"Mikhil, did you break his jaw?"

The pale woman, dressed in a moderately regal combination of black and red, inquired sternly as she toyed with her gryphon-headed cane. She was seated on an ornate wooden chair, her yellow eyes fixed intently on her gilded walking stick, as though it were the most fascinating object in the room.

Facing her from behind the desk was a balding man with a neatly trimmed white beard, wearing a formal blue tunic and a reticle on his right eye. The desk itself was a battlefield—a chaotic sprawl of papers, ink stains, and books stacked precariously high on the verge of toppling, held only by some kind of common incantation. Several floating quills and sheets of parchment hovered about, sparkling with colorful pixie dust. They scribbled reports, announcements, and graded the dreaded exams. The most out-of-place item was an animated teapot, which, every so often, poured steaming tea into the waiting cup of the man at the desk—the Head Lectern of this institution.

Behind her sat a young man on a chair two paces behind her. Slouched slightly with a bruise on his left cheek and a small scar on his right. The singed edges of his shirt suggested a close encounter with fire—intentional or otherwise—while his boot, with a gaping hole, looked as if it had been through a war. The boy shifted slightly, rubbing his purpling knuckles with a wince before muttering his response.

"Potentially..."

"Potentially?"

Another stern inquiry from the woman, still absorbed in fiddling with her avian-capped cane.

The Head Lectern cleared his throat—not because it needed clearing, but because it was the sort of thing one did to attract attention—as he slid a paper towards the disinterested woman across the table in a manner halfway between timid and triumphant.

"Report indicates that, this morning, Karl Navkan Balgrodov challenged Mikhil Opetlev to a magic duel, which Mikhil accepted per traditions of Imperial Aristocratic Duels."

He adjusted his reticle, clicking and fiddling the little buttons on it before continuing.

"The proceedings were carried out within the hour. Both student-combatants donned the required protective gear and entered the Emerald Falcon Arena. It was there that Mikhil, in apparent disregard for the Code of Engagement for Students, abandoned all arcane combat in favor of..."

The Head Lectern paused, glancing at the boy behind the woman.

The boy stared back, his expression unreadable.

"...what he referred to as 'throwing hands.' A claim corroborated by his repeated battle cries during the altercation according to witnesses."

The boy almost smirked while a tiny silent chuckle almost escaped the woman.

He paused to shuffle through the pile of papers on his left, pulling another sheet free and slapping it delicately on top of the first.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

"As a result, Karl suffered significant injuries, primarily to his jaw, which, according to the Apothecaries...

With a dramatic pause, the Head Lectern stabbed the second page with his index finger.

"...was dislodged in a, quote, 'brutal fashion.' Thankfully, he is expected to recover, though I regret to inform you that Lord and Lady Navkan, and to an extent, the larger House of Balgrodov are decidedly unpleased."

The Lectern folded his hands on the table and waited for a response.

Silence.

"Strange, I heard it was a duel. Non magical means of violence should be allowed via the conventions of mutual combat then." the woman began.

The Lectern scratched his head with growing puzzlement, shifting between the paper and the woman.

"No, it is clearly a magic duel, I—"

The woman produced a satchel with a purplish glow from her hands and gently dropped it onto the table, the unmistakable chime of jingling coins filling the room. The quills stopped midair, their tips hovering inches from the parchment. Even the teapot turned sharply toward the little bag of goodies, as if considering it.

This time, a laugh almost escaped Mikhil as the Head Lectern pivoted his gaze between the woman and the satchel.

"Lady Anisia, you ca—"

Another satchel hit the table before he could finish his sentence.

The Lectern looked down the second satchel, and then looked up at Lady Opetlev.

Pale Anisia now glared at him, her expression frozen in an aristocratically gentle disposition.

"I hear your institution takes Balgrodovian patronage vicariously," she said, leaning in. Her voice dropped to a whisper.

"Allow us Opetlevs to contribute to this community. The Balgrodovs cannot be hoarding all the glory, can we now?""

A pause hung in the air before the Head Lectern coughed, gesturing toward the floating quills. They hesitated for a moment, then resumed their work. He leaned down, fumbling through a drawer as he muttered.

"Oh, silly me, those were umm... unfinished reports, yes drafts. Not meant to be public. The actual report should be around here somewhere..."

He continued his act until one of the enchanted quills delivered a freshly written and definitely legitimate report onto the table. The Head Lectern finally leaned back in his chair with a shaky giggle and tapped the papers with his index finger.

"Ah, yes, of course, the correct report. Found it. Clearly. There it is, what would I ever do without my animated quills... Yes, right. It was a duel, not a magical duel. While the extent of the physical contact might be questionable, the... throwing of hands, it would seem, is not illegal."

The Lectern turned his gaze towards Lady Anisia.

"Technically."

"Then technically make it so," Lady Anisia demanded tenderly.

"Of course, we aim to accommodate."

"Obviously," Lady Anisia continued as she shifted herself back and leaned on her chair.

"Half the columns here are inscribed with golden lions, the other half are in disrepair. You truly accommodated the Balgrodovs well."

With a quick tap of her cane, she stood.

"I would infer we have nothing more to discuss?"

The Head Lectern nodded, his expression carefully neutral.

"Mikhail, we will make our exit."

The boy rose slowly, his torn shoe flapping wildly with each step toward the door.

"And child, just leave the shoe. We can get you a new one."

Mikhail paused, glancing at his mother, then at the Lectern.

"...Here?" he asked, uncertainty creeping into his voice.

Lady Anisia didn't reply as she calmly straightened her clothes.

Mikhail shrugged, slipped off the shoe, and placed it by the door. The young man and his pale mother exited, walking side by side, leaving the Lectern one mutilated shoe richer.

The Lectern glanced at the shoe, then abruptly at the mother standing in the doorway with her yellow eyes glaring into his very soul. 

A chilling voice seemed to echo through the room, shivering even the animated writing tools that shouldn't for all accounts feel either warmth nor cold.

"Well, surely a bootlicker like you should know what to do with a shoe."