meet you too, I am certain."
“He… we… I was just in the hall, and he was there—"
"He's been huddled up inside since this very morning, but I'll let him know you have arrived," she adds quickly, and the statement does nothing to quell Yuta's confusion.
She moves too fast for him, talks too fast, and before he knows it, she's already stepped forward into the hall, and Yuta is obliged to follow her, quieting down. His mind swirls with question after question, and that dreadful feeling of the house being too small, the hallway too narrow, and the air too cold returns full force as he realises there's something that he's misunderstood along the way. Before he can piece it together, she's already lowered herself down, leaning back on her haunches, and he's obliged to follow her gesture of reverence as she seemingly slips back into the formalities allotted to a highborn.
The sliding door shifts open slowly, announcing her approach. From where Yuta kneels behind her, there's little he can see inside. He certainly can't catch a glimpse of the person he's supposed to serve, which Yuta has presumably not met just hours before.
"Young lord," she calls, and Yuta recognises that warm, kind tone again as she peers inside the warmly lit-up room. Strangely, a surge of fondness swells in Yuta's heart - she sounds like a nurturing mother calling to her loving son. "There's the boy you've been told about. He's here to meet you."
Yuta awaits a response, and suddenly, as he waits for his liege to answer, his heart is flooded with that same soul-crushing anxiety he's felt before, only now, he can't seem to manage to push it away, brush it under. That floating loving feeling is crushed under the tides of his new tribulations - what he feels now is akin to how hard his heart had thumped in his chest the first time he stepped foot in the Orimoto palace, and he had the chance to meet—
He doesn't want to think of it. Doesn't want to think of her . Not now. Not now.
The answer never comes. The room remains silent, yet Miyo doesn't call again; instead, she watches something transfixed in the room. Yuta can't see much - there's the outline of a boy… no, a man, dressed in a simple yukata, sitting at a low desk, but his face is out of sight for Yuta. One thing is clear, however. The lord is by no means the little boy with raven hair he's seen in that cold hall. He can't get more than that without making it obvious that he is ogling inside, which would be a terribly disrespectful thing to do, especially before even meeting his liege. So, instead, he focuses on the warm shadows cast on the soft tatami floors.
The man is gesturing, hands moving quickly.
"But— you should meet him at least, I assure you…" Miyo answers and Yuta feels like he's in a fever dream. She sounds as if she's talking to herself, and only her voice echoes through the room. "Yes. Yes, if that's how you feel. In the morning, then, perhaps?"
With that, her head falls down, and Yuta picks up a strange sadness in the air. It's partly her voice and how her shoulders cave in, defeated, almost as if all the cheerfulness from before has been plucked out of her. But then, more pressingly, is the cursed energy that lingers in the air… a contained, buzzing crackle of energy that's so low, so lonely, that Yuta could mistake it for his own, and he is certain that the servant woman in front of him can't wield Jujutsu sorcery.
"Good night, young lord," she murmurs, and with that, the panel slides shut again.
In a hurry, she shuffles back on her feet, her knees groaning under the sudden jerk, and Yuta, in an instant, helps her up, offering her his hand. She's short and frail compared to him, but the gesture of kindness and familiarity seems to brighten her up, if only a little. But she doesn't let go; she takes hold of Yuta's wrist, squeezes it, and offers him an apologetic frown.
"I'm sorry, he… well, I had hoped he'd wish to meet you, cheer him up," she whispers, perhaps in an attempt to conceal her voice from the person in the other room.
As she starts walking away, her hands returning under her apron, Yuta follows closely. It's as if he's stuck in an opioid dream, lost in thick green haze, because the events make no sense… she makes no sense. Not to Yuta, anyways. There's a million things he wishes to ask, just to make sure he's not losing his own mind, and he tries, for the life of him, to find a way to word his questions in a way that's not prying to the family business he has no business asking about. Even so, his mouth gets the better of him, and he finds himself murmuring, "H-how many children does the Inumaki family have?"
The woman startles and stops. They are now back in the kitchens, hovering right by the door. "Three."
"Three? S-so then… the young lord, today—"
She exhales slowly, sadness evident on her lips. "Oh, you've thought the little boy is the one in your care, have you not?"
"I'm sorry," Yuta mutters, taking a step back. "I— I don't understand."
"The lord and lady, they must have greeted you in the hall. Young lord Aoi and young lady Aya by their side—"
"Aoi?"
"Aoi," she repeats the name with a strange heaviness that's unbecoming of her nature. "But your job is in the service of lord Inumaki's firstborn, Toge, who… well, I shall hope he'll be chipper enough to meet you in the morning. He's fought with his father all week, and he's not…" The woman trails off, and Yuta swears she looks on the brink of crying.
He's trying to keep up with the information, but there's so much to take in, so much to understand at once, that he barely has time to process it. The woman herself seems to need a moment to gather her thoughts before she returns to Yuta's side, gripping his arm. "He's kind, the young lord. Please do not think less of him for being unable to welcome you tonight, but he's always been… reserved."
"N-no," Yuta responds almost instinctually. "Whatever he wishes to do with me… I am in his service, after all."
"I so do wish for you two to be friends . You don't look much older than the young lord, and he— well, you'll see tomorrow. I presume I should show you to your room for now, yes?" The woman nods frenetically, gripping his hand, and Yuta has no chance to slip another word in. "His guards were usually housed in the barracks just a short walk from here, but with everything… we found you a spot here. You'll be closer to Inumaki-sama this way."
Yuta offers her a tight little nod and a pained smile, but truthfully, he is at a loss for words. Unfortunately, even as Miyo's mouth flattens into a tight line, she continues to engage Yuta in small exchanges of dialogue as she manoeuvres quickly through the dark, quiet house until they reach the other end, where a small room had been prepared for Yuta. He couldn't care less about what she's saying, about how there was no room in the barracks, about the room having been some sort of storage or atelier, because Yuta's mind is fixated on her naive words - friends .
Yuta could never be friends with his lord. He would not allow it. And as much as he had tried to keep away the rush of memories from years past, his mind is flooded with reminiscences of meeting Rika for the first time, in her quarters, when he was assigned to be her guard, when he had been just shy past sixteen. He had wanted to be her friend . Not even a year later, he had wanted to be her lover . And look where that got him now. He was lonely, shunned, and had spent the better part of three years of his youth in exile in a cold, grey stone mountain fortress to atone for his desires that he now knows are unbecoming of a lowly guard.
He had confused duty for adoration in the past. He's not to make the same mistake twice.
But as Myio finally leaves him in front of his new quarters, Yuta thinks back on the events of the day, and the thought, as disturbing as it might sound, comforts him - this is not the same situation as it was with Rika. Rika was loved by her family, always in sight of her doting father. Rika was talkative and cheerful, bright and welcomed Yuta right in, making him feel at home. Rika was ecstatic to have his attention, and Yuta thought that fuelled his immeasurable desire to be by her side.
In comparison… today, he's met a clan leader who didn't bother to have all his children present for the formalities, leaving out the very Heir of the clan seat, who doesn't even live close to his family, shunned to a summer residence, with one strange lady as his only servant, and Yuta… Yuta , out of all people, as his only guard. Unlike Rika, he's closed off, distant, lonely, and Yuta hasn't seen his face or heard his voice.
In a sense, the thought is comforting - there is no worry for Yuta that the events that unfolded between him and Rika will ever have the chance to repeat. But as he stands alone before the room that will become his livelihood for the rest of his days, the coldness he's felt before returns as a thick blanket of snow falls over him, smothering Yuta under the white banners of the clan.