Chapter 3: The Scholar's Counsel
The scent of the library was usually a comfort to Yamato—old paper, leather, the quiet dust of knowledge. Tonight, it felt suffocating. It couldn’t mask the phantom smells that clung to him: sawdust and spiced mead, green willow anger, and the sharp, clean pepper of another alpha’s threat. He stared at a shelf of crumbling histories without seeing them, his knuckles white where they gripped the back of a heavy chair.
“You’re going to wear a groove in the floor,” a voice said, dry and unimpressed.
Koushiro sat at a wide, paper-strewn desk, a single candle painting his glasses in shifting gold. He didn’t look up from the delicate astrological chart he was inking. “And you smell like a tavern brawl. Did you win?”
“There was no brawl,” Yamato said, the words gritted out.
“Ah. So you lost a different way.” Koushiro finally set his quill down, leaning back to look at his friend. He took in the tense set of Yamato’s shoulders, the uncharacteristic absence of charm on his face. “The omega from the roadhouse. The brewer.”
“His name is Taichi.” Yamato pushed off from the chair and began to pace, the long shadow he cast leaping across the shelves. “He’s… infuriating. Brilliant. His hands when he works—you should see it. It’s like a dance. And his mouth…” He trailed off, remembering the clever insults, the defiant glint in warm brown eyes.
“I can imagine,” Koushiro said, adjusting his glasses. “You’ve been buzzing about him for a week. I assume your legendary charm failed to conquer all.”
Yamato stopped pacing. He ran a hand through his hair, frustration boiling over. “His friend—a female alpha, a chef—she put a cleaver in the bar an inch from my thigh. Told me she’d make a eunuch out of me if I came back.”
A faint smirk touched Koushiro’s lips. “Sensible woman. You probably deserved it. What did you do?”
“I told the truth!” Yamato exploded, the sound too loud for the hushed library. He lowered his voice to a rough, furious whisper. “I told him what I wanted. I was honest. I thought he’d appreciate that, instead of the useless courtly games everyone else plays.”
Koushiro was silent for a long moment, studying Yamato as if he were a problematic text. “You told an omega who, from everything you’ve said, has carved a life out of sheer will on the edge of the capital—an omega who clearly despises being seen as just an omega—that you were curious about how he’d writhe for you.” He stated it flatly. “And you thought that would be appreciated.”
The way Koushiro said it made the words sound coarse and stupid. Yamato flinched. “It’s what I felt.”
“And an alpha’s feelings are the center of the universe, yes, I’m aware of the philosophy,” Koushiro said, his tone not unkind, but relentlessly analytical. “Yamato, listen to me. This Taichi… he isn’t a castle omega waiting for a worthy alpha to claim him. He’s a person who built a tavern. You’re not dealing with a prize to be won. You’re dealing with a fortress to be understood. You marched up to the gates and shouted what you’d like to do to the interior decor. You’re lucky all you got was a warning shot from a cleaver.”
Yamato slumped into the chair opposite the desk, the fight draining out of him, replaced by a cold, hollow feeling. He’d messed it up. He’d seen the flicker in Taichi’s eyes, the one that wasn’t just anger, and he’d charged at it like it was a break in a battle line. He’d scared him. Or worse, offended him.
“What do I do?” The question was quiet, almost lost in the vast, quiet room.
Koushiro sighed, taking off his glasses to clean them on his sleeve. “You value his independence. You show him you see the man, not the designation. What does he care about? What does he value above all else?”
“His work,” Yamato said immediately, the answer obvious now. “The tavern. His brewing. He’s… proud of it. It’s his.”
“There,” Koushiro said, replacing his glasses. “So you don’t offer coin. You don’t offer protection. You don’t offer dominant affection. You offer respect for his craft. Prove you see it. Prove you think it’s worth something beyond being a novelty made by an interesting omega.”
Yamato stared at the dancing candle flame, thinking of Taichi’s hands, sure and steady on the tap, his focus absolute as he tested a batch. The pride there was hotter than any hearth. A desperate, wild idea began to form—not a tactical seduction, but a true approach.
“Teach me,” Yamato said, looking up at Koushiro.
“To respect him? I can’t teach you empathy, my friend.”
“No. Teach me how to brew. Just the basics. Enough that I don’t sound like a complete idiot talking about it.”
Koushiro blinked. “You want a brewing lesson. In the royal library. At midnight.”
“You read everything. You’ve read about fermentation. I’ve seen the scrolls.” Yamato leaned forward, a new, determined energy crackling off him. This wasn’t about pursuit anymore. This was about bridging a gap. “I don’t need to be a master. I just need… a starting point. So I can speak to him in a language that matters to him. So he knows I’m not just there to take. I’m there to… see.”
For a long moment, Koushiro just looked at him. He saw the usual arrogant confidence was gone, sanded down by failure and something that looked suspiciously like genuine regard. This wasn’t the Yamato who conquered desires on a whim. This was someone trying to navigate uncharted territory without a map.
“It’s a terrible idea,” Koushiro said finally. He stood up and walked to a lower shelf, running his fingers along the spines. “The process is complex, subtle. You have the patience of a startled hornet.” He pulled a slender, practical-looking codex from the shelf. “And you’ll likely make something that tastes of feet.”
He dropped the book on the desk in front of Yamato with a soft thump.
“This is a household guide to small batch meads and beers. The very basics. The philosophy, the stages.” He pointed a finger at Yamato. “We are not brewing in the library. But we can discuss theory. If you’re serious.”
Yamato opened the codex. The pages were filled with neat script and diagrams of barrels, hops, honeycombs. It was a world of its own. Taichi’s world. He looked up, and for the first time that night, a real, unguarded smile touched his face—not charming, but earnest. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Koushiro muttered, sitting back down. “The first thing you need to understand is that you cannot force it. You provide the right conditions. You pay attention. You wait. It works on its own time, or it fails. It’s about stewardship, not control.”
Yamato’s smile faded into something more thoughtful. He ran a calloused fingertip over a diagram of honey dissolving in water. Stewardship, not control. Pay attention. Wait.
He thought of Taichi’s defiant stance behind the bar, the fortress he’d built. Yamato had tried to lay siege. Maybe… maybe you didn’t storm a fortress like that. Maybe you asked for permission to understand the foundations.
He looked at the book, then at the window, beyond which the road led out of the city toward a warm, lit tavern. The hollow feeling was gone, replaced by the focused clarity of a new objective.
“Start from the beginning,” Yamato said, his voice steady. “Explain everything.”