For Syron, life in the Pecunia estate for the Forresters was… well, it was precisely the same in a multitude of ways. The main difference was perhaps that the entire staff was yet to be completely vetted for assassins, and everyone was fairly tense due to the rather over zealous nature of one of his Knights. After her impromptu waltz with her Young Master, Knight Kasumi was suddenly the most attentive and overprotective guardian Syron could possibly stand. He had only stayed one day and two nights within the mansion, and he was already prepared to illusion a few pillows stacked on top of each other to look like him so he could flee out of the nearest window.

The change took Syron by quite a bit of a shock, as she had been one of the Knights assigned to him the most for the past several months and hadn’t acted even close to this way in the past.

Perhaps… and maybe I’m over thinking this… she’s an assassin and she’s trying to kill me with annoyance.

Perhaps the issues were exasperated by the fact that Syron had largely been left to his own devices since he woke up in this world. Perhaps it was because he had been so playful and lenient with these young women that were just trying their hardest that he became a ‘little brother’ figure instead of ‘The Young Master’. Perhaps she fell in love with her ballgown and dance in front of the mansion’s staff like that was some sort of display to explain the new pecking order? It didn’t matter to Syron all that much.

She was in whatever room he was in, constantly asking if he was comfortable or if he needed anything. She poison-tested all of his meals in front of him, then looked at him with eyes that screamed ‘praise me!’ Those things were fine… ish. Annoying, but not incomprehensible. No, she had also taken it upon herself to try to ‘correct’ his wayward tendencies. Namely, she felt he should spend more time studying and less time playing his ‘silly games’. He was ‘clearly’ brilliant after all, since he could do rudimentary algebra at an age any modern child should reasonably be able to do it. He was wasting his time focusing on such trivialities when instead he could be learning more about governance.

Crap… she’s actually right about that last point. Doesn’t mean I want to hear about it. Perhaps the grown man in me is set in his ways…

As Syron sat in a spare bedroom he had quickly converted into an office with a desk and bookshelves, he was notified by a maid that a guest had arrived at the estate, requesting to meet with him. Since no one had visited him other than Beyeth, whom hadn’t attempted to visit again since the hedge maze debacle, he was intrigued enough to agree to meet them. Since his office was rather shabby, given that he had started using it earlier that afternoon and it didn’t have half of what it needed to function completely, he met them in a parlor on the first floor.

When the Knight stationed at the door to the parlor opened the door for him, he was greeted by a mousey little man with a sharp, almost triangular face. His light brown hair barely escaped the hood of his fiery red cloak and robes. The man smiled when Syron entered, though he could tell immediately that the man was far from happy for having to meet.

“A pleasure to meet you, sir. I am Syron Forrester. To what do I owe this honor?” Syron said with a smile, trying his best to sound both polite, but also overbearing. His mother seemed like she had a better understanding of his situation than him, so he was trying to follow through with her advice.

“Yes. I am Magister Friksul, Headmaster of Avia, the Royal Academy. I’ve come to help you enroll at the request of your mother.”

“Ah, then I appreciate your time and effort. What do you need of me?”

“I require only for you to prove that you are capable of performing a complete cycle, and to showcase your magic in a way that can clearly be seen. You are already accepted to the academy, but if you wish to undertake any classes focused on the magical arts, you must prove first you are worth teaching.” Magister Friksul continued, his voice all business.

“That shouldn’t be a problem, since I’ve been cycling pretty much nonstop for months. And there’s another cycle… and wait for it… another… Do you like playing Lordling's Gambit, Headmaster?”

Friksul was taken aback slightly by Syron’s words, both in the claim that he had been cycling nonstop for months, and in the random topic swap to a board game. Nonstop cycling results in greater power… but at the risk of a horribly convoluted magic channel. This tended to make one’s magic more cumbersome to utilize.

“I am certain you have, Lord Forrester. Hopefully you’ve taken the time to properly meditate and bend your magic channels back into proper shape.” The Magister replied with the faintest whiff of condescension.

Haaa… been here a day and I already got crap like this happening. Oh well, it’s a good opportunity to make a statement.

“As for Lordlings… of course I know how to play. Are you interested in children’s games, Lord Forrester?” He said, failing to completely hide his sneer. Instead of answering, Syron just caused a large hologram playing board to appear between them, complete with soldier-like pieces. Syron’s side was the Forrester green, while Friksul’s side was the same red as his robe. Though Friksul flinched and moved away from the magic for a moment, once he realized it was just an illusion he calmed down and moved closer to inspect it.

“As I am defending my home turf, I’ll allow you to go first. Just call out your moves. If you swipe at the images, I’m afraid they will likely disrupt and vanish. It’d be a pretty lame way to lose your own dudes, so swipe at your own risk.” Syron warned with a smile to a surprised Friksul. The red soldiers turned to the Magister as one and bowed deeply, other than the Lordling, whom only nodded his head. They then turned back towards the green soldiers and drew their weapons.

“It seems they are ready and willing to prove themselves, eh? Very well, I shall send the B7 infantryman to B6.”

“Oooo… like starting your game by freeing up a Magister huh? Makes sense, given your own position. I personally like to sweep the field with my Lordling, possibly for the same reason. There is just something liberating about being the most powerful piece on the board, you know?” Syron said meaningfully, eyeing the Magister’s face for any reactions. He stiffened only briefly before narrowing his eyes and pursing his lips.

Don’t dish it out if you can’t take it, nub.

“G2 to G3.” Syron said, mirroring the Magister’s previous move.

“I see you have chosen to keep your Lordling back and freed up a Magister instead. I admit I am surprised after your claim to enjoy having your representative piece do all the work himself. Though, it is also typical for ‘real’ Lordlings to let the ‘real’ Magisters do the heavy lifting. C8 to A6.” Friksul laughed condescendingly as he watched the pieces move by themselves.

“I thought it was only right to give you a proper handicap by using the weaker unit. It’s a game for children, as you said. I’m still a child, so it makes sense I would be better at it. F1 to A6.” Syron moved his own freed Magister unit to take Friksul’s. Above Syron’s head, he recreated the foggy oval from his competition from a few weeks prior. A nondescript man wearing an identical outfit to Friksul, but green, lifted a gnarled staff into the air and started glowing with power. Lines of green power shot from his staff and body and out of the oval. Then the scene vanished, showcasing a red-wearing copy of the nondescript man. He is picking his ear casually before looking up startled. Then he is brutally ripped apart by the green magic, his blood and viscera going everywhere like he was dropped in a blender. When the magic finishes, the green robe wearing magister walks onto the site of the carnage and crushes a gore-covered half-skull next to a pair of smoking boots and piles of red meat.

When the oval vanished, Syron looked over at Friksul to gauge his interest in Syron’s use of magic, and was pleased to see that Friksul’s face had drained of color.

Please… was that too gross to watch for a mighty magister like you? That wasn’t even half as gross as stuff you can watch on premium television.

“Gosh, that was brutal. Hopefully ‘real’ Magisters aren’t treated so cavalierly by ‘real’ Lordlings. It would be just too awful to be the poor Magister in that case, don’t you agree?” Syron asked, smiling sweetly.

“B8 to A6.” Friksul announced through gritted teeth. The same scene appeared again with the green magister standing over a patch of entrails. Then a mounted knight rode by and pierced his torso with a lance. The green magister’s body flopped like a ragdoll to the ground, rolling unnaturally from the force of the impact. The focus of the scene then zoomed in on the face of the green magister as he struggled to breathe but couldn’t with his destroyed chest cavity. He gurgled some blood and his eyes went still. Then the scene vanished.

“G1 to H3. Aren’t games fun? That poor Magister never stood a chance!” Syron said while laughing.

Friksul had gotten over his blood-shy behavior and gave a growl in consent. Realizing he was displaying too much emotion, he then looked Syron in the eyes and slowed his angered breathing.

“Quite. Though, a ‘real’ Magister would have never been caught completely unaware by a knight like that. The armor clanking and the hooves beating the ground would be heard from a kilometer away. Plenty of time to either escape or prepare a counter measure. Still though… your addition to this game is… shall we say… quaint? G8 to F6.”

“B1 to C3. True. Magisters are quite powerful because of their aptitudes, right? If only there was an aptitude that could be used to change how people perceive sound to counter that mounted Knight’s obvious weakness?”

“G7 to G6. It is commonly accepted that Magisters are more useful than knights when dealing with monsters, a more appropriate threat to deal with than regular people that knights and other lesser aptitudes are particularly effective against. These things and more you will learn at Avia.” Friksul’s full face sneer had returned.

“B2 to B3. I’m very excited to start my lessons. Be sure to tell my maid when and where I need to be to attend classes when you have finished indulging your curiosity of me. I imagine I have proven my powers as befitting receiving magical lectures?”

“Magical yes, you are sufficient… though your gamesmanship is a bit lacking. Do you only intend on mimicking my own moves? You will never win as a commander like that, Lord Forrester.”

“Oh, Headmaster. I seem to have misrepresented myself, as I am no commander. My mother, you see, deals with those situations herself when necessary. She wouldn’t bother with something like this, though.” Syron gestured to the board in front of him. Then the ‘Lady’ piece on his side removed their helmet and revealed Lady Forrester’s face. She grinned with sheer, unadulterated madness before all of the red pieces fell over at the same time, presumably dead.

“That is hardly a fair way to play, Lord Forrester…” Friksul muttered, sweat beading on his forehead.

“Well, that’s just the difference between ‘real’ and a game. It is hardly considered ‘unfair’ to fully utilize powers at my disposal. Close the door on your way out.”