Klave's eyes swept through the area as if cataloguing the scene for later reference.
His gaze flicked over to Garron's dirt-smeared jacket, Quintus's fountain-damp hair, and finally came to rest on Aurelian.
SCKKK…
For a heartbeat, Aurelian felt it: the weight of attention, not just from a scion of the main house, but from something else.
The pressure was immense, as if the entire structure of the families lineage, its history, its future compressed into a single, silent demand: conform.
For a lesser child, it might have felt like drowning. For Aurelian, it was just a ripple, a brief static on the line.
"Mana use outside sanctioned duels is forbidden," Klave said, still not raising his voice. "If you want to brawl like gutter rats, do it with your fists. If you want to act like sons of House Bourne, act with restraint. Report to the discipline master. Now."
The order cracked through the garden.
Garron stiffened, but he only managed a muttered "Yes, Young Master" before running off with the other two.
They moved fast with their heads down, as if running from a predator that might still decide to finish the hunt.
Even from behind, Garron's pride looked battered but it was absolute victory in the eyes of Aurelius.
Although the young Bourne's ran off, Klave remained.
His eyes stayed on Aurelian for a moment longer, as if he was measuring something that couldn't be weighed on any normal scale.
His lip curled by the smallest of degrees like a craftsman finding a hairline fracture in a tool that was supposed to be unbreakable.
"You're still standing," Klave said.
There was nothing congratulatory in it. Just an assessment, as if he'd expected the boy to be broken or gone.
"The ground seemed unsteady, Young Master. I thought it best to keep my feet."
The briefest flicker crossed Klave's face. If there was a smile in the man, it must have been buried under layers of generational sediment, because all that surfaced was a tightening around the eyes.
For a heartbeat, Aurelian could almost see the machinery of the main family working behind those gray eyes, slotting him into one of a thousand possible slots: trouble, asset, nothing.
"Enjoy your time here."
Then Klave turned, his boots barely crunching the gravel as he vanished in the direction of the colonnade, leaving only the fading aftertaste of his authority in the cold air.
***
[Location: Duke Paul's Office]
Klave paused at the front door with his arms full of books and battered folders.
He had no assistants today, since the staff were dismissed for the festival's recovery period.
He checked the set of his jacket and the alignment of his cuffs before entering.
Creak…
Duke Paul Bourne IV sat behind a desk the size of a ship's hull, the surface so glossed and immaculate that it reflected the gold veins in the ceiling.
The Duke's eyes flicked up.
They were the same iron shade as Klave's, but colder somehow.
"Report," the Duke said.
"Quarterly crystal allocation figures, per your request. The Academy's transfer records for the last three cycles. I included the raw ledgers, as well as my summary."
The Duke's hands were steady as he leafed through the first three pages.
Klave watched, noting how not a single sheet was bent, not a single corner dogeared. Paul Bourne's care with paperwork mirrored his care with everything else: nothing wasted, nothing out of place.
The Duke stamped a thumb-sized sigil on the summary page.
"You've outdone the treasurer. If only the rest of the main house showed this level of competence." The Duke's voice was a study in indifference, but Klave noted the faintest twitch of a smile at the corner of the man's mouth.
Following that Klave set the next folder in front of the Duke.
"The Academy's annual festival results. The speech went as you intended, though the audience response was more reactive than last year. They seemed particularly invested in the 'shared sacrifice' segment."
"I suppose you'd like to take credit for that, too?" The Duke's eyes held the suggestion of a challenge, but Klave knew it was only a formality.
The real contest was in the numbers, in the margins of error he'd kept within a half-point. In summary, no further adjustments required. The Duke hadn't missed it.
"Was there any trouble afterward?" Paul Bourne's fingers drummed once, twice, then stilled.
Klave kept his gaze fixed on the Duke, careful to control his breathing. "A minor disturbance in the east garden. Garron and Quintus attempted to settle a personal score. I intervened before they could escalate past protocol."
"Was healing required?"
"They were bruised, but functional." Klave hesitated. "There was another boy involved. Corwin's son from the outer-house."
The Duke's left eyebrow twitched—microsecond detonation, barely there. "The runt?"
"By the time I arrived, the engagement had concluded. Garron and Quintus were…disheveled, but the other boy was untouched. He showed no signs of offense, or even exertion."
The Duke considered this, his fingers steepling. "And the instigators?"
"They claimed the outer-house boy insulted them. I saw no evidence of a fight. The fountain was disturbed, as was the planter, and there was some mud on the main path. No witnesses, save for the three parties."
"So the heir and his favorite minion lost to a nobody, then lied about it?"
Klave let the silence answer.
Duke Paul let out a short, low breath. "How did he do it?"
"According to the reports he used neither mana nor force. They chased him, he fell, but he rolled with it. Quintus ended in the water, Garron in the mulch—by their own momentum, not by any counterattack. The boy never raised a hand."
Duke Paul's eyes narrowed, pulling the skin taut at the bridge of his nose.
"Are you suggesting a talent for precognition? Or just luck?"
"Neither," Klave replied.
"If it was luck, it's the sort that repeats itself. I noticed similar behavior during last year's festival. The other branches' children avoid him. Tutors note he's ordinary in magical aptitude but consistently outperforms his age group in practical's. Never by much, never enough to stand out—"
"But enough that you noticed," the Duke finished, almost bored. He shuffled the garden report to the bottom of his stack.
Klave let the silence settle. He knew better than to press for the Duke's approval. Paul Bourne didn't reward initiative; he simply remembered who had it when it was useful.
"The assessment is next week?" the Duke asked.
"The aptitude test. He'll be there. All branches' heirs will."
The Duke nodded, more to himself than to Klave.
"Very well, if there aren't any important matters during the time, then perhaps you'll see me."