Kurt coughed, white-gloved fist covering his mouth. “The young master will be late for his appointment with the Duke.” Kurt wore a black suit with a starched white shirt, a blue tie with a matching pocket square, and the Lang Duchy crest as a pin on his lapel. His scarred face looked harsher in dusk's haze; the line running from his hairline to his chin looked fresh. “We mustn't keep the Duke waiting.”

Savon shifted back, Kurt appearing as looming and haunting as the castle behind him.

Sia scoffed, breaking the moment. “Getting ahead of yourself already? Why don’t you clean the boy up a bit first?” Sia and Kurt stared at him. Kurt dipped his head, hands dropping to the side as he moved out of the way. Sia nodded, turned, and entered the castle. “Keep up. The Lady is waiting.”

A battle was fought and won, but the reason and significance escaped him. Savon, as usual, was missing something. It was hard to tell if that was because he was inebriated. His body couldn’t decide if it was drunk or sober. His thoughts moved from clear to fuzzy. His steps were light as he followed Sia.

“Damn. She’s scary,” Jeff said. He wasn’t whispering, but no one reacted.

If I killed him, would they react?

Savon was too weak. They wouldn't even suspect him. Jeff was a fifth-order mage despite appearances. But, Savon wondered. He tried planning it out in his head. Poison was his best bet. The problem was getting it without someone finding out. It wasn't feasible. Jeff knew when I wiped my ass much less if I tried to get poison, but that led him down a different train of thought.

If Jeff killed him, would they react?

Jeff had gotten away with murder before. He'd seen Jeff cut her throat. He remembered the gurgling sound and her struggling to reach a hand out to him. Savon shook his head. That was another road that led to madness. Jeff pinned the murder on Savon like the baby in her belly before that was disproved, but they never found the culprit despite Savon's testimony. Quite a few people thought Savon paid someone to murder that maid. They whispered about a coverup by the Duke for his wayward son.

They stopped before a plain door, Sia's face pinched in resigned disapproval. Savon could almost hear Sia chastising him for forcing his mother to lower herself by using a room frequented by servants and merchants. She was a hardened battle axe broad, intimidating in a different way to Kurt.

Jeff stood to the side, shooting weary glances at the door. He folded his hands over his stomach in a poor imitation of etiquette. Ever so often, he'd tug at his shirt, something close to shame twisting his features before it was gone.

Jeff didn't like being embarrassed--odd considering how much he lowered himself daily to humiliate Savon.

Jeff’s lips pressed into a hard line, and his dark eyes promised pain. Something had the man’s breeches in a bunch. Yet, the hint of satisfaction lurking in his murky gaze worried Savon more.

If Jeff was happy, Savon was sure to suffer.

Sia opened the door, beckoning Savon in.

As the door closed, Savon saw Jeff approach Kurt. He frowned, wondering what they were talking about.

“Why do you look like a street cat?”

“Hello to you too, Mother,” Savon said. He sat opposite her, back straight. A small part of him hoped she was worried. It was the minuscule corner of his brain that still clung to the idea that his mother would love him one day. He didn't doubt that she cared for him in so far as it benefited her, but love wasn't in her nature. Or her governesses taught it out of her in etiquette courses about the proper decorum a noblewoman should have.

Sia stepped forward, serving them tea. His mother took a sip, stirred in sugar, and then took another. “Lovely as always, Sia.”

“Thank you, my lady.” Sia sank back, becoming a shadow to his mother.

Savon choked at the smell. When would his mother remember that her son didn’t like black tea? Worse, did she know and still serve it? He pushed at his cup with his finger, pretending not to see her raised eyebrow.

Etiquette dictates that you drink what the host serves unless restricted by a medical condition.

She set her teacup in the saucer with a sharp click; very unlady-like. “Since you insist on this course of action, I don’t need to impress upon you the importance of this ritual.”

He was fine on the walk here, but Savon struggled to hold on to coherent thought. He struggled to make sense of his mother's words as they turned over in his mind.

“It figures you’d be drunk,” she said. “Here.” His mother placed a vile with swirling blue liquid on the table. “Drink that and sober up.” She wiped at her fingers with a napkin as if the dirt on him would hop over the table and attack her. "I know the ritual is humiliating, but that's no excuse to take to the bottle."

They’d passed the point of disapproval and censure. He'd never had a close relationship with his parents but the frigid formality that remained—Savon just wanted this done. Things were best when they orbited each other like they’d been doing since his defects became apparent.

His mother continued not noticing or caring about his discomfort. “I can see how this would be difficult. Though, I didn’t think you had any pride left.” His mother wore a deep green gown embroidered with gold roses, the royal family’s colors. While she didn’t always wear green, she never wore blue. To Savon, his mother felt more like Princess Mera Solene Rose than his mother, Duchess Mera Lang.

Savon’s tongue traced his teeth before he grabbed and gulped the tea. Ignore it.

“Difficult is a pleasant way of phrasing it.” It diminished not only the physical pain he’d have to endure but also ignored the social stigma, and for someone whose reputation was trash, it spoke volumes that this ritual would make it worse. “I know I'll be an outcast if it succeeds, but I have few options and I'm making the best choices with what I have,” he said. The Duchy’s citizens might not like him, but that was never a requirement.

In some fiefs, the citizens would linch their lords given a chance. The nobles were the true judges and executioners. They respected him because of his parents and his intellect.

It was hard for Savon to remember the latter considering how little people respected it, but he was famed for his research even if his magic couldn’t advance. After he'd proven he hadn't plagiarized his results of course because Soli forbid people didn't assume the worst of him. He'd thought for years someone was deliberately assassinating his character, but his parents dismissed it as an overactive imagination.

Savon's inability to form a magic circle was unusual but not uncommon. If not for his parents’ pressure, Savon would’ve lived a mediocre but satisfying life, having an heir early, tolerating his wife, and getting a secondary title when his child came of age.

This ritual was frowned upon and borderline illegal. He was the person who questioned the necessity of this ritual the most, but he'd been backed into a corner and if he didn't bite now, he'd never be able to.

There was a flash of something resigned in his mother’s ice-blue gaze before blank nothingness reflected his image. “You don’t understand the world’s cruelty or people’s duplicity. You live your life buried at the bottom of a bottle, escaping rather than facing your problems.”

Savon disagreed.

Savon knew cruelty and duplicity and humiliation and pain.

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Savon learned he was weak and no one would help him fight. He needed power to protect himself; more power than his father's name provided.

He held back from asking what she thought confronting his problems entailed. “I used to have a smidge of talent.” His fighters traced the rim of his cup. “I used to like tea.” He couldn’t look at his mother. The silence stretched too long, becoming unbearable. Savon confessed his secret in a small voice. “I tried. I tried very hard, but my talent didn't grow into any real prowess.”

There was a soft sigh from the other side of the table. “I know. I was there, but that is in the past and best left there. Your focus should be to lie low.”

That little spark in him shriveled up and died. He hoped it would stay that way, but Savon was ever the fool. “It seems like a joke now, but I thought I had a choice. I never did.”

“You do,” she said. "And you're making the wrong one."

"And what is the right one?" Savon looked at her with something resembling a smile clinging to his lips. Her shoulders were stiff and her head high, but no answer came. “I lived as a dog today, and tomorrow I’ll be a dog. Even if I crawl into a cocoon and try to change, I won’t come out on the other side as a butterfly. I’ll still be a dog.”

"Jeff--"

"Oh, not this again. I've checked and checked. I'll check again. You can't blame your failures on that man forever. I've already cleaned up one of your messes." Sia stepped forward, helping his mother stand.

Savon's head snapped back as if slapped. He didn't know she thought he was guilty. He'd proved he wasn't intimate with that girl. Did she consider him capable of murder?

Savon digested that. "It wasn't me. You don't believe me, but it wasn't me."

His mother laughed. “Right now, you’re a street dog with some pedigree. Without a collar for protection, they'll throw you into the woods like that mangy fox you drag around. If the ritual fails, being a social outcast will be the least of your problems.”

“And? What does that mean?” He asked, standing when she did. His mother turned to leave without answering. “Thanks for being cryptic.” Savon tried, but he failed to hide his bitterness.

“Maybe you’d be a confidant if you behaved less like a child. Now, run along. You can’t use me as an excuse to hide from your father.” A wave of magic passed over him as she shooed him.

She'd cast the Cleanse spell on him.

Savon followed her out the door, but she didn’t stop.

“You with me,” Sia said, pointing at Jeff. They followed behind his mother, leaving Savon with Kurt.

Savon frowned. His head was clear, thoughts racing instead of moving like petrified sludge. What on Terra—

"Young Master, I will answer your questions as we walk."

“He couldn't bother to do it himself.” Savon couldn’t help the wry smile that forced its way onto his face. Savon requested this ritual, but his father agreed. His father was a willing participant, making him responsible for the outcome.

Kurt was both Savon’s guide and guard. “The Lord is preparing the ritual room.”

“Sure,” Savon said. It wasn’t like they lived in the same castle. Savon hadn't tried for days to see his father, so they could discuss what he'd need to do.

The feeling of wrongness stretched, his steps heavy, and the sleepiness from drinking setting in before vanishing. “Wha--” He stopped, bracing his hand against the wall.

Kurt stepped closer. “Is there a problem?”

Savon shook his head. “No. I think I ate something bad.” The barkeep must have slipped him something. It wouldn’t be the first. It was never anything lethal. Anyone and their dog could do as they pleased. The servants were the boldest. His parents seemed to turn a blind eye to it unless he needed a doctor. Others thought lightly of him because it was clear none cared.

Duke Lang had no reason to ruin his heir. Savon had no reason to be suspicious. It was Savon’s lack of magical talent that led to their behavior.

Then again, that was a reason to ruin his heir.

Savon shook his head, forcing his feet forward. “Aren’t you going to explain?”

“Young master, your drinking habits are concerning.” Kurt moved to walk beside Savon. The older man’s hands were poised to catch Savon if he passed out.

Savon scoffed. “With any luck, I’ll pass out after the ritual and wake to the results.” He couldn’t endure staying awake with worry and hope tearing away at him-- not again. “Get on with it. The walk is only so long.”

Kurt examined his face before sighing. He was one of the few servants who treated Savon with respect. “Brone’s Ritual—”

“It has a name?” Savon asked. “I tried researching, but there wasn’t much to find.”

“It’s believed to be named after its creator. Because of the taboo nature of the ritual, the church regulated or destroyed most of the information about Brone’s ritual. Within Livonia and most of the northern continent, people consider mana a gift from Soli; to tamper with its nature is sacrilegious unless given divine permission.”

“Hmm, I know that.” Savon ignored the servants as they scampered by. Their eyes showed they knew more than they should. Or maybe he was being paranoid. “Injecting your mana into someone and creating an artificial circle goes against nature, according to the church.”

However, some believed that mana circles were in and of themselves unnatural, but to say that aloud while his father was the chancellor of the Red Tower was begging for trouble.

On the Eastern Continent, there was a ritual similar to Brone's, but it was better. It didn't have the same limitations, but that ritual was heavily restricted. Students could only do it in particular institutions while under supervision. Though Savon learned, that wasn't always the case in the past. Savon had tried to get that ritual, but travel between continents was restricted and his father forbade Savon from using his connections.

Kurt decided Savon wasn't about to faint and took a step back. “Yes, injecting mana into someone is a criminal offense because it leads to death, a painful one. The reason Brone’s ritual isn’t illegal is because the participants are willing and murder isn't the goal. Magic circles are used to stabilize the flow of mana, but it isn't one hundred percent effective—”

“People still die. How often does the ritual fail?” Savon asked, calmer than he thought he would be. If only his hands stopped trembling.

“Each individual’s mana is distinct, conforming first to an element and then a state. For example, my element is wind, but it resembles a balmy desert gust rather than a tornado. The volatile reaction that happens in the body is when incompatible mana clashes. It’s why meditating with a water mana stone when your element is fire can lead to mana backlash or overload. From the information I found, the ritual has a higher success rate the more similar the two parties’ mana are.” Kurt’s voice was low and comforting, but there was an edge to it.

Savon found it comforting and concerning that the man couldn’t hide his worry.

Run. This is a good time to run.

To where? He asked himself. He’d run, fought, and begged. Savon always ended up in his room, suffering in silence.

Right, don't be useless. Stand up for yourself.

Savon didn’t know what kept him moving. Savon’s mana element was water: a light misting on a spring morning. His father’s element was fire. Their natures couldn’t be more different.

Duke Lang was a general famed for his prowess on the battlefield, where he used his lava-like firepower to obliterate the enemy.

Mages widely considered Savon’s water mana a weak mutation, resulting from his mother’s ice and his father’s flame. His inability to form a mana circle was all the proof people needed that their pairing wasn’t fortuitous. Two of the strongest mages in the country gave birth to a weakling. “So, the chances of success are low.”

Death is the likely outcome. Savon wasn't as devastated or angry about that as he thought he should be. That was fine, too.

He was still walking, Kurt’s presence almost propelling him along. “There is some risk, but the Duke is taking every precaution,” Kurt said.

“It’s risky. Full stop. The mana circle won’t have any use other than for decoration. First-tier spells won’t work, and there is no guarantee I will have access to the null spells I can currently cast. The risks outweigh the benefits.” Savon wondered if he was trying to talk himself out of doing the ritual. His chest was tight, and dread pooled in his gut.

"Young Duke, you can change your mind," Kurt said, regret coloring his tone.

“Madness isn't it?” Savon savored the magic in the air. He could feel nature’s energy pulsing in the distance. When focused, Savon could sense the wind stirring under Kurt's skin. “I never understood what my grandfather meant when he said graveyards were littered with the exceptional. Now I do. This genius has fallen so low.”

“Young master—” Kurt grappled for words, soft eyes looking at him. There was a barely concealed sheen of triumph.

Savon looked closer, but it was gone, and he thought his mind had played a trick on him.

As a side effect of his overwhelming faith in Duke Lang’s abilities, Kurt might believe the ritual would succeed.

Savon admitted Kurt terrified him. There was this inherent sense of rejection he felt from the man. With Sia, her disapproval originated from his less-than-stellar actions, but Kurt was nice to him while making it clear he thought Savon unsuited for his name. So it was funny that Kurt was the one accompanying him.

Too soon, they were at the door. The mana he felt earlier emanated from the wood. Protection, strength, and clarity radiated off the ancient oak. He trailed his fingers over the etched runes, remembering the function of each.

“Any more warnings?” Savon asked.

“No. With the rising sun, you will know the results. I wish you Soli’s Mercy.” Kurt did a forty-five-degree bow, one usually reserved for titled nobility at formal gatherings.