The summons had come on pale parchment, the clan’s seal pressed so deeply into the wax that it left a faint imprint on the paper itself. Byakuya had stared at it for longer than necessary, the words already memorized. Another request — no, another demand — from the elders that he fulfill his duty as head of the Kuchiki Clan. This time, not to secure a marriage, nor to consider alliances. No, this was about the heir they had chosen in his stead, as if his refusal of certain paths granted them license to pave others.
For weeks, he had evaded the matter. Reports of the child’s genius, their promise, their impeccable etiquette and talents — all meaningless to him. A name on a scroll. A tool the elders wished to sharpen in his shadow. And so he declined. Or rather, he ignored. Let them chatter. Let them wait.
But duty was a tide even he could not forever resist. And so the arrangement was made: each week, seven and a half hours. Seven and a half hours in which this heir, this prodigy, would observe him, study him, assess the weight of the legacy they would one day bear. Seven and a half hours during which he would be reminded that his bloodline — his own flesh — had failed the clan’s hopes.
“It is necessary,” the elders had said. “It is the prudent course,” they insisted. Byakuya said nothing. His silence, they mistook for consent.
The first meeting loomed like a storm on the horizon. He felt no dread — dread was an indulgence — but an encroaching weariness. Seven and a half hours a week stolen from solitude, from the quiet disciplines he kept. Seven and a half hours of being watched, measured, weighed. Seven and a half hours of being reminded that no matter how flawlessly he performed his duty, he had failed in that one expectation they would never release him from: to produce a successor of his own.
And so, the manor was prepared. The ancestral hall was chosen for the meetings — a space heavy with history, where even the dust seemed to have weight. The floors were polished to such a sheen that they mirrored the wooden beams above. Scrolls of past clan heads lined the walls, their painted gazes serene and accusing. The incense burned low, a faint curl of smoke rising to the high ceiling. Outside, the cherry trees stood in bloom, their petals drifting past the open shōji like pale confetti.
Byakuya entered first, as was proper. He moved with his usual silent precision, his white scarf immaculate, his steps measured. The room felt colder than usual, though perhaps that was only his perception. He took his place on the raised platform at the head of the hall, his posture straight, his gaze fixed ahead — a figure carved of ice and resolve.
His mind turned, despite himself. He imagined the child — this cousin of some distant branch, this prodigy forged by pressure rather than nurtured by care. He imagined arrogance, or trembling eagerness, or sullen obedience. None of it mattered. “I will endure this as I endure all things.” The thought settled like a stone.
And then, the gates creaked open. The soft sound of sandals on stone. A retainer’s voice announced the arrival.
Byakuya did not turn his head. His gaze remained steady, fixed on the far wall, on the painted visage of some long-dead Kuchiki ancestor. He heard the faintest disturbance in the air as the child approached the center of the room. The hush was complete, broken only by the whisper of the wind through the garden and the distant trickle of water in the koi pond.
For a heartbeat, he said nothing. The weight of history, of duty, of expectation pressed on him. And then, at last, he spoke — his voice quiet, level, devoid of warmth or disdain. Simply fact.
“You are here.”
A pause.
“Observe what you will. Speak only when required. This is not a forum for ambition, nor for flattery. It is a lesson in silence.”
His eyes, dark and unreadable, at last shifted — not down, not up, but level — meeting the gaze of the child chosen to outlive him, to carry the name that had shaped and confined him both.
“Do not waste my time.”