The large stone corridors of the Heltrin family keep were lit by the soft glow of the encased lights embedded in the walls, casting shadows across the cool stone floors. Galvas walked briskly through the hallway, his fine gray coat swaying slightly with each step. His face, as always, was bright, cheerful even, though the thin lenses over his eyes hid the weariness that lingered deep within.
Beside him, Quentin Fullbright followed, his features sharp, his hair jet-black and pressed neatly against his head, his steps quieter, more controlled. His suit was immaculate, fitting the figure of a man who belonged not in the realm of men but among the highest of the divine nobility.
As they walked, several student attendants passed by, offering Galvas respectful bows and reverent nods, gestures Galvas received with his usual polite nod. Quentin, on the other hand, looked as though the attention was a nuisance, his lips curling slightly into a sneer whenever one lingered too long. His thin lips tightened as he continued complaining, his voice carrying a low frustration.
“The overload in the consensus system for transport is a nightmare,” Quentin muttered. "The festival has thrown everything off balance. Every craft in and out of Kerrasuk is delayed by hours, and that’s assuming we even get clearance. I’ve never seen consensus requests at such levels."
Galvas remained silent, his gaze focused forward as they continued through the hall. His usual smile was still plastered on his face, but it was clear his thoughts were elsewhere. Quentin, glancing at him, fell silent for a moment, watching as his mentor moved through the corridors with the same brisk pace he always did.
Over the years, Quentin had grown accustomed to the distance between them—both in the literal sense and in the quiet gulf that seemed to linger whenever they stood side by side. Galvas had been running the family’s affairs since before his father, Koleson, passed away, and Quentin had learned a great deal from him, yet in all those years, he realized now, he knew very little about the man. There was something always just out of reach, something Galvas seemed to be looking at far off in the distance.
It reminded him of something Galvas had once said about his father. Quentin had asked what Lord Koleson was like, and Galvas had described him as a man who always felt distant, even when standing right beside you. “Talking to him,” Galvas had said, “was like speaking to someone who looked through you, as if they were seeing something else, something far away.” The Galvas Quentin had heard about growing up—a strong, present figure surrounded by family and power—was nothing like the Galvas he worked with now. There was a bitter irony in it. Koleson had lived his life surrounded by people, yet remained alone, and now Galvas, always walking faster than those around him, seemed to have inherited that lonely march.
Quentin’s analytic mind noted the irony, though without any hint of sentimentality. It was just an observation.
Breaking the silence, Quentin shifted the conversation. “Has Eadric Blackthorn made any headway with the local lords? Has he tried to arrange any alliances for the festival?” His tone was casual, though the question carried weight. Alliances forged before or during the festival games were crucial, as those who received the most support—who were granted the delegation over the essence of their allies—could shift the very fate of the games themselves.
Galvas snapped back from his thoughts and turned to Quentin with a knowing smile. "Borrisil would likely be in charge of such arrangements," he replied, his voice light. "It seems Eadric listens to him more than anyone these days. Though I hear Eadric is none too pleased with me after I refused his offer to hold the festival in the Scorchlands."
“Borrisil?” Quentin frowned, the name unfamiliar. He knew little about Eadric’s younger son, having spent most of his time dealing with matters in the realm of men.
Galvas nodded, continuing.
“Yes, Borrisil. He’s a high ranker and a veteran from the last major campaign in the Scorchlands. Young, but he's earned his father’s respect—and attention. I don’t know much about him myself, except that he wields the family sword, Blackthorn. Eadric passed over his elder son in favor of Borrisil, which should tell you something about the boy’s capabilities.”
As they reached the entrance to the dining area, Galvas sighed, his eyes softening for just a moment before the smile returned to his face. “I suspect he’s got an interesting outlook on life, having lived in the Realm of the Lords before being thrown into the chaos of the Scorchlands.”
Quentin nodded, mentally filing away the information, though his thoughts briefly wandered back to Galvas. There was still that distance between them, a space Quentin wasn’t sure he could ever cross.
They entered the dining hall where Gelvin, Gelnar, Gerrit, Helletta, and Ella were seated. The room was filled with conversation, though the moment Quentin and Galvas walked in, the dynamic shifted. Quentin's eyes narrowed as he noticed the new faces, his frown deepening with displeasure.
Helletta, seeing the pair walk in with their sharp suits and calm demeanor, squealed with excitement. Before anyone could stop her, she zoomed from her seat and rushed towards them, her face stained with food, her greasy hand outstretched. Quentin recoiled instantly, darting back in disgust, but Galvas, ever the picture of politeness, extended his own gloved hand and took hers with a smile.
Helletta’s eyes widened as she looked up at him, noticing for the first time how much he resembled Gelvin, though older and more refined. His handsome face seemed carved from the same mold, and his extreme grace left her swooning. “I’m Gelvin’s father,” he introduced himself warmly. “I’ve seen your training. You may not have known me, but I’ve known you.”
Gelvin, seated at the table, flushed with embarrassment. There was nothing more nerve-wracking than knowing his father had been watching him teach, especially in a family full of scholars where expectations ran high.
Galvas smiled down at Helletta, who was still somewhat starstruck, and added, “I’m glad my son has found new friends. He tends to spend too much time alone.”
If Helletta was captivated by Galvas’s charm, Ella observed him with a more critical eye. She noted the striking resemblance between Galvas and his children, and even more so, the likeness to his father, Koleson. There was a certain sameness to the lineage that was unmistakable. And when Ella glanced at Helletta, a subtle recognition passed through her. It was almost as if the family’s traits stamped themselves across generations, a reflection of something deeper she couldn’t yet put into words.
The conversation over dinner flowed smoothly at first. They discussed Gelvin’s training of his students, with Gelvin explaining that both Helletta and Ella possessed talents worth nurturing. His father asked for more details, prompting Gelvin to explain how Ella had chosen the path of weaving and herbalism and had already mastered several fundamental chemical notations.
Galvas, intrigued, turned to Ella and posed a complex question. “How would you balance the properties of dew moss and starweed when creating a healing tonic?”
Ella’s response was quick, confident. “You don’t balance them,” she said, surprising the table. “They should be soaked individually in a fermented spirit until fully dissolved. Then, after reaching the exact acidity of 0.98, they can be combined without mixing, allowing the properties to settle naturally.”
The scholars at the table were impressed. Even Galvas gave her a brief clap of approval, while Gelvin patted her head with pride. Only Quentin seemed unmoved, his expression flat as he regarded her.
When he finally spoke, the mood shifted. “What about Helletta’s talent?” Quentin asked, his voice cutting through the room.
Gelvin hesitated before answering, clearly proud of Helletta's prowess in martial arts but reluctant to bring up her difficulty with siphoning soul essence. “She has a knack for fighting, but she’s struggling with essence siphoning.”
Quentin’s lip curled into a brief smirk. “So, you’ve got one student who’s all brains but can barely handle a weapon, and another who’s all brawn but can’t even tap into her soul essence.” He chuckled darkly, then continued, “You’re setting yourself up for failure, Gelvin. The festival isn’t a place for half-baked talent.”
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Gelvin’s face flushed with anger. He slammed his hands onto the table, his voice trembling with fury. “You don’t know anything about them! Ella’s a gifted weaver, and Helletta—she’s far more capable than you realize!”
Quentin remained unfazed, his voice dripping with cold sarcasm. “Capable? Or hopeless? You’re leading them into a festival where they’ll be eaten alive.”
The tension at the table boiled over, and Gelvin stood abruptly, ready to lash out. Gelnar quickly intervened, stepping between the two men to prevent a physical altercation. “Calm down, Gelvin,” she urged, her voice firm. “This isn’t the time or place.”
Gelvin’s eyes burned with resentment, but he forced himself to take a step back, his chest heaving. “You’ve always been like this, Quentin. Rotten from the start. Ever since we trained under my father, you’ve been impossible to work with.”
Quentin shrugged, indifferent to Gelvin’s anger. “I’m just being practical, Gelvin. If you think you’re going to win this festival with two underprepared children, you’re as deluded as you’ve always been since we trained together.”
Gelvin’s eyes narrowed, his voice suddenly sharper, aiming at Quentin’s pride. “Is that what you tell yourself when your real Master sends you on those far-flung errands? Maybe she’s just keeping her distance because she can’t stand you either.”
Quentin’s face darkened, the sneering arrogance slipping for just a moment. It was a sore point, and Gelvin knew it.
“Careful, Gelvin,” Quentin said, his voice now colder, the sneer returning quickly. “This conversation isn’t going to end well for you. Remember who I am—a Fullbright. My pedigree hails from the highest seats in the Realm of the Lords. Someone of my status doesn’t usually sit around sharing dinner with local clans in far-off regions. The only reason I’m tolerating this back talk from you is out of respect for Galvas.”
But Gelvin didn’t back down. There was an intensity in his eyes that seemed almost manic, something that stunned Quentin. With a newfound defiance, he declared, "You don’t know anything about Helletta. I’ll win this festival and protect them, no matter what."
The table fell silent as Gelvin stormed out of the room, calling for Helletta and Ella to follow him. Quentin watched him leave, his expression unreadable, but the tension in the air remained thick.
Quentin stood frozen for a moment, watching as Gelvin marched out of the dining hall with Ella and Helletta trailing behind him. He had never seen Gelvin act with such defiance, and the display left him more puzzled than angry. Gelvin's sudden outburst, his fierce declaration—it wasn’t like him at all.
Gelnar and Gerrit were quick to follow, both exchanging brief glances of farewell to their father. Gelnar, with her usual calm, paused just long enough to murmur to Galvas that she would be leaving for her own home. “The children have been asking to see me,” she said. Galvas, ever the doting father, smiled warmly.
“Of course, bring them by soon,” he replied.
Gelnar nodded before vanishing into the hallway. Gerrit, who had remained relatively silent throughout dinner, gave a brief, awkward wave to his father and disappeared just as quickly, retreating to his quarters without needing to say a word. Galvas understood his children well enough, and he waved him off with a casual motion, though the gesture was laden with affection.
Now alone, Quentin turned to Galvas, still standing by the table. He gestured vaguely in the direction where Gelvin had stormed off. “Is that what they call the Whytid curse?” he asked, half-jokingly. His lips formed the semblance of a smile, but there was an edge to it.
Galvas responded with a shrug, his expression softening into one of quiet amusement. “Who knows?” he said, his voice light. He took a seat at the table, his movements unhurried as if the tension from moments ago hadn’t existed at all. “Gelvin’s always looked up to you, you know.”
Quentin’s smirk faded. He took his seat, his fingers tapping idly at the edge of his plate. “He shouldn’t,” Quentin muttered. His voice was low, but the weight of his words hung between them. “I’m not worth admiring.”
Galvas studied Quentin for a moment before replying. “I disagree,” he said, his tone kind but firm. “In fact, I look up to you, Quentin.”
Quentin’s hand stilled, his fingers no longer tapping. He didn’t respond right away, instead opting to poke at the remnants of his meal. The silence stretched, but there was no awkwardness in it.
Galvas had always been able to make even the heaviest conversations feel light, effortless. Quentin respected that about him, even if he didn’t understand it.
As Galvas leaned back in his chair, he finally spoke again, this time more softly, almost as if the words were meant only for Quentin. “You know what you need to do.”
Quentin’s gaze flicked up, locking with Galvas’s for a moment before he looked away again. He wasn’t sure why those words struck him the way they did, but they did. Quentin gave a curt nod, signaling the end of the conversation, and Galvas, perceptive as ever, didn’t push further.
Back in the training room, Gelvin’s mood had become manic. The simmering anger that had fueled his outburst at dinner was now driving his actions as he commanded Helletta to practice siphoning her soul essence again. “Do it!” he barked, pacing in frustration. “You have to get this right!”
Helletta, already exhausted from the day’s intense training, tried her best, closing her eyes and attempting to focus. But the weight of fatigue dragged at her mind, and the frustration in Gelvin’s voice only made it harder to concentrate. Her attempts faltered, and once again, no essence emerged.
Ella, watching from the side, finally snapped. “Gelvin, stop!” she yelled, stepping between him and Helletta. Her voice was sharp, and her eyes flashed with anger. “She’s tired, and you’re being too harsh!”
Gelvin turned to her, his expression wild with desperation. “We don’t have time! She has to master this, or we’re finished!”
“I don’t care!” Ella shot back, her voice rising. “I don’t like this side of you. If you keep acting like this, we’ll break off this arrangement, and you can go into the festival on your own!”
The words hit Gelvin like a slap, and for a brief moment, the fire in his eyes dimmed. He hadn’t realized how far he’d pushed. He was about to respond, to apologize, when a voice spoke from the doorway.
“Well, well, how the mighty have fallen.”
Quentin leaned against the frame, his arms crossed as he surveyed the scene before him with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. Gelvin, Ella, and Helletta all turned toward him, startled by his sudden appearance.
“What do you want, Quentin?” Gelvin asked, his voice tired, though the anger still simmered beneath the surface.
Quentin raised a hand in mock surrender. “I’m not here to fight,” he said, his tone casual. “I came to offer some advice.”
Both Ella and Helletta exchanged wary glances, unsure of what to make of this sudden change in Quentin’s demeanor. Gelvin, however, remained on edge, his eyes narrowing as he watched his brother approach.
Quentin ignored the tension, stepping further into the room. “If Helletta is as strong as you claim, then the problem with siphoning her soul essence is probably tied to her mental clarity,” he said, his voice calm but firm.
Ella frowned. “What do you mean?”
Gelvin, who had finally calmed enough to think clearly, answered for him. “Mental clarity is usually needed for weaving and the more complex arts, but soul essence itself is tied to the mind. If someone’s essence is chaotic, it requires a greater degree of mental focus to tap into it.”
Quentin nodded. “Exactly. For someone like Helletta, if her soul essence is vast and chaotic, her mind won’t be able to focus properly to siphon it. It’s rare, but it happens.”
Helletta blinked, unsure of how to feel. Was there something wrong with her? Ella, always perceptive, could see the doubt creeping into her friend’s eyes.
“But that’s just one theory,” Quentin added, his voice practical and detached. “There are still plenty of other paths for someone like her. Entangled weapons are out, sure, but hunter weapons or living weapons might suit her. She could even have talent in beast taming. The point is, her path to power may not be conventional.”
Gelvin’s eyes widened. “You’re saying there’s hope?”
Quentin smirked. “Maybe. But I have a proposal. I’ll train both of them—Helletta and Ella—but only for one day. An intensive day of training. If I find any potential worth developing, you can continue with them for the festival. But if I find nothing, you call the whole thing off.”
Gelvin was taken aback by the offer. Quentin had never shown interest in helping before, not like this. “Why would you do that?” he asked, suspicion creeping into his voice.
Quentin shrugged, his smirk fading into something softer. “Out of respect for your Father,” he said simply. “And because I don’t want to see you fall apart like him.”
The unexpected gentleness in Quentin’s voice silenced Gelvin’s doubts. For a moment, there was a flicker of understanding between them—an unspoken agreement. Quentin turned to leave, but before he could disappear into the hall, Gelvin called after him.
“Thank you.”
Quentin paused, glancing back over his shoulder. His expression softened, but only slightly. “Get some rest, Gelvin,” he said, his voice almost kind. “And maybe think about seeing the forger for Helletta’s weapon. You might be surprised.”
With that, Quentin was gone, leaving the three of them standing in stunned silence.
Gelvin turned back to Helletta and Ella, his expression conflicted but calm. “I think… we’ll stop for tonight.”
“I’m a bit tired” He said. “Sorry for all the fuss”.