Marcus Procellae kept his breathing steady, breathing in and out in a systematic fashion. His feet were firmly planted, and both hands held onto Triumph, the family heirloom entrusted to him.

He allowed himself a moment to admire the deadly instrument. The origin of the silvery metal was unknown to them; it had simply washed ashore generations ago. The descendants of that fisherman's family still proudly served his family today.

Forged into the form of a trident, each prong was home to an embedded jewel of impeccable quality. They were not the originals, having been replaced whenever an improvement made itself known.

Water, Wind, and Lightning. A focus for each of his affinities.

Generations of Procellae had relied on it, using the power it granted to defend the Empire to their last.

Marcus focused on all three glittering gems. While air entered his lungs, magic entered the weapon of war.

Triumph drank greedily, devouring all within reach.

His magic, already present within the trident, welcomed the company. The two sources meshed together, becoming one under his control.

He released the breath and forced the magic into the pale white gem. His affinity and focus may have made it easier, but it was skill born of countless repetitions that made the magic take shape. Pockets of swirling air currents formed around him. He compressed them, squeezing the wind held within into a smaller profile.

Zephyr Orbs.

Five, ten, twenty, once at his limit, he sent them forward. They joined their predecessors, attempting to land a blow on the training dummy.

A single one at full power would be enough to eviscerate a man, bursting on contact and sending blades of air digging into frail flesh.

These were not at full power.

A bead of sweat traveled down his brow. Without Triumph, he would have long been at his limit.

Still connected to orbs, he nudged them slightly, attempting to guide them towards their target.

Many, nay, most came near. Yet none landed.

It was preposterous.

With a twist of Triumph, he had the water manifestation he'd planted earlier burrow up from the earth. His Tidal Python emerged, attempting to ensnare a leg.

As if by pure happenstance, the limb moved at exactly the right moment to avoid the magic. This was despite Marcus timing it with multiple Zephry Orbs flying above.

"That's new," the missed target gave an idle comment, not showing the least bit of concern. "You know, not enough people just try to grab their opponent. That is what that does, right? It doesn't try to, I don't know, drown me or anything?"

Callum Ardere was abnormal.

The word fit, and yet was woefully inaccurate to describe the absurdity the boy represented.

Marcus had been close to ignoring the invitation again, but he was loath to pass up any opportunity for personal improvement, and there were few who made adequate sparring partners.

Not that this was a spar. No, in lieu of whatever illogical scheme the boy had wanted to concoct today, Marcus has requested a simpler form of training.

Target practice.

He detonated an orb ahead of the boy, its blades of wind scattering forward. Callum twisted, letting one brush his coat but nothing else.

"Sheesh, don't tell me you're still mad." The boy found the time to shake his head in disappointment. "You really need to learn how to let go of these kinds of things."

Marcus felt himself more than a little charitable. He'd forgiven the spear nearly impaling him. However, the smell of digestive fluids from that creature still lingered in his mind, and he was not quite ready to forget being fed to a beast.

His python continued its chase, the construct taking up much of his focus. It was not a simple homing magic; it writhed and breathed as if alive. Connected to it, he could feel its every move and even see through its eyes.

Even with these additional senses, he could scarcely tell the boy was even using magic. That was the same on the rare instance a manifestation was used defensively.

Impeccable control.

Envy was not something he often felt, but it was hard not to have a flash of the ugly emotion.

He focused back to his construct itself; at its current scaled-down size, it would not pose much of a threat.

But as frustrating as the boy was, he wasn't trying to harm him.

If he had been, he may have finally shown his family's signature brand of magic. But he was saving that for the Conferance. He wasn't even taking the time to layer his magic as he'd done on the first bout.

No, today was more of a test of endurance. It was a rare chance to focus so single-handedly on such an evasive target.

Already he could feel a headache forming, the stress of managing so many different manifestations building.

"You good? We can take five or quit altogether if you need it."

The boy was incessant, speaking in a manner befitting a commoner. Those Marcus spoke to were properly schooled in language. With Callum, it was difficult at times to parse if they were even speaking the same tongue.

Marcus responded by pushing magic through the citrine gem.

Strike Lance's took form and, in a blink, arrived at the Ardere.

One of them missed, but the other clipped Callum's shoulder. Sparks danced across the blue barrier that had interceded on the boy's behalf.

It was not the first hit he managed today, but like all the others, he knew it had been allowed.

The Ardere was not moving as swiftly as he could, deliberately choosing to take a few blows. As far as he could surmise, it wasn't out of hubris, nor was it out of a desire to gain his favor.

Instead, it felt like the boy simply did not care if harm befell him.

Marcus supposed that made sense, given his background.

If not for evidence proving the contrary, Marcus would have wondered if the boy even knew how to form a shell. He had forced his shield badge on him, for his peace of mind more than anything.

"Have you wronged the Deputy Headmistress as of late?" Marcus asked with feigned innocence.

The boy's next step stuttered, and Marcus' python coiled around his limb. Fangs pierced downward; should this have been a real battle, they would have drilled a hole through his shell and injected water into flesh. The results after would be obvious.

Rather than that happening, his connection was abruptly broken as his opponent gripped the snake. The construct collapsed, now a puddle on the floor.

The magic had been wrestled from his control; he hadn't even had the opportunity to struggle against it.

"Phew, that was close. Almost had me there."

Did he even notice what he'd just accomplished?

As the heir to a dukedom, Marcus came from a proud lineage of warriors. His blood was strong; he was strong.

That was indisputable.

Given favorable circumstances, even a few of the vaunted Fingers would recognize the threat he posed.

Arrogance? Certainly. But it was not an opinion formed out of ignorance. He'd seen the power they wielded.

Only last week the ruins they now practiced in had been torn asunder.

Granted, their teacher was not an appropriate benchmark to test against. One was not considered for the position of a Hand lightly.

Faded he may be, The Tremor's strength was impossible to ignore.

Callum had barely blinked at it.

"And yeah, she's upset at my existence. You know how it is."

Yes, he very much did.

It was extraordinarily easy to write the boy off as a simpleton, a well-trained brute, and nothing more. His every action seemed to scream it, so much so that Marcus found himself frequently falling back into that opinion.

But there were flashes of insight, moments where he showed himself capable of more than acting as a convenient target.

The conclusion he kept circling back to was, more often than not, Callum simply didn't care.

Warped priorities was the most succinct way he would put it.

After all, not even a dullard would ask the Empire's current Crown Prince for coffee beans of all things.

A sliver of amusement emerged within him. It was a ridiculous request, but what was truly humorous was that it would cause Rolland no small amount of trouble.

Official or not, a favor from the Crown Prince was worth quite a sum. Callum would never have been able to extract the level of benefits Marcus had as a future Duke, but the Palace's honor could not be besmirched by providing subpar recompense.

Which meant Rolland now had to source coffee beans worth a favor of the royal family.

He would not wish such a task onto himself. Had Rolland been another, perhaps he would have demanded an underling see the work done.

However, the Crown Prince did not comport himself as a noble should.

Taking a commoner as a confidant was the first sign. Marcus could remember his father ranting at the impropriety of it. It spat in the face of many houses that proposed their scions for the position.

No. With his character, Rolland would personally handle the matter.

And hopefully, tear out some of his silver strands in the process.

Of course, the most entertaining aspect was that Callum was likely to have forgotten about it.

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Marcus thought the boy was too still and forced himself to push further. His breathing hitched, and from Triumph, a whirling cyclone shot toward the boy.

It sucked up all in its path, loose debris creating a dangerous vortex. It would never land, but it would keep the boy busy.

Maybe he would even reach his limits?

Doubtful.

Augmentation was a perilous path to walk, yet they all walked it just the same. Marcus practiced diligence with an appropriate level of caution.

It meant that when pressed, he could put himself at a level able to contend with pure strength against the likes of Rolland

However, he needed time to prepare. Any instant transition to his peak strength was liable to cause harm to his person.

Sometimes he wondered if Callum even noticed switching to his limit.

What more could he expect from a weapon?

"She approached me about you just recently," Marcus spoke, hoping the boy would trip up again. "It was an intriguing conversation."

It wasn't. The scandal may have been old, but as it involved one in his faction, he was well aware of the grievances the Evergreen's still held.

The words did not have the same effect as before, and Callum regarded him with curiosity while evading harm.

"Are you going to tell me or…"

The boy trailed off, not showing very much concern.

Marcus supposed there should be little surprise on his part.

The pattern he'd observed dictated as such. A quick reaction where the boy did not know how he should act, then followed by a more measured response after he weighed the importance of the development in that head of his.

The ire of the Deputy Headmistress should have weighed heavy on him, but so should being cuffed and sent against a beast.

"She was curious about your activity in this class."

It wasn't unusual. At the time, he'd thought Rolland's words during the opening ceremony strange. After seeing Callum's ability the day after, it was evident who Rolland would nominate to participate in the Conference.

"Really? Huh, wonder if she's hoping I'd flunk out or something."

Marcus chose not to correct the boy.

It wasn't just the fact he'd been tossed into a pool with a hungry beast, although that was a factor. No, it was also due to the fact the boy had, very clearly, eliminated Petro.

Thoughts on the man aside, his death brought him no small amounts of trouble.

Father had made his wishes regarding the Academy clear.

He imagined his-.

Alice was probably incensed at discovering his actions. But what did they expect by sending someone like him here?

"It would be remiss of me not to mention that attacking a faculty member would be a poor choice."

For some time now, inaction had been the largest kindness he could show that house. His father had cast them out, content to let them feed the ambitions of those beneath them.

Such an action was routine among the higher nobility. Those under them squabbled for the scraps of power, not realizing their division was what ensured they would never truly rise.

It wasn't his place to question his father. Duty to family was first and foremost. He knew Alice would understand that.

"What if they hit first?" The boy quipped. "Fair game, right?"

Coming from another, that might have been a joke. With Callum, Marcus could not be certain it was.

"I would advise against it."

His father, and many others, had written off the Ardere's long ago. Ever since that unfortunate incident led to their line being pruned to a single branch, they were doomed to fade into obscurity.

Alice, for all her talent, was one person. No house could stand against a storm with a single pillar.

But two?

"That's not a no."

He must have thought himself clever.

"Ardere business is none of my concern," Marcus intoned, throwing words previously said to him back.

The boy snorted, finding humor in it.

His father had not sent a decision on how to proceed with the family. It was a bit gauche to reward such barbaric behavior.

Truthfully, Marcus never thought the Ardere Lord to be capable of such callousness. To scion dozens upon dozens of bastards and throw them to the Waste. Not just once either, as they had to ensure luck was not a factor. No, the bastards would be sent out countless times.

The practice was impossible to outlaw; the rights of houses were too firmly entrenched. However, it was not looked kindly upon.

It was dishonor to your partner, to your house, and to your blood.

The last case he knew about occurred prior to his father's time.

Desperation must have driven the Lord to it. It was a hopeless gamble, as the chances of success were vanishingly small.

Marcus could only hope Callum's existence would not see a resurgence in it.

The last of his attacks fizzled out, and he refrained from creating anymore. There was a fine line between training and showing weakness.

"Well, that was fun." Cal's tone stood in contrast to his words.

The boy must have been bored senseless with this, too used to survival being an open question from one second to the next.

Marcus could understand why they sent him to the Academy; it must have been to garner attention and show their house had not yet fallen.

But would it have been a great burden to instill some level of propriety in him?

Had they still been on familiar terms, he would have been tempted to shake the girl and ask what she had been thinking.

"Say," the boy said while walking over. Playing with the spear he was incompetent with. There had been some improvement, but that wasn't a craft you mastered in a few scant sessions. "Mind if I ask you something?"

Ominous words coming from that source.

"You may, but don't presume I will respond in kind."

Warning the boy about Petro's motives was already close to the limit his father would allow. These training sessions were more easily justified; improvements to himself were critical for the future of their house.

Despite having some novel training ideas, Callum Ardere did not know what he was doing. That much had been made abundantly clear. But there was value in observing the boy.

From what he gathered, his true ability lay in both his intricate control of himself and sensitivity to magic. He knew exactly when and how to react to any change in his immediate vicinity.

It was a poor matchup for someone like Marcus, who relied mainly on manifestations. That only made this time more important.

"Right, so like, how does politics work?"

Out of all the questions he may have been asked, none filled him with as much dread as that.

Callum Ardere in a political space? He might as well set fire to the Diet himself.

Whatever had spurred the sudden interest, he wished it would crawl back from whence it came.

"I'm afraid my presence is needed elsewhere. I suggest you ask your sister about those matters."

Ancestors, she had better halt any ideas from sprouting in his head.

Without waiting for a response, he turned and left the ruined structure. Normally he would make himself presentable before leaving, but these facilities had been destroyed.

There was some fear that the boy would ask someone else, but it was minimal. From what his people had told him, the boy was reluctant to engage with other students.

Unless they sought him out first, then he seemed to readily enjoy their company.

The one standout had been Marcus himself. For reasons that he thought were clear to all involved.

But that was just how the game was played.

Making his way back to his dormitory, he exchanged nods or simply did not acknowledge those whom he passed, depending on what was appropriate.

It was a long-honed skill, and he did it with little conscious thought.

His dorm was fitting for his position, monopolizing much of the top floor of one of the newer buildings installed.

The architect had studied in Academy, but sought motivation by traveling through the Holy Enclave, the Tribes, and finally, the Free Cities.

The brutal cold stone of the exterior had indents with columns present. They were intricately carved into humanoid shapes, holding up the roof of the structure, which looked to be sloping canvas. It was only for the aesthetic; most nobles would not accept sleeping under a tarp.

Entering the building, and soon after, his personal domicile, he did not let himself relax as his tired senses picked up the presence of another.

A number of his house staff had keys, but they were not scheduled for this time. He passed the entrance, coming into the entertaining room.

He did not relax upon seeing the intruder, but he was not concerned either. They'd been meeting frequently as of late.

"Your training went well then?" The man asked, one leg crossed over the other while helping himself to some tea. "The Lord will be pleased at diligence."

He would not; this much was expected of him.

"Vincent," Marcus addressed the Justiciar, the man he'd known since he was young. "What ails have you brought me today?"

The man gave a well-practiced laugh, meant to soothe his target's nerves. Marcus had heard it plenty of times before.

"As always, what I do is in the service of the good Duke. Anything I bring to you is for that purpose alone."

That he could believe.