“Welcome, brother,” Busa said early in the morning, unbothered by his brother’s unannounced and unscheduled entry but instead calling for his servants to bring in tea.

  “I hear you’ve replaced Yachit as the head of your core servants,” he said shortly after the customary pleasantries. “Why?”

  “I was not aware that I had to report the composition of my teams to you, second brother,” was the reply, his voice strained, though he tried to put on a smile.

  “Don’t be silly, Busa,” he said, dismissing his brother’s displeasure before taking a sip of the tea that had been placed before them. “If we are to resist Garo, we’ll need to be at our best. We can’t do that with that greenhorn child at the helm. I’ve also been instructing her in the sword—she's a natural talent.”

  The chastised brother took the rebuke philosophically and merely sipped his tea, taking a long while to produce an answer.

  “If we are to resist him, brother?”

  The question was met with a sudden, deadly silence.

  Elder and younger brothers glared at each other, though the latter tried to hide his agitation behind calm sips of the warm leaf juice.

  “Do you understand what’s going on?” he asked him severely. “Don’t tell me you’re throwing another tantrum."

  The words made the third young master scowl, and he suggested that his brother should leave.

  “Sigh.”

  With a wave of his palm, Busa was lifted off the ground and stuck high against a wall.

  “I’ve been more than patient enough with you, but it seems that your only interest is to test that patience.”

  “Resorting to force after not getting your way," Busa said with a triumphant smile, seemingly unaware that he was almost literally in the palm of his brother’s hand. “Colour me surprised, Danjuma.”

  “One doesn’t reason with a child as they do with an adult,” he said simply. “I’m not going to go round in circles just to satisfy your juvenile wants. You’ll listen to me, and you’ll do it before I really lose my temper and change it for you.”

  “That’s your problem; you think I’m afraid of you.”

  “That’s your problem; you think you aren’t. Look at you shake like a leaf.”

  Busa couldn’t deny the truth of his words – who wouldn’t fear this power?

  “Fair enough.”

  It only took a thought to replace the overpowered young scion in his seat. Someone just arriving would have no idea of the intensity of the disagreement here.

  “I’m sorry I had to use such methods,” he apologised, running his hand across his brow. “I just wanted you to see reason.”

  Busa smiled and threw a parchment across the table to his brother.

  “I can see just fine.”

  Danjuma read the document he had been handed quickly and then looked at his brother like he had grown three extra heads in the time it took him to finish.

  “You’re mad!”

  "Very."

  The second son meant to strike out again but thought better of it – every forceful action of his so far had been met with more resistance rather than less.

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  “Do you hate me this much?” He asked finally, a sad smile blooming on his face, such that even his younger brother’s steely resolve softened.

  It was hard to truly hate one’s flesh and blood. Even in times of legitimate feuds. How much harder when they had grown close to one another and never had an altercation that could not be construed as regular sibling rivalry?

  Do you hate me this much?

  The question was disarming.

  Still, there was ice in the eyes of the third young master, and it quenched the fire of familiarity with extreme prejudice.

  “Yes!”

  He had spoken the word taxingly, as though it hurt him as much to say it as for the object to hear it—and it did hurt to hear it.

  “Why?”

  “I grow stifled beneath your shadow.”

  “So you want to turn yourself into a slave?! Will that make you happy? Do you even understand what it is you’re doing—what you’re giving up? Think for once in your life!”

  “I have thought!” was the reply.

  He was on his feet now, half leaning over the desk that separated them.

  He turned away and looked at the map behind him.

  “All I’ve done is think… for years.” He struggled to get all his words out.

  “You dare… You dare walk into my study and presume to dictate to me how to run my servants.”

  He ran his hand through his hair and turned back to his brother.

  “You don’t care whether or not I become a slave; you’re just enraged that I’m not your slave... I won’t be controlled.”

  “You think Garo will treat you differently?” The usual music of this young master’s voice was nowhere to be found, and his question was asked in a spiritless monotone, like a man in a daze.

  “He already does.”

  “You think you’ll hand yourself over to him and he won’t control you?”

  Busa shook his head at this.

  “I knew you wouldn’t understand.”

  “Make me understand, then. You’re not making any sense.”

  In the many years the brothers had lived together, he had never known his older brother to cry. He therefore took the moistness of his cheek as some sort of visual illusion and turned away so as not to find out the truth or falsehood of this guess.

  “I’m weaker than you,” he said candidly. “I’m nothing next to you… And I never will be. This is a truth that I’ve long since known and have scarcely complained about. It’s the way of this world, after all.”

  “Despite this, all I’ve ever wanted was for you to look at me like an equal. You can’t, though; you don’t see anyone weaker than you as a real person, just a puppet… I’m tired of strings.”

  “What you propose won’t fix anything,” he said simply, not denying the words that had cut through his heart. "You're just trading puppeteers.”

  “This is my choice. Garo has called me out, and I’ll call his bluff. Whatever happens, I’ll have been the one who bet it all.”

  “Is such a bet worth your life?”

  There was no answer to this, but the meaning was clear.

  Friends.

  The concept had remained abstract to him until a few days ago.

  No, even now it remained only half-formed, like a gossamer dream, threatening to break apart should he stir even a little.

  “Are all friends this good?” he asked under his breath with a complex smile.

  "No," was her proud reply, her perfect set of teeth flashing as she did. “I’m the best.”

  “Of that there is no doubt, young mistress.”

  “Is that all you need?” she asked, not for the first time, looking at the pile in front of him.

  They were currently in a large building at the periphery of the compound that served as the workshop. The castle was situated on a hill and commanded the flow of a small stream which cut across the fields and irrigated them and also served as the water supply for this workshop called the Crafts Manor.

  Every noble compound had such installations so as to ensure maximum output from whatever land they occupied and to reduce reliance on other clans or races. There were, of course, limits to this self-reliance, and trade was inevitable, but industry was always a plus, no matter how limited. Something like the Crafts Manor couldn’t produce anything like the stirring mechanisms of airships or the minute and complex arrays of certain Mystic Armaments, but it was good enough for basic weaponry.

  Elijah assured her that the resources here were more than enough.

  Red crystals were thrown into the fuel chamber of the great black furnace in one of the levels of the manor, and the pair watched as it was incrementally heated.

  “I still think you’d be better off waiting indoors, young mistress,” he insisted after a while.

  “Nonsense,” she said stubbornly, shaking her head as she did. “I’ve already told you about my curiosity when it comes to you Lycans. Besides, as someone who is used to making her own weapons, this will only expand my horizons.”

  Elijah was piqued at this and went into his usual overblown praise of his gracious host.

  “It’s not that big a deal,” she insisted. “I only worked on the main arrays.”

  “Isn’t that the difficult part?” he asked. He was naturally unfamiliar with array technology, as he could not use mana.

  “Hmm,” she said, turning to one of the staff in the corner, “go fetch me Feathercloud.”

  “Here,” she said, the weapon in her hand not long after the command was given, “I worked on this.”

  “Very impressive,” he replied, having no idea what it was he was looking at besides lines and shapes.

  “Do you really know nothing about arrays?”

  “I know a little about the arrays used in Red Governors, but that’s out of personal curiosity.”

  “Oh,” she said, brightening up. “Why didn’t you say so? It’s the same basic principle with some tweaks.”