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So it was, and so it will be.

The herald announced the four Knight-Commanders’ presence, as if none in the crowd had registered their emergence. Of the South, Ser Rubeus Valentin, as fiery as flame and as passionate as war. For all that his temper had cost him, he was undeniably decorated, thrumming with an energy that infected those who he called forth. The pale-skinned youth recognized those names, recalled those duels. Shows of strength and courage, displays of domineering arrogance and pride. The Lions had hunted well, and yet…

Of the West, Prince Manegold Aelious Grayle, singularly exceptional now that he had finally found a way to wear his beard well. The esteemed Lady Rhymisain no doubt had a hand in his current appearance; if his brother had his way, he’d be sporting the unruly mane of his youth instead. Rossweine smiled, but neither prince made eye contact. It went without saying that they would not be united within this house. Rather, the heirs to recognizable swords art schools were called up, those who would take best to Manegold’s philosophies, those who already held enough respect for the Art of the Zeroth Tempo to lay their lives on the line to master it. The Stag’s horns would grow greater, and yet…

Of the North, Caius Ward, a veteran hailing from darker times, the histories written of him doing little to prove or disprove the legends that enticed. There was much to be said about how old men deserved fear and respect in a profession dominated by the youthful, but beyond even that, the wizened Knight-Commander remained in his position through wiles and brilliance, through experience and accomplishments that allowed him to bend the ear of the Lord Marshall and the Knight King. And those he called forth had similar aptitude for a cerebral brilliance. Those who had displayed feats of uncommon magic, those who had outthought rather than outfought their betters, those with the spark of ingenuity shining in their lives or in their duel, who had a bright future in the universities yet sought to make that brilliance shine upon the tip of a blade instead. Those individuals flocked. The Griffin flew ever higher, and yet…

The Absolute that was the Marquis’s firstborn daughter. The exile from Alexandria who bore Grayle’s Gift. [i]Two[/i] Aura users of reputable households. All left behind. All, undoubtedly, to be brought into the fold of Gilbert Tervellan, of the Eastern House. Of the Black Wolves. Of the lowborn noble who made himself a Knight-Commander’s foundation through politics and sophistry.

So that was what it was.

After squads made out of he detritus left behind in the duels, the thirteenth was called, and one by one, exceptional names arose. His own went without saying, for his dearest brother’s intentions were remarkably transparent, and those who served directly beneath him were the dual Aura users, individuals marked by an infamy that did not match their blessed stars. Two migrants from Valefor were named next, of juxtaposed capabilities judging by their own performances upon the sandy pits. And of course, they had chosen to name the ladies immediately after, with a speed that did not befit the weight of their inheritance. A Julian Baker was the last to be called, and the rest in the crowd had nothing more to do but to shuffle away. There would be next year, perhaps. One would be pressed to impress, after all, in a generation so filled with stars.

Tervellan spoke, but Rossweine’s gaze turned towards those in his squad. He had watched the duels, had watched their fights. Up close, it was impossible to see it all, but at a distance, the entirety of the four-squared arena had been granted to him. Easy then, to memorize. Easy then, to recall. And though he didn’t find it to be anything particularly necessary, harmonious relationships made for a tranquil daily life. The bedrock for it would have to be set now, then. A breath. A tilting of his chin. The sunlight reflected in his eyes, setting a dazzling sheen to turquoise eyes. Instilling confidence now, drawing from the mindscape of a mirror-still ocean. Just an introduction, just a few comments. He will condescend as necessary for one of his mixed birth.

[b]“Signar Wayland,”[/b] the princeling spoke, approaching with an even stride. [b]“Though it is a shame that your [i]instrument[/i] did not allow you to overcome the Porterchelles’ scion, it was a splendid display, nonetheless. That such talent was recognized gladdens my heart, and it would be a pleasure to hear of how such creations are craft at a more appropriate time.”[/b] Statements meant to draw attention, yet not meant to encourage conversation. [b]“And Julian Baker,”[/b] Rossweine continued, favouring the dimunitive swordsman with a small smile, [b]“Your ingenuity and ferocity no doubt caught the eye of our esteemed Knight-Commander, who is rumored to possess that same vigor for ascension. May our training together improve such impassioned qualities and...perhaps, grant you a blade sharper than a fistful of sand.”[/b] It was easier enough to confirm up close. They were fundamentally good people. A good base to graft a severed branch.

He found the one he was looking for in but a moment. Nathaniel and Kai possessed silhouettes too distinct to be mistaken for anyone else. Liese and Dot were working well in creating an alliance of [i]the[/i] most blessed individuals amongst all the cadets. Process of elimination occurred in an instant, and with a voice that was soft yet travelled well, Rossweine beckoned his target over.

[b]“Zenshin Ferros, if you would?”[/b]

Hooded cloak or not, the last member of the squad, and the least illustrious at that, was still one that the Black Wolf’s Knight-Commander sought to include in this squad of exceptionals. Perhaps it was just luck, or perhaps there was something more to him, but regardless, Rossweine didn’t need his mood to be affected by the dread and depression of another. So he clasped his hand upon the dark-skinned youth’s shoulder. A firm grip to affirm both their substance, and a firm gaze to settle his nerves. Practiced as always, for what royal could not inspire?

[b]“You have stood against a superior foe in pursuit of your dream, and you have returned here after, despite the humiliation and scorn of those fellows, in pursuit of that same dream. That takes courage that those others, secured by lineage and tuition, do not possess. So stand taller, knowing that a Knight’s aptitude is found in an unbreakable will, rather than the inconstant nature of their flesh and the mutable quality of their skills.”[/b]

No smile for this occasion. Rather, an edict that rolled together into encouragement.

[b]“Your foe, on that occasion, was Edwin Giraud, now assigned to the Crimson Lions. Hone yourself. When the tournament comes, I trust that you will prove his evaluation of your merit false.”[/b]

And with the Lothwren prodigy as a squadmate, that would happen without a doubt, if only Zenshin could stomach it. If not?

Well, Rossweine’s words were only worth the weight of the air used to vocalize them.

Though that brought up the other issue. He'd have to speak to Nathaniel soon too, before the esteemed Lothwren prodigy sought to use a duel for honor as an excuse to avenge himself...but of course, one [i]ought[/i] to have expected Nathaniel to approach with immediacy. With the swordsman's approach, Rossweine released his grip and turned his attention upon the well-spoken youth. It was stifling, of course, but nothing more or less than what he had experienced at his siblings' social functions, and in the mirror-calm of the princeling's gaze, there was nothing to hint at ulterior motivations behind the words that flowed so easily out of Nathaniel.

Four, perhaps, who could be considered fundamentally good and reasonable. Though this one's face colored for a brief moment, not through embarrassment, but through shame. One didn't need any particularly grand insight to tell why, especially when the object of his shame was a mere two steps away.

[b]"At ease, Nathaniel,"[/b] Rossweine said, reflecting some of the warmth that exuded from his demeanor. [b]"I will not demand this of you, but within the territory of the Knights, you may speak of me as merely your squad captain. As the second seat of the thirteenth squad, however, I hope you will be able to exceed the expectations I have of you, and that you will not hold a grudge towards Julian for teaching you a lesson that did not end in your death. Though we may all aspire to be Knights and to uphold our oaths, Grayle's enemies have no such aspirations."[/b]

This was perhaps getting a bit heavy. He didn't usually talk for so long. Was he really going to do this for everyone else, without even a drop of wine in sight?

[b]"But you are correct. We ought to settle in the barracks and shake off the weight of ceremony. Could I trouble you, then, with inviting Liese and Dot to join us?"[/b]