Chapter 62: Master’s Popularity
A full week had passed.
By then, Kyva had grown far more adept in the art of water manipulation. She stood at the heart of the stream, her feet steady against the current, both palms extended before her in careful concentration.
At her command, the water rose.
What had once taken her days of clumsy effort now answered with a certain reluctant grace.It had taken an entire week to reach even this modest mastery, but it was hers at last.
Her master, on the other hand, was not one to linger on small victories.
The minute she knew how to command the water, he had tasked her with something greater.
"Again," he instructed.
Kyva repositioned her stance, attempting to summon not merely a ribbon, but a small tide.
The water trembled, resisting her attempts, but then it yielded only slightly. A narrow portion lifted, wavering in the air like a fragile thread. It looked far from the surging mass she had been ordered to command.
Calhoun facepalmed at the result, but the young maiden was fascinated.
Almost without thinking, she began to toy with it, curling the stream upon itself. She twisted it into uneven, desired shapes until it broke and splashed unceremoniously.
Kyva froze, the cold droplets clinging to her face and skin.
"Focus," her master’s stern voice cut through her distraction.
Kyva drew her lips into a reluctant pout, though she straightened up.
She stood barefoot in the stream, the cool water slipping past her ankles, clear enough to reveal the pale stones beneath her feet. The current moved steadily, curling around her.
She had worn a simple, yet practical attire for the day’s training.
A sleeveless tunic of deep blue and muted ivory clung lightly to her form, bound at her waist with layered sashes that shifted with each motion. Dark trousers, loose enough for ease yet fitted at the calves, were damp at the hems from the stream. Strips of cloth, similar to the shade of her attire, wrapped her forearms.
Her long braid rested over one shoulder, its end damp, whilst it swayed lightly whenever she shifted her stance, a couple of strands falling at her face.
She had been training in this secluded stretch of land her master had found somewhere within the estate.
Her master, it seemed, possessed an almost unnatural devotion to discipline, tireless and wholly without mercy.
Her limbs ached in quiet protest. They had been at this since morning, the hours stretching long beneath the steady weight of his instruction. She seized trying any further, her shoulders slumping.
"Perhaps... I ought to rest and even take a quick nap, if only for a moment before attempting again," she said.
Beyond where she practiced, a worn pathway curved along the edges. Her master remained poised there, far enough to remain untouched by the water, but close enough to observe every detail.
"I am tired," Kyva admitted, turning around to face him.
"In the face of battle, you are not afforded the luxury of weariness," Calhoun replied. "Imagine, if you will, an army that chooses to rest in the midst of an invasion, there will be none left to rise again."
Kyva made her way out of the stream, unconvinced. At this rate, she might very well begin to grow muscles.
The image came unbidden as she saw herself, standing tall with defined arms and a firm stance.She was striking a heroic pose as though carved from legends.
...she would look impressive.
Perhaps even a little intimidating.
The silly thought pleased her more than it ought to.
"What occupies your mind now?"
Calhoun’s voice broke cleanly through her musing.
Kyva blinked, then waved her hand dramatically before her face, as though dispersing the very cloud of thoughts itself, and she stepped forward with renewed composure.
"It is time for my studies with Liora and Selene," she declared. "This disciple of yours seeks further knowledge in the water arts. I plan to bury myself in studying the different ways I can command a small tide. Selene has a few ideas she’s willing to share with the rest of us."
She lifted her chin ever so slightly, a quiet note of insistence threading through her tone.
"Surely, you will not refuse me this time?"
For some reason she could not quite name, Kyva found herself growing increasingly at ease in the presence of her mysterious master, so much so that she no longer hesitated to exchange words with him.
It was a stark contrast to their first encounter.
Then, she had only witnessed his foreboding presence before the convocation hall. His aura had almost suffocated her too. Now, that same presence lingered, but it had softened, or perhaps it was she who had changed.
She was still respectful, as he was, after all, her master, but offering him her respect did not mean silencing herself either. Nor did it forbid judgment, particularly now that she had reached a most definite conclusion regarding the man.
He was a libertine.
He had to be.
A man such as he could not possibly have lived without leaving a trail of broken hearts in his wake.
In fact, the past week alone had been insufferable for Kyva. She never knew the extent of her master’s popularity until recently. Apparently, they had been waiting for him to settle down before swarming in like flies.
Maidens came in steady procession, bearing gifts of varying extravagance. Flowers arrived in abundance, followed closely by sweets, some delicately prepared, and others so ornate they seemed more sculpture than confection. Yet it was not only the women that went this far to please him; the men, too, sought his favor with equal fervor, whilst hoping he’d accept them as his disciples.
One brought rare tea.
Another, an entire arrangement of scrolls.
And one particularly ambitious soul had presented a chair.
It wasn’t a stool or a folding seat, but a proper carved chair, as though her master might at any moment require a throne upon which to receive his admirers.
Even her friends had fallen victim to his charms.
On one memorable occasion, a full dinner set had been delivered, complete with polished utensils and covered dishes, as if he were expected to dine amidst the spectacle.
And through it all, her master remained entirely composed.
He accepted each offering with the same calm indifference, as though such displays were neither excessive nor unusual, but simply a part of daily life.
As though he had expected it.
The matter grew so unruly that an official announcement had to be made, urging restraint and decorum.
Though, to Kyva’s great dissatisfaction, it achieved only limited success.
The sole redeeming aspect of the ordeal lay elsewhere.
Her master, in what she could only describe as a rare moment of reason, permitted her to keep the more practical gifts—particularly the rare herbs that had been presented to him from the Bloom Quarter personally. He relinquished them with little thought, as though they held no real value to him, and seemed almost... inclined to share.
It was, admittedly, the only decision of his she found agreeable.
But... there was something else that bothered her.
He behaved as though he had known her long before their meeting at the Convocation Hall.
The familiarity was subtle, but undeniable. From the ease with which he addressed her, to the absence of distance he so carefully maintained with others.
Kyva found it... peculiar.
For a man who held himself with such composed detachment before the world, he was altogether different in her presence, as though her existence was neither new nor surprising to him.
...Or perhaps she was simply reading too much into it.
"You may go."
The words cut cleanly through her thoughts, drawing her sharply back to the present.
"What?"
Calhoun regarded her, one brow lifting ever so slightly. "I have been telling you that you may go. Or have you reconsidered?"
Kyva blinked, then quickly shook her head, relief flickering across her features.
"No," she said at once. "I shall go and get ready."
She dipped into a proper bow before turning on her heel and hurrying off, her steps just a touch too quick to be called composed.
Calhoun watched her retreating figure in silence, his gaze lingering longer than necessary.
What, precisely, had occupied her thoughts so completely?
His expression shifted, faintly.
Could it be... someone?
Someone she favored, perhaps.
The notion settled unpleasantly.
He exhaled softly and dismissed it with a slight shake of his head.
"Impossible," he murmured.
But... a part of him could not quite let it rest.
The thought lingered, unwelcome and persistent.
Was there really someone?
It would explain her indifference logically, her refusal to linger, the ease with which she avoided his presence, as though he were of no particular importance at all.
He knew what he was, and what his lineage represented. His clan had never lacked admiration; attention came as naturally to them as breath.
To be overlooked, so plainly, so consistently, was... irregular.
There had to be a reason.
His gaze darkened the more it lingered.
If that reason proved to be another, then whatever stood in his way would simply have to be removed.
