Chapter Text
The summons came just after dawn.
A soft knock on the shōji door, followed by the familiar voice of a branch member—quiet, neutral, laced with that careful formality Sasuke had come to associate with clan business. The sound cut through the thin walls of his room like a blade through silk, sharp enough to pull him from the edge of sleep.
"They're asking for you at the council house, Uchiha-sama."
He didn't answer immediately. Just stared at the ceiling of his room for a long second, spine flat against the futon, arms folded beneath his head. The wooden beams above were dark with age, carved with traditional patterns that seemed to shift in the pale morning light filtering through the paper screens. He could hear the distant sound of birds beginning their morning songs, the soft shuffle of feet on stone paths as the compound slowly came to life.
He knew what day it was. He'd known something was coming, even if no one had said it aloud. The signs had been there for weeks—hushed conversations that stopped when he entered a room, meaningful glances exchanged between the elders, the way his father had been studying him during meals with an intensity that made his skin crawl. Still, he hadn't expected it to arrive so soon, and not like this—before breakfast, before training, before the sun had fully cleared the eastern ridgeline.
Not even a warning from Itachi.
That unsettled him more than anything. His brother had always been his early warning system, the one who would slip him information when the council was planning something that would affect him. The silence felt deliberate. Ominous.
Sasuke sat up slowly, back stiff from yesterday's solo drills. The loose cotton of his sleeping yukata slipped from one shoulder, catching on the faint curve of his collar gland—more noticeable now, more prominent since his secondary gender had come in early at thirteen. The skin there was slightly raised, sensitive to touch, and carried his scent markers more strongly than the rest of his body. He'd grown used to the quiet presence of it over the years, to the scent markers and the hormonal shifts, to the way people looked at him a little differently even when they didn't realize they were doing it.
But today, the awareness sat heavier on his skin. Like a weight he couldn't shake off.
He ran his fingers through his hair, feeling the tangles from sleep, and pushed himself fully upright. The morning air was cool against his bare chest, raising goosebumps along his arms. Through the paper screen, he could see the shadow of the messenger still waiting, patient and still as a statue.
He didn't bother tying his hair back. Just yanked on a black shirt—the fabric slightly rough against his skin, familiar and comforting—and his flak vest, the leather worn soft from years of use. He slid on his arm guards with practiced efficiency, the metal clasps clicking into place with sharp, final sounds. The routine of dressing for potential combat was so ingrained that his hands moved without conscious thought, muscle memory taking over where his mind was still catching up to the implications of the morning.
When he slid the door open, the messenger bowed deeply, his face carefully neutral. Sasuke recognized him—a distant cousin, maybe, or the son of one of the branch families. Young enough that he still had that eager-to-please quality that hadn't been worn down by years of clan politics.
"The council is waiting, Uchiha-sama," the young man said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Sasuke nodded once, sharp and dismissive, and left the room with the stillness of someone walking into battle. His footsteps were silent on the wooden walkway, years of ninja training making even his casual movements nearly soundless. The messenger fell into step behind him, maintaining the proper distance that protocol demanded.
The compound was quiet in the way that morning always brought—peaceful, almost serene if you didn't know to look for the undercurrents. Morning dew still clung to the stones of the walking paths, making them slick and treacherous for anyone not watching their footing. The air smelled of wet earth and cherry blossoms, with an underlying hint of wood smoke from the breakfast fires that were just beginning to be lit in the family quarters.
But there was something else in the air too, something that made Sasuke's instincts prickle. A tension that seemed to follow him as he walked, like invisible eyes tracking his progress through the compound. He passed other early risers—a few younger clan members heading out for morning training, an elderly woman tending to her small garden—and noticed how their conversations stopped when they saw him, how their bows seemed more formal, more careful than usual.
They knew. Whatever was happening, word had already spread.
When he reached the council hall, Itachi was already waiting outside the double doors, arms crossed loosely over his chest. His brother looked tired, Sasuke realized—there were faint shadows under his eyes, and his usually perfect posture had a slight slump to it that spoke of a sleepless night. His ANBU gear was nowhere to be seen, replaced by simple clan robes that made him look younger, more vulnerable somehow.
"You're late," he said, his voice carrying that familiar note of mild disapproval that had followed Sasuke through most of his childhood.
Sasuke frowned, checking the position of the sun automatically. "I wasn't told a time."
Itachi tilted his head, a gesture so subtle it was barely visible. "Still late."
There was no amusement in his voice, and no warmth in his eyes. Just a kind of quiet weariness that made something tighten behind Sasuke's ribs. This wasn't his brother's usual morning teasing, the gentle ribbing that was as much a part of their routine as breakfast or training. This was something else entirely—a warning, maybe, or an apology delivered in advance.
Sasuke studied his brother's face, searching for some clue about what was waiting for him behind those doors. But Itachi's expression remained carefully neutral, his dark eyes giving away nothing. The mask of the perfect clan heir, the one their father had trained him to wear from childhood.
He stepped past him without answering, his shoulder brushing against Itachi's as he moved toward the doors. The contact was brief, barely a touch, but he felt his brother tense slightly at the contact.
Another bad sign.
The heavy wooden doors opened with barely a whisper of sound, well-oiled hinges moving smoothly despite their obvious age. The council hall beyond was exactly as he remembered it from the few times he'd been summoned here before—wide and spare, tatami floors worn smooth by generations of feet, scrolls lined in neat rows behind the head seat. The room smelled of old wood and incense, with an underlying scent of power and authority that seemed to permeate the very walls.
The elders were already assembled, their eyes shifting toward him in perfect synchronicity like wolves tracking a scent. He recognized most of them—faces that had been fixtures at clan gatherings and formal dinners for as long as he could remember. There was Umehara, sharp-eyed and silver-haired, who had been his father's advisor since before Sasuke was born. Beside her sat Takeshi, a man whose face seemed permanently set in disapproving lines, and whose opinions on clan tradition were as rigid as steel. The others were less familiar, but their expressions were identical—serious, calculating, and completely focused on him.
At the center sat his father.
Fugaku's expression gave away nothing, his face as impassive as carved stone. He wore his formal clan robes, the deep blue fabric embroidered with the Uchiha crest in silver thread. His hair was perfectly arranged, not a strand out of place, and his hands rested on his knees in the traditional position of authority. Everything about him screamed control, power, absolute certainty in his decisions.
But Sasuke had learned to read the subtle signs over the years—the slight tension in his father's shoulders, the way his fingers pressed just a fraction too hard against his knees, the barely perceptible tightness around his eyes. Fugaku was not as calm as he appeared.
"Sasuke," he said, his voice carrying clearly through the silent room. "Sit."
Sasuke moved forward with measured steps, each footfall silent on the worn tatami. He could feel the weight of every gaze in the room, the way they tracked his movement like predators watching prey. The formal seiza position came naturally—back straight, hands resting lightly on his thighs, head held high. He met no one's gaze directly, but his peripheral vision caught every shift, every subtle movement of the assembled elders.
The silence stretched, thick and oppressive. Outside, he could hear the distant sounds of the compound coming fully awake—voices calling out morning greetings, the clack of wooden training swords, the splash of water being drawn from wells. Normal sounds of a normal day, completely at odds with the tension filling this room.
And then—his father spoke.
"There has been a decision."
The words struck like shuriken—silent, swift, impossible to dodge. They hung in the air between them, carrying implications that made Sasuke's chest tighten and his breathing grow shallow. He had expected this moment, had been dreading it for weeks, but hearing it said aloud still felt like a physical blow.
Sasuke didn't blink, didn't let any reaction show on his face. Years of ninja training had taught him to control his expressions, to never give away more than he intended. "About what."
"About your future," Fugaku said, each word precise and deliberate.
The next words came crisp, unadorned, and final.
"You are to be married."
The words seemed to echo in the silence that followed, bouncing off the walls and settling into Sasuke's bones like ice. His mouth felt dry, his tongue suddenly thick and unresponsive. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a small voice had been expecting this—had been preparing for it—but the reality was still a shock that left him feeling hollowed out and strangely distant from his own body.
He didn't respond right away. Couldn't respond. The room stayed still, like a held breath, everyone waiting for his reaction. He could feel their eyes on him, cataloging every micro-expression, every tiny tell that might give away his thoughts. The elders sat like statues, but he could sense their satisfaction, their relief that this moment had finally arrived.
"To who," he said at last, voice flat and carefully controlled.
"The candidate will be determined in the next few weeks," Fugaku replied, his tone as businesslike as if they were discussing crop rotations or training schedules. "You'll be presented with a short list approved by the council. All are politically suitable—diplomatic alignments, powerful family ties. There will be time for discussion."
Sasuke stared at him, processing the careful language, the way his father spoke about his future spouse like a business transaction. A suitable candidate. Political alignments. As if he were a piece being moved on a game board rather than a person with his own wants and needs and dreams.
"And what if I say no."
The question came out steady, but there was an edge to it that he couldn't quite suppress. A hint of the anger that was building in his chest, hot and sharp and dangerous.
Fugaku's eyes narrowed just slightly, the only sign that he'd heard the challenge in his son's voice. "Then you dishonor the name you carry."
A faint thrum pulsed beneath Sasuke's skin—rage, maybe, or something colder. The words hit him like a slap, carrying with them years of expectations and obligations he'd never asked for. The name you carry. As if being born an Uchiha was a debt he could never fully repay, a burden that would follow him to his grave.
"You always said I'd be free to choose," he said, the words coming out harder than he'd intended.
"You were a child when you were told that," his father replied without missing a beat. "The clan cannot afford sentiment."
"This is about the coup," Sasuke said, the words cutting through the careful politeness like a blade. "About the fallout."
No one corrected him. No one even shifted. The silence that followed was confirmation enough.
The attempted coup had been three years ago now, but its shadow still hung over everything the clan did. His father and a group of hardliners had tried to overthrow the current Hokage, convinced that the village leadership was leading them toward ruin. It had failed spectacularly, ended with public humiliation and a purge of the clan's leadership that had left them politically isolated and desperate for allies.
And now they wanted to use him to buy their way back into respectability.
He turned his gaze to the wall, to the hanging scroll that bore the clan's crest. Red and white. Balanced. Stark. Eternal. The symbol that was supposed to represent honor and strength, but which had become a weight around his neck, a reminder of all the expectations he could never escape.
"You want to leash me to some other house because our reputation is bleeding out and there's no one else left to offer."
The words hung in the air like an accusation. Still, no one moved. No one denied it.
"You're not even hiding it."
One of the elders—Umehara, sharp-eyed and old enough to have seen three Hokages crowned—spoke at last. Her voice was steady, matter-of-fact, as if she were explaining a simple truth to a slow child.
"It's not about hiding, Sasuke-sama. It's about surviving. The Council in the Hokage Tower still calls us traitors behind closed doors. The other clans won't trade with us, won't form alliances, won't even acknowledge us at formal gatherings. You're the clan heir. You're an omega. You're the most valuable diplomatic asset we have."
The word 'asset' made his stomach twist, bile rising in his throat. That's all he was to them—a thing to be traded, a bargaining chip to be played when the stakes were high enough. Not a person with his own dreams and desires, but a commodity whose value was measured in political advantage.
He stood abruptly, the movement sharp and sudden enough to make several of the elders flinch. His hands were clenched at his sides, and he could feel his chakra responding to his emotional state, threatening to flare out of control.
"I'm not a bargaining chip."
"You're an Uchiha," Fugaku said, his voice carrying the weight of generations of tradition and expectation.
Sasuke turned to face him directly, his dark eyes meeting his father's without flinching. "I'm your son."
For the first time, his father's gaze faltered—not much, just enough to catch. A flicker of something that might have been regret, or pain, or simple exhaustion. The mask slipped for just an instant, revealing the man beneath the clan head, the father who was sacrificing his child for the greater good.
But then it hardened again, the moment of vulnerability gone as quickly as it had appeared.
"You were born into duty, not indulgence."
The silence that followed was suffocating, thick with unspoken recriminations and years of accumulated resentment. Sasuke felt like he was drowning in it, like the weight of their expectations was pressing down on his chest until he couldn't breathe.
He forced a breath through his nose, the air sharp and cold in his lungs. "When."
"The official selection begins next week. The Hokage's office will handle the neutral oversight. We've already begun inquiries."
So Minato knows , Sasuke thought bitterly. Everyone knows. Everyone but me . The Fourth Hokage, who had always treated him with kindness and respect, who had made him believe that his worth wasn't tied solely to his clan name—even he was part of this conspiracy. The betrayal cut deeper than he'd expected.
—--
He didn't remember leaving. Just the feel of the door under his palm—smooth wood worn by countless hands—the sharp rush of sunlight against his eyes as he stepped outside, and the way Itachi fell into step beside him without saying a word. His brother's presence was oddly comforting, a familiar constant in a world that suddenly felt like it was shifting beneath his feet.
They walked in silence through the compound, their footsteps echoing off the stone paths. Sasuke was dimly aware of other clan members watching them pass, their faces carefully neutral but their body language screaming curiosity. Word would spread quickly—it always did in a place this small and insular. By evening, everyone would know that the last son of the main branch was being married off to save the clan's political position.
The thought made his stomach churn.
They walked until they were out of the compound, past the gates with their carved guardians, past the memorial stone where the names of their honored dead were inscribed in careful calligraphy. The morning air was crisp and clean, carrying the scent of cherry blossoms and fresh grass, but Sasuke barely noticed. His mind was still reeling from the confrontation, from the casual way his father had announced that his life was no longer his own.
Only when they reached a small clearing beside a stream did Itachi speak, his voice low and quiet.
"I tried to delay it."
Sasuke didn't stop walking, just kept moving forward with mechanical precision. One foot in front of the other. Don't think. Don't feel. Just move.
"I told them you deserved more time," Itachi continued, his words careful and measured. "That the clan's survival shouldn't rest on your body. But things are worse than you know. The village council's watching every move we make. There are rumors that they're considering more drastic measures if we don't prove our loyalty soon."
Sasuke laughed once—short and hollow, the sound harsh in the peaceful morning air. "So they'll use me like a bandage. A pretty little apology in heat."
Itachi winced, the expression fleeting but unmistakable. "It's not like that."
"No?" Sasuke stopped walking abruptly, spinning to face his brother with enough force that his hair whipped around his face. "Then what is it like, nii-san? Explain it to me. Because from where I'm standing, I'm being packaged and sold off like a peace treaty."
Itachi's jaw tensed, the muscles in his face tightening as he struggled with something internal. For a moment, Sasuke thought he might actually answer honestly, might drop the careful neutrality he'd maintained throughout this entire mess and admit what they both knew to be true.
"You can walk away from it," he said finally, the words coming out strained. "I won't stop you."
Sasuke looked at him for a long moment, studying his brother's face. Itachi's dark eyes were pained, his usual composure cracked just enough to let real emotion show through. It was the most honest he'd been all morning, maybe the most honest he'd been in years.
And then Sasuke shook his head.
"No. I won't run. That's not the point."
He turned away, resumed walking toward the village proper. Behind him, he heard Itachi's soft sigh, a sound full of regret and resignation.
The point wasn't that he could escape—although the thought was tempting. The point was that they'd never asked. Never considered that he might have his own plans, his own dreams, his own vision of what his life should look like. They'd simply decided that his body, his future, his happiness were acceptable sacrifices for the clan's political rehabilitation.
And maybe that was what hurt the most—not the arranged marriage itself, but the casual assumption that his consent was irrelevant.
—--
The house was quiet by the time the sun began to dip toward the western horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink that reminded Sasuke uncomfortably of fire. Quiet in that heavy, deliberate way that told him word of the morning's council session had already filtered through the walls, carried on hushed voices and sidelong glances, spreading through the compound like smoke through paper screens.
He stayed in his room most of the day, letting the hours bleed together in the dim light that filtered through his paper windows. The shadows moved slowly across the floor as the sun tracked its path overhead, marking time in a way that felt both too fast and impossibly slow. Training would've been a better outlet—his body was practically vibrating with unused energy, with the need to hit something or run until his lungs burned—but every time he reached for his weapons, something in him clenched and stopped him cold. The weight in his chest wasn't something he could cut down with a kunai.
Instead, he found himself staring at the ceiling, tracing the patterns in the wood grain with his eyes while his mind churned through the morning's revelations. Three months. That's what his father had said. Three months to prepare for a wedding to someone he didn't know, might not even like, certainly hadn't chosen. Three months to reconcile himself to a future that had been decided without his input or consent.
The worst part was the names his father had mentioned. Kiba Inuzuka—loud, brash, prone to solving problems with his fists rather than his brain. The thought of being bound to someone so fundamentally different from himself, someone who would expect constant attention and affection, made his skin crawl. Then there was Shino Aburame, silent and unreadable, who spoke in riddles when he spoke at all. At least with Shino, there might be some peace and quiet, but the idea of spending his life with someone who barely acknowledged his existence wasn't appealing either.
And Neji Hyūga—that one stung the most. They'd known each other since childhood, had trained together, competed against each other, developed something that might have been camaraderie under different circumstances. But Neji carried himself with that constant undercurrent of judgment, that sense of superiority born from being the Hyūga’s prodigy. The thought of standing beside him in ceremonial robes, of submitting to someone who already looked down on him, made Sasuke's stomach twist with something that might have been nausea.
A soft knock at his door interrupted his brooding. He didn't move from where he was lying on his futon, didn't bother to make himself presentable. If someone wanted to see him, they could see him as he was—wrung out and exhausted and angry at the world.
"Sasuke?" The voice was soft, feminine, familiar.
His mother.
He sat up slowly, running a hand through his hair to smooth down the worst of the tangles. "Come in."
Mikoto slid the door open with practiced silence, carrying a tea service on a lacquered tray. She moved with the same grace that had made her famous in her youth, when she'd been one of the most sought-after kunoichi in the village. Even now, approaching middle age, there was something almost ethereal about the way she moved, like she was floating just slightly above the ground.
She knelt beside his low table, setting down the tray with careful precision. The tea was still steaming, fragrant with jasmine and something else he couldn't identify. Comfort food—the kind of thing she used to make when he was small and had scraped his knee or failed a test at the academy.
"You missed lunch," she said quietly, not quite meeting his eyes. "And dinner will be ready soon."
"I'm not hungry."
She poured tea into two cups, the liquid golden and warm-looking in the lamplight. "You need to eat."
"Do I?" The words came out harsher than he'd intended, edged with the frustration that had been building all day. "Or is that just another thing that's not up to me anymore?"
Mikoto's hands stilled on the teapot. For a moment, neither of them moved.
"Your father told me about this morning," she said finally.
"Did he." Sasuke accepted the cup she offered him, wrapping his fingers around the warm ceramic. "And what did you think about his grand announcement?"
She was quiet for a long time, sipping her tea and staring out the window at the compound grounds. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft, almost inaudible.
"I think he's doing what he believes is best for the clan."
"That's not what I asked."
Mikoto looked at him then, really looked at him, and he saw something in her eyes that might have been grief. "I think you deserve better than this."
The simple honesty of it hit him like a physical blow. After a day of careful political language and diplomatic non-answers, his mother's blunt acknowledgment of the situation's unfairness was almost overwhelming.
"Then why—"
"Because I'm not the clan head," she said, cutting him off gently. "Because the decision was made before you were born, before any of us were born. Because sometimes the weight of history is too heavy for one person to carry alone."
She reached across the table, her fingers brushing against his knuckles where they gripped the teacup. Her skin was warm, soft, familiar in a way that made his chest tight with emotions he didn't want to name.
"But that doesn't make it right," she continued. "And it doesn't mean you have to accept it gracefully."
Sasuke stared at her, searching her face for some sign of what she really thought, what she really wanted him to do. But Mikoto had always been better at hiding her true feelings than his father, better at wearing the mask that their positions required.
"What would you do?" he asked. "If you were me?"
She smiled then, sad and knowing and somehow proud. "I would make sure that whoever they choose knows exactly what they're getting into. I would make it clear that an Uchiha's loyalty must be earned, not assumed. And I would remember that even in marriage, you are still yourself. Still strong, still proud, still capable of making your own choices within whatever constraints they place on you."
It wasn't the advice he'd been hoping for—some magical solution that would free him from this obligation. But it was honest, practical, and somehow more comforting than false promises or empty reassurances.
They drank their tea in companionable silence as the sun finished its descent and the compound settled into evening quiet. Outside, he could hear the sounds of families gathering for dinner, children being called in from play, the soft murmur of conversations drifting through thin walls. Normal sounds of a normal evening, as if his world hadn't been fundamentally altered that morning.
When his mother rose to leave, she paused at the door, her hand resting on the frame.
"The candidates your father mentioned," she said without turning around. "They're not the only options being considered."
Sasuke looked up sharply. "What do you mean?"
"There are... other names being discussed. Quietly. Names that might be more palatable to everyone involved."
Before he could ask what she meant, she was gone, sliding the door shut behind her with the same silence she'd entered with. But her words lingered in the air, sparking something that might have been hope in his chest.
Other options. Other candidates who hadn't been mentioned in the formal council session. The possibility that this situation might be marginally less awful than he'd initially thought.
It wasn't much, but it was something.
—--
By the time a second knock sounded at his door, the paper lanterns outside had already been lit, casting warm pools of light along the walking paths. The compound had settled into its evening rhythm—quiet conversations, the distant sound of someone playing a shamisen, the soft splash of water being drawn from wells for evening baths.
He didn't move from where he was sitting, still nursing the cup of tea his mother had brought.
"It's me," his father's voice said.
Sasuke rose slowly, every movement deliberate and controlled. When he slid the door open, Fugaku looked... different. Still imposing, still radiating that quiet authority that had defined him for as long as Sasuke could remember, but there was something in his posture that suggested fatigue. The set of his shoulders was slightly less rigid, and there were faint lines around his eyes that hadn't been there that morning.
"May I come in?" he asked.
The politeness was unusual. Normally, his father simply entered without asking permission. The courtesy felt strange, almost forced, as if Fugaku was trying to navigate unfamiliar social terrain.
Sasuke stepped aside without answering, gesturing toward the seating area where his mother's tea service still sat.
Fugaku settled onto the zabuton by the low table with careful precision, waiting until Sasuke had lowered himself to the opposite cushion before speaking. The ritual of it felt formal, significant, like they were negotiating a treaty rather than having a father-son conversation.
"I know this morning was... abrupt," he said, choosing his words with obvious care.
Sasuke almost laughed. Abrupt . As if it had been a sudden rain shower, not a binding decision about the rest of his life. As if dropping that kind of life-altering news without warning was simply a matter of poor timing rather than a fundamental violation of trust.
"I wanted to give you... some perspective," Fugaku continued, his voice carrying that measured quality he used in formal clan meetings. "The date isn't immediate. You have three months before the wedding."
Sasuke stared at him, processing the careful phrasing. Three months. Ninety days to prepare for a marriage he didn't want to someone he might barely know. It sounded like a death sentence being read with bureaucratic efficiency.
"Three months," he repeated, his voice flat.
"It's more time than most in your position receive," Fugaku said, as though that were some comfort. As though he should be grateful for the extended timeline, thankful for the luxury of a longer engagement period.
"And the candidates—some of them, you already know. Kiba Inuzuka. Shino Aburame. Neji Hyūga—"
The disgust must have flashed across Sasuke's face before he could stop it. His mouth tightened involuntarily, his brows lowering sharply as he pictured each name in turn. The thought of standing beside any of them in ceremonial robes, of pledging his life and loyalty to someone he barely tolerated, made his stomach twist with something that might have been panic.
Fugaku's words faltered as he registered his son's expression. "You could... do worse."
Sasuke snorted, low and humorless. The sound was ugly in the quiet room, harsh with frustrated anger and bitter amusement. "That's your reassurance? That I could do worse?"
His father's jaw flexed, the muscles tightening as he struggled with something internal. "This isn't about—"
"It's exactly about me," Sasuke cut in, his voice harder than he'd intended. "My life. My choice. My body. And apparently I'm not allowed to say no to any of it."
The words hung between them like a blade, sharp and dangerous and impossible to take back. Fugaku's expression shifted, something that might have been hurt flashing across his features before being buried under his usual stoic mask.
"You're still my son," he said at last, the words oddly stilted, as if he was trying to convince himself as much as Sasuke. "This doesn't change that."
Sasuke leaned back, arms crossing over his chest in a gesture that was part defense, part challenge. "No. It just changes everything else."
They sat in silence after that, the weight of unspoken words pressing down on them like a physical presence. The glow from the paper lantern outside cast their shadows long and uneven across the tatami, two figures sitting across from each other but separated by more than just physical distance.
Fugaku stayed another minute, as if searching for something else to say, some magic words that would make this easier for both of them. But whatever it was, he didn't find it. When he rose to leave, his movements were careful, controlled, betraying none of the internal struggle that Sasuke could see in his eyes.
When the door slid shut behind him, Sasuke was left alone with his thoughts and the lingering scent of his father's cologne—cedar and something sharper that reminded him of weapon oil. The familiar smell should have been comforting, but instead it felt like another reminder of all the ways his life was no longer his own.
He finished his tea in the growing darkness, listening to the sounds of the compound settling into sleep around him. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear the soft murmur of his parents' voices through the thin walls, discussing something in tones too low for him to make out the words. Planning his future, no doubt. Deciding which of the acceptable candidates would be the best match for their political needs.
The thought made him want to scream.
Instead, he extinguished the lamp and settled back onto his futon, staring up at the ceiling in the darkness. Tomorrow, the formal process would begin. Tomorrow, he would be presented with his options—the short list of acceptable spouses who had been deemed suitable by people who barely knew him and certainly didn't care about his preferences.
Three months to prepare for a life he'd never asked for.
He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but rest was a long time coming.