Aurelian didn't bother to run.
He drifted through the topiary maze, hands in his pockets, trailing a finger along the scratchy hedge.
He'd practically drawn a line of breadcrumbs with the way the garden's far reaches were a tangle of footpaths the main family rarely trod, and he knew from two lifetimes' experience that boys like Garron and Quintus preferred their violence private.
No crowd, nothing to lose face in front of but the birds and the statuary.
No one to intervene if things got interesting.
"Nice of you to meet us, rat," Garron rumbled, rolling his shoulders like a man preparing to lift a house.
"We thought you might run home to your mommy."
Garron blocked the path with his whole existence, arms spread, jaw working like he'd been chewing gravel for breakfast.
Quintus stayed just behind, sharp as a knife in the ribs, eyes darting with the nervous hope of a boy who'd never finished what he'd started.
Aurelian slid his hands from his pockets and let them hang loose, palms open.
"If you're going to try something," he said, "don't draw it out. It's almost lunchtime."
Something about the way he said it pissed the two off.
"You bastard!"
Garron flushed with his fists balling, and surged forward with the cannonball confidence of a boy who'd never met a real fight.
So slow…
His shoulders were already over his toes, telegraphing the punch before it left his hip. Aurelian watched the slow windup as the inevitable arc of the arm, and didn't even bother with a fancy parry.
He sidestepped, just a fraction, so Garron's swing caught only the sleeve of his jacket and the marble lip of the planter behind him.
BAM!!
A crack like a pistol shot. Garron's hand crumpled against stone.
He shouted, yanking it back, but the momentum threw him off and he staggered, cursing.
Aurelian could have ended it there with a quick trip, a planted knee but he stepped back, giving them room.
"So much for brawn's… let's see how you deal with this!"
Quintus darted in quick and low, aiming for Aurelian's legs with a scything sweep.
The kind of move that worked on kids with slower reflexes, or anyone who'd ever experienced fear.
Aurelian let himself "trip." He pivoted, rolling his shoulder forward, letting the fall become a controlled tumble that caught Quintus's ankle in the crook of his arm and yanked upward.
ACCK!
Quintus squealed, lost all dignity, and tumbled face-first into the shallow fountain.
For a moment, there was only the sound of splashing and the slow, stunned intake of breath from Ruben, who hovered at the periphery clutching a rock like he'd only now remembered it was there.
Garron, red-faced and clutching his hand, spat, "You little shit," and charged again.
This time, Aurelian didn't even move.
He waited, let Garron get in close, and let the larger boy's own body weight do all the work.
Aurelian dropped his center of gravity and braced, and Garron crashed into him like a sack of potatoes, wheezing as the wind left his lungs.
Aurelian nudged him with a subtle twist of the shoulder, and Garron toppled over the edge of the planter, landing in the cold, muddy mulch with a sound like a dying pig.
Quintus scrambled from the fountain.
He looked at Aurelian, then at Garron, then at Ruben, and seemed to consider whether the odds had ever been in their favor.
Aurelian straightened, dusted off his sleeve.
"You done?"
Aurelian watched as the three boys stewed in their indignity, not quite beaten but thoroughly humiliated.
Garron was first to snap. He hauled himself upright, muddy and dripping, then wiped his nose with the heel of his hand, leaving a streak of blood and snot.
His gaze was pure hatred now, the kind that had only ever been told "no" by parents or tutors and never by the world itself.
"Stop looking at us like that," Garron spat. "You think you're better?"
He wasn't waiting for an answer. He flexed his wounded hand, fingers twitching in a way that was all too familiar to Aurelian.
A moment later, the air around Garron's fists shimmered with a greasy, ochre light.
The garden's pleasant hum snapped to full alert inside Aurelian's head.
Of course. Mana. Not subtle, but then, neither was Garron.
"…?"
He did the quick math—distance to Garron, the perimeter of the fountain, angle of attack if Quintus tried to flank.
He didn't want to reveal anything, especially not here, but if they forced his hand—
"Over here!"
Quintus was next. He hopped the planter and landed in a crouch, lips peeled back in a too-wide grin.
Blue sparks jittered up his arms, little arcs of electricity crawling along the veins.
Rubens's eyes nearly popped out of his head, but he just stood there, gaping, as if the rock in his hand was suddenly a dead weight.
Mana use outside of sanctioned duels was forbidden on family grounds.
It was the one rule all branches agreed on, because nothing ruined an inheritance like a cousin with half a face.
He could dodge—no, Garron was an idiot but Quintus had some speed, and if they boxed him in—
He could use it. That. Nobody knew about 'Flux', not in this life, not yet.
But hoping could only get him so far.
Huuu…
He felt it in his core, old and bright, like a chord strung between the bones and the blood.
It was always there for him, a low frequency hum that he could pluck with just a thought.
The trick was to let it out just enough to survive, not enough to make anyone notice.
Whooosh…
That's when the garden's temperature dropped, just a fraction enough that even the birds seemed to hold their breath.
"Enough," said a voice, and it didn't echo so much as settle over the scene like a burial shroud.
Klave Bourne stepped from the colonnade's shadow.
He didn't stride, didn't puff himself up, didn't even raise his voice.
He just arrived, and the world arranged itself to make room for him.
"…!"
Garron's mana winked out with a wet pop and the boy's knees flexed, fighting not to buckle.
Quintus's sparks guttered and went cold with the lingering charge snapping off his skin with a yelp.
Ruben simply let the rock drop and clapped his arms to his chest, shivering.