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Kenji caught her hand. "I know you must hate me," he said urgently. "But you must know this…I adore you, everything about you. And if it takes my entire life, I will find a way to free you from your useless lifemate."

Fae pulled her hand free and kept walking with Aiko trailing her, absorbing every word. She could feel his eyes on her, but she did not look back.

A moment later, Aiko caught up to her.

"What did you mean," she asked gently, "about the amulet?"

Fae could not answer right away.

Some dreams were too painful to explain once hope was shattered.

Chapter 30

The days that followed settled into a rhythm.

Fae rose early, well before the village was rousing. She no longer needed Aiko to show her the way, but Aiko came anyway, bright and flitting around like a hummingbird.

The young man watched from the shadows.

He never intruded or spoke. He was simply a quiet sentinel at the edge of Aiko's world. Aiko watched him, too, shy and resigned, though she pretended not to notice.

They ran together in animal form, paws leaving their footprints against earth and leaf. At first it felt like company, then gradually, Fae began to feel like a chaperone—an amused, faintly awkward presence trailing behind two hearts circling something unspoken.

His name, she learned, was Sora.

He had not yet met his mate.

For some wolves the bond revealed itself at eighteen, some even identified their mates before maturity. For others, it was a slower unfolding. Recognition grew with time, with patience.

Sora was waiting.

Once, in a moment of rare vulnerability, Aiko admitted the truth she usually masked with cheer.

"I won't give up hope until..." she said quietly. "Until he finds her." Her mouth stretched in a small sad smile that did not quite hold. "After that...I will move on."

Foxes choose their mates; they were not bound like the wolves.

Wolves did not have that luxury since the Goddess chose for them.

The difference lay between them like an unbridgeable river.

***

Fae learned slowly.

By the second week, it became clear that she was no longer merely an apprentice. She had become something closer to an honorary daughter and like all such children, she was worked twice as hard.

She arrived before the others, the workshop still cool and dim, and left after dusk when the scent of fresh shavings had settled into her clothes and hair. Haruko-san taught with infinite patience and zero indulgence. He placed her hands where they should be. Corrected her stance with a tap of the cane. Rapped her knuckles sharply when she rushed or grew careless.

"Mistake...mistake," he snapped as he clicked his tongue. He had abandoned being formal. "Begin again."

She learned to read wood—how to follow its flow, how to work with it rather than force it. He taught her the simplest joints first: clean lap joints cut square, mortise and tenon fitted so precisely they held without glue, slender dovetails shaped with grace and strength.

She practiced again and again, paring with a kanna until the surface gleamed like silk. When a joint failed, she dismantled it and began anew without complaint.

The others noticed as well.

They noticed she was always there first and how she stayed last. Haruko-san corrected her before anyone else and there was grudging respect for her skill. Slowly, a friendly competition emerged. They compared joints, shared tools. The older masters offered advice, not with contempt, but as craftsmen who recognised devotion when they saw it.