You're late," Rowan said, not even looking up.
Taran kicked the office door shut behind him, holding two thick folders and a box of crescent-shaped pastries. "You're lucky I brought breakfast, you ungrateful tyrant."
Rowan cracked a smile and finally glanced up from his desk. "If those have powdered sugar, all is forgiven."
They sat across from each other, the candlelight low and warm. Rowan had taken to leaving the windows cracked. The scent of the pitch, of burned chalk and faint mana, drifted in with the morning.
"So," Rowan said, "give me good news. I could use some."
Taran grinned, flipping open the folder. "We've onboarded two new clients from the Ironroot and Verdant circuits. Not huge names, but reliable contracts. And one whisper from a Celestial development team."
Rowan's eyebrows lifted. "You serious?"
"Dead. Council's been sniffing around, but not pushing. The 'Elias fades from public view' strategy is working. They think you're planning a slow exit. Or you're scared. Either way, they're cautious."
Rowan leaned back. "If only they knew."
"Exactly." Taran popped a pastry in his mouth. "Also, we're getting requests for training glyphs. Not kits. Just design systems. That's new."
Rowan whistled. "Expansion into software. That was always your game."
Taran leaned forward. "And what about you? How's the academy?"
Rowan rubbed his eyes. "Falling apart. Held together by grit, spit, and a few kids with too much heart. Staff's half-competent, overworked, and outnumbered. Tactical facilities are nonexistent. I don't even have a functioning analyst."
Taran didn't flinch. "Then it's working."
"Working?"
"You're describing the forge, Rowan. Pressure, imperfection, and heat."
Rowan huffed a laugh. "I swear, if you start branding motivational tea—"
"Already filed the patent," Taran grinned. "You're doing fine. Better than fine. Just keep that match tomorrow tight. Deepvault's scouts will be watching."
Rowan nodded, more serious now. "They always are."
Taran leaned forward, more gently this time. "How are you, though? Really. With your dad, with everything."
Rowan's smile dropped. He looked away. "It's hard. I don't even know what 'okay' is supposed to look like anymore. I wake up in the middle of the night thinking I'm still Elias. Then I remember I'm not... and somehow, I feel like both of them are failing."
Taran nodded slowly. "I figured. But let me tell you something, Rowan Keir—whatever name you're wearing, you've never once let me down. Not when it counted."
Rowan let that sit between them for a long moment.
"I don't know what I'm building here," he muttered. "A home? A brand? A legacy? Some days I think I'm just trying to keep my father alive by proxy."
Taran's voice was quiet. "Then build something he'd be proud of. But make it yours, too. Because that's the only way it survives."
Rowan looked at him, for once truly seeing the years in Taran's face. The same man who once slept in alleys with him when he was running low on funds from growing the company, who once picked broken runes off trash heaps to make their first training brace model.
"I couldn't have done this without you," Rowan said.
Taran chuckled. "You'd have burned the world down and forged something better in the ashes. I just made sure you remembered to eat. And now, I'm making sure you remember to win."
They laughed together then—loud, real, exhausted. The kind of laugh you earn.
Rowan raised his cup in a mock toast. "To grit, pastries, and impossible odds."
Taran clinked his against it. "And to the bastard who made us believe it could work."
They drank.
And for a while, nothing else needed to be said.
The next night, Rowan stood behind his desk, smoothing out the cuffs of a sharp, dark coat. A decanter of honeyed amber rested on the sideboard, flanked by two crystal glasses. He adjusted the lighting spell in the corner for a warmer hue. The room smelled of wax and polished oak.
This was tradition.
The night before each home game, the visiting headmaster paid their respects. It was an old ritual, one no council ever formalized, yet all respected. No fanfare. No reporters. Just two leaders and a drink.
Rowan had been looking forward to it all day.
Until the knock came.
He opened the door to find a tall, impeccably dressed man with sleek silver-thread robes and a too-polished smile.
"Ah! Rowan Keir himself," the man said smoothly. "The resurrector of ruins, legend has it."
Rowan's smile faltered just a hair. "Auren Markel," he said. "Deepvault's prized tactician. Still playing three-midline box crushes in this day and age?"
Auren laughed as he stepped in. "Sharp tongue. I like that. Shall we drink, then?"
Rowan gestured to the chairs.
They sat. Glasses poured. Clinked.
"So," Auren began, swirling his drink. "First match as headmaster. Brave. Or foolish."
"Sometimes they rhyme," Rowan replied calmly.
"You know," Auren said, leaning forward, "I thought about going easy on you. I really did. But then I remembered... Redhollow isn't just broken. It's cursed."
Rowan blinked, but didn't speak.
Auren smiled wider. "Your father tried. Gods know he did. Good man. Terrible headmaster. Too much heart, not enough spine. And you—well, if you're half as sentimental, tomorrow will be a joyride."
Rowan took a slow sip of his drink. "Funny. You mistake quiet for softness. But I'm listening now. Carefully."
"To what?"
"To your arrogance. The same kind that leaves gaps in a compressed midline when flanked by asymmetrical press triggers."
Auren narrowed his eyes. "That was theory."
"That was your downfall."
A pause.
Then Auren laughed. "You're better at this than I thought. Still, you lack experience. The world's brutal out there."
"Good," Rowan said, setting down his glass. "Let it be brutal. That way, when Redhollow wins, there'll be no excuses."
"Wins? My dear Rowan, Redhollow's ceiling is a nice injury-free loss. And that's if your mana core doesn't implode under pressure."
Rowan leaned in, eyes locked.
"You came here expecting weakness. So I let you speak. I wanted to see how deep your rot goes. Now I know."
Auren smirked. "Still playing the underdog?"
"No," Rowan said. "Just playing. Which is more than I can say for you after tomorrow."
Auren stood, swirling the last of his drink. "Tradition fulfilled, then. Hospitality received."
Rowan nodded once. "Door's behind you."
"You'll lose."
"Then I'll lose fighting."
Auren walked out without another word.
Rowan stared at the fire for a long time.
Then whispered:
"Let's give them a reason to remember the name."