“A team?” Elijah Klein pondered aloud.

The heir of the Klein Foundation wasn’t one to stray from the idea of a team. After all, what was at the root of business but cooperation towards a common goal? Objectives, deadlines, metrics; these all lived and died on the backs of the teams who made them happen.

The list of those who Shouri suggested was interesting. Elijah reviewed the list he was to forward off to his contacts. Even if he trusted Shouri, he couldn’t necessarily trust every individual. Especially with an operation with such tight security. They should be vetted to ensure they could be trusted.

One name he left off the list, however.

Vince Rayburn and Mila

This was a name that had come up in Shouri’s file before. If not simply for being the Maestro Shouri hand-picked to leave Mila’s care to. Such an act spoke to the trustworthiness of that individual.

Elijah cast a lazy gaze over his shoulder. Zino was tearing into his third dinner. A plate of bloody red meat. The Maestro simply didn’t have the heart to explain what the meat they ate truly was.

Let them eat meat, decided the heir.

His gaze returned to the list. Another name piqued his interest.

Makani Almos and Rynda

He knew not of their status; however, Shouri’s brief explanation of their talents drew interest. “A pilot I could use in my ventures,” he mused to himself.

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“Mr. Klein! What a lovely morning it is?” the pilot greeted the heir. The man was a mess, though his hair and manner of dress were meticulously groomed to an almost unnatural level of perfection, his nerves were anything but.

The poor man looked like he was about to fall apart. Stiff as a board, trembling like the last leaf in a storm, enough sweat to sate the parched. Why if Elijah were of the more sadistic persuasion, he could tear this boy to ribbons where he stood. Thankfully the pilot’s better half had some sense and elbowed him.

“What Makani means to say is good morning,” the lunar bird shared her greeting with a curtsy.

“Indeed,” Elijah smirked.

It was a funny reminder that the audacity displayed by Shouri and his precious Resonators was not the norm. He could only count the solitary Renard as one who greeted him with a blazing kick to the dinosaur. Unfortunately, the platitudes and reverence were average for Elijah. People were too afraid to tell him their honest thoughts. It wasn’t as if he wanted to be unapproachable. Too many who just made assumptions.

“It is a pleasure to meet you as well Mr. Almos, Ms. Rynda,” the Klein heir allowed himself a short bow to the pair. “I trust you are well equipped for our journey ahead? My compatriots and I are quite eager to make it to Unis-Resonné as soon as possible,” he said, motioning to the dinosaur Resonator and fox Natural behind him.

Zino looked like he couldn’t care less about where they were going or how they were getting there. While Miro’s eyes sparkled with his usual cheery curiosity at his new surroundings.

“Of course! Right this way Mr. Klein!” Makani gestured towards the tarmac, leading the group to the passenger plane with an uneasy gait in his step.

“Can you level with me?” Rynda asked as they walked.

Ah, there was the audacity he was looking for.

“How in the world did you find out who we are? I mean, we don’t advertise and we’re not exactly the most prolific pilots in the world,” the bird shot the businessman a skeptical glance.

Elijah couldn’t help but chuckle. “I have it on good authority that you and your Maestro are wonderful pilots,” he replied.

Rynda furrowed her brows, wondering who spoke of them so highly. She didn’t get the answer to that, as Elijah kept the knowledge of their benefactor to himself.

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Miro looked around, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Unis-Resonne already delivered in visual splendor. The greenery was a new sight for the desert fox, but in such massive quantities made him wonder what kind of strange world he had been whisked away to.

Truly it was the stuff stories were made of.

Elijah himself was a good employer. All he asked of the fox was a detailed report of his rhythm on the daily. A task that he could rattle off in an instant. Rhythm was Miro’s special interest after all. He was always aware of the rhythm of those around him.

Especially tempo.

Tempo was such a fascinating concept their world was blessed with. The ability to connect with others on a spiritual level – it was something he had forsaken in Subterris. Being in the Maestro’s world showed how dull his life had been before.

People like Shouri were so dazzlingly beautiful, that Miro couldn’t help but pine for them. The connection between him and the two girls he brought to his hospital room was almost blinding. Such trust, such strong tempo. He had never seen such a sight – it only fed into his obsession.

The pilots, Makani and Rynda were very similar – their bond was so tight it radiated a comfortable warmth Miro basked in for the entire three-hour flight to Dorleans.

Elijah on the other hand…

It was sad. Things were getting better day by day, but in comparison to the luminescence he saw from Maestros like Shouri and Makani, Elijah was barely a candle in the wind.

“My rhythm is said to be in a Solitario state. The doctors are unsure of why it is, but I will never have much rhythm to my name. Ironic, no? All the splendor in the world is right at my fingertips, yet my body refuses our world’s greatest gift.”

Those forlorn words were spoken by a man who would give it all to share in the delights his contemporaries bathed in.

From Miro’s research into the matter, the Solitario state was a class of condition similar to Aleatoria - the class of conditions where the afflicted is prone to extreme mental and physiological variance due to rhythm imbalance. In Elijah’s case, Miro observed reluctance in the man’s scale to readily etude, but in exchange, his staves were in near-perfect balance.

It was almost as if his body was trying to say “you don’t need them,” as if it was better than any other scale.

“Miro, shall we head to the hotel?” Elijah’s voice drew the fox from his thoughts.

“Yes!” he beamed.

After bidding Makani and Rynda farewell, the trio were whisked away to their lodgings – a top-class hotel in the heart of Dorleans. Miro was still getting used to the affluence on display whenever Elijah was around, looking around the lobby of the hotel with wonder.

Resonators worked the floors, cleaning, moving luggage, any mundane job little Miro could think up, it seemed like a Resonator was doing it. The less taxing, more mental tasks, such as managing the front desk had a Maestro staffed.

How interesting. It was certainly true that Resonators and Naturals alike were sturdier than the frailer Maestros, but that was mostly in tasks where spellcasting or elements of danger were involved. Why would Maestros be precluded from manual labor? Surely, they would require employment too? Unless all Maestros were hunters like Shouri?

Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

That didn’t make sense though. What a strange world Maestro society was.

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Zino didn’t really care where they slept.

He was always bored to tears going through the same song and dance at every new destination they went to.

Fly to someplace

Ride in some car

Go into some fancy pants hotel

Live it up in the lap of luxury

The dinosaurian wasn’t an idiot. He knew very well what a privileged existence he led. But that didn’t stop him from being so fucking bored.

Bored bored bored bored.

He got so bored he contracted a rhythm disease!

And yet, life went back to normal after Nationals. Ferried from one place to another in his Maestro’s shadow.

So boring…

“Zino.”

The dinosaur listlessly raised his head to face his Maestro. “What?” he mumbled.

“Armalcol Fucile, Legato.”

The words that left Elijah Klein’s lips were ones found plaguing Zino’s dreams. Spellcraft. From his Maestro. The dinosaur watched in horror as Elijah’s blonde hair turned to ash before his very eyes. Was this a dream? This had to be.

But why did it feel so real?

Why did he feel the will of his Maestro exerted on him?

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Zino snarled, suppressing the rhythm flooding into his body. “Are you a fucking idiot?!” the dinosaurian snapped.

“Perhaps. Cast that spell, I imagine the rhythm is boiling under your skin.” Elijah smirked, the dark bags under his eyes growing as his body was suddenly devoid of rhythm.

Zino looked around and found where he had been taken: a private casting gallery. The spell that was trying to force its way out was one he couldn’t claim familiarity with. Thankfully his body knew what to do. He raised his arm, extending it out. He closed his hand into a tight fist, angling his hand so his thumb was facing out. At the intersection of his thumbnail and the phalanx of his index finger, an otherworldly gem manifested from his rhythm.

With a flick of his thumb, the moon rock flew like a bullet fired from the hammer of his thumb, piercing the target with little effort.

The pressure drained from his scale, the earth element turned to face his stupid Maestro. Miro was helping the idiotic boy stay on his feet as he messed with a bottle of apple juice.

At first, Elijah gently sipped from the bottle, but he realized the efficiency wasn’t there – he threw his head back and choked down the rhythm-filled liquid.

When he whipped his head back, his tresses had regained their luster. “Armalcol Fucile, Legato,” he called without another word.

Zino scowled. “Elijah!” he roared.

“C-cast the spell Zino…” Elijah coughed; his breath labored.

The dinosaur complied again, firing off the delicate moon rock projectile. He spun to face his moronic Maestro, who was slowly uncapping another bottle of apple juice.

Before Elijah could sip the life-giving elixir, Zino stopped him, grabbing his Maestro’s hand. “What’s your game? You into killing yourself now?!” snarled the earth element.

“Training,” Elijah said, as if it should have been obvious. His dull gaze was transfixed on the sparkling golden potion his body yearned for.

“Training to die maybe,” Zino growled.

Elijah smirked knowingly. “There was a tale I read recently,” he began. “One of an old king who ingested poison every day until he became immune to its effects. It served him well when those who yearned for his throne attempted such underhanded tactics. Rhythm is my poison and you are my chalice, dear Zino. I ask for the poison, I yearn for your rhythm even if my body protests. Will you grant me this selfish wish, my friend?”

Zino considered the heartfelt request. Obviously with such little rhythm, casting one Ossia spell brought Elijah from full to near death. This could easily end the man and he wasn’t one to take unnecessary risks – that much the dinosaur knew for a fact about his Maestro.

He released the bottle to allow Elijah to partake of its restorative properties.

The dinosaur turned his gaze on the Natural who was keeping a close watch on the Maestro of the trio. “Make sure he doesn’t die,” Zino growled to the fox. Miro didn’t budge, his focus entirely on the recovering Maestro as he sipped his drink.

“His rhythm is very weak. It comes back a little bit brighter each time. I am not sure if he is hurting his scale. Too early to tell,” Miro advised the Resonator.

“Hrmph. Idiot,” grumbled Zino.

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Day passed to night and with it, Elijah finally allowed himself a reprieve from the intense rhythmic exercise.

If allowed meant forced.

“Fucking idiot,” Zino grumbled, leaning against the frame of the bathroom door.

It was two who got to see the mask slip. The proper and prim Elijah Klein collapsed in front of a toilet, his body rejecting the past three hours of drinking. As it turns out the human body was not equipped to deal with large volumes of apple juice, no matter how much it craved the healing properties of the rare drink.

“I must seem like quite the fool after I ran my mouth earlier. A king I am not,” Elijah managed a weak chuckle before leaning over the porcelain throne to expel a few thousand notes worth of juice.

“His rhythm is weak, but not in danger,” Miro told Zino, who rolled his eyes in response. “No juice for you tomorrow,” the Natural scolded the reckless boy.

“Yes yes, I won’t take to the bottle tomorrow, urgh…” The cool rim of the toilet bowl was nice – no one was ever allowed to see him in this state.

“I’m glad I can get away with downing a good number of bottles before my stomach thinks better of me,” Elijah suddenly spoke. “It’ll be good to have in reserve, just in case.”

Miro looked to Zino, who didn’t open his eyes, remaining stoic and silent.

Were all Maestros such strange individuals? Or did Miro have a knack for stumbling across the exceptional?

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It was vexing.

“I wish I was wrong about this… but it’s hard to dispute the evidence,” Elijah muttered to himself. The rest of the suite was quiet and dark. Only the light of his desk remained lit as he pored over the documents delivered to him earlier that day.

“Klaus, why would you do this?” he whispered.

Documented were papers of the parts recovered from Naiza stadium. The designs were a one-to-one match with a certain canceled project.

Elijah took a breath. “You’re too brilliant for your own good.” He exhaled shaking his head. “It shouldn’t have been like this.” He lamented to a crowd of none. The regret built as he scanned the documents for anything disproving his hypothesis.

Theory was fact, the evidence was damning. Especially the Klein Foundation branding found on some of the circuit boards.

“He must have people on the inside helping him source these parts. I wonder… If Dr. Vim can reach inside the Klein Foundation, does that not mean he can reach other companies?”

A chilling thought came to mind: “Has he reached public offices?”

“Oh, that is a problem indeed. I need to make some calls. We’d certainly be struck down before we even got started if I don't stack the deck in our favor.”

And so another long night continued for Elijah Klein.