Lady Astella Combonia stepped onto the practice yard at dawn and her right hand would not stop shaking. She set her teeth, pulled once on her hash pipe, and tucked it back into her sash beside the blade. The banner of carved kata forms hung behind her, every stance she had ever taught painted down its length in clean black strokes. She had run these training lands for twenty years. She meant to hand the seat to one student, and today she would show him the form that decided it. Kevintor Neverloss waited on the packed sand in loose trousers, arms at his sides. Six titles to his name and he stood like a boy reporting for chores. She had chosen him months ago in her own head. She had not told him. She had not told anyone. The plan was simple. Demonstrate the high opening form once, clean, then walk him through it until he owned it. After that she would say the words about inheritance. "Watch my hands," she said. "Then my feet." She moved. The first three counts held. On the fourth her wrist jumped and the strike landed a hand's width short. She reset. Her shoulder locked. The second pass broke at the same count, worse. Her knee gave a small sideways shudder she could not hide. She stopped before the third pass and stood breathing through her nose. Kevintor said nothing. He looked at her hands, then at the painted banner behind her, then back at her hands. "Read it off the banner," she said. "Walk it yourself. I'll correct from here." He turned to the cloth and walked the form at half speed. He did it once and asked no questions. He did it again at full speed and the fourth count cut the air clean. He had taken it off the painted strokes in two passes. She had needed eleven years to own that movement. He finished, lowered his hands, and faced her. "You're sick," he said. "Or tired. Which." She did not answer that. She walked him past the yard to the small stone retreat she kept behind the master's house, the one with the hot pool and the worn dummy under the eaves. She had built it years ago for the student she would name. No one else had been inside. She opened the door for him and said the plan plainly. The seat. The lands. All of it, to him, when she stepped down. She wanted him to begin sleeping here tonight so the handover could start in the morning. Kevintor stood in the doorway and looked at the pool, the dummy, the single bed. He did not step in. "I came here following a name," he said. "Not a seat. I'll think on it." He walked back toward the yard and left her holding the open door.