Two peas of a pod.

Different lights flickered within Kallen's eyes, like distant storms clashing in the depths of his mind. Emotions of bitterness, frustration, defiance and many more, churned like disco lights in his gaze.

The turbulence lingered for a moment, then dissipated, leaving behind only a single, unwavering ember-burning passion.

He inhaled deeply, steadying himself, then exhaled.

"I'm fine."

His voice was flat and unremarkable, but carried an undeniable weight behind it. A quiet resolve, heavy as iron.

Atticus smiled in response, his expression warm and encouraging.

"Good. I'll just show you some really good stuff if you can't keep up. Hmm?"

His voice was smooth, coaxing, dripping with an almost brotherly concern. But beneath it lay a subtle challenge, a bait wrapped in silk.

"I'm fine, don't worry," Kallen replied, his tone steady.

Atticus gave an approving nod. "Alright then. Shooting a moving target is an entirely different game. It's not just about the hand-eye coordination; you have to think ahead, calculate every variable before the arrow even leaves the bow."

Without hesitation, he drew his bow, fingers moving with effortless grace. Arrows blurred through the air, each one finding its mark: the temples of the shifting dummies without fail.

His movements were seamless, almost playful, as if the bow was merely an extension of his will.

Then he raised the stakes. Two arrows at once, fired with relentless speed and precision, striking two different targets in perfect sync. The five-meter range fell in seconds. Then ten. Then twenty.

At the twenty-meter mark, Kallen's arrows followed suit. Each shot traced the exact same trajectory as Atticus', striking the same spots like an eerie afterimage.

But unlike Atticus, who loosed two arrows at once, Kallen fired them one at a time—yet each one landed precisely a second after Atticus'.

_'Impossible.'_

Atticus' pupils dilated, a flicker of astonishment breaking through his controlled exterior.

_'This level of skill… This level of flow and calculation.'

His heart pounded. _'Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.'_

In less than twenty seconds, the twenty-meter mark was conquered. But when Atticus moved on to fifty, Kallen tried to follow, only for his arrows to fall short. Exactly as Atticus had predicted.

The failure stung. Kallen's jaw clenched, his grip on the bow tightening until his knuckles turned white.

Atticus halted, stepping forward. "You should rest." His voice was gentle, his hands lowering Kallen's trembling arms.

Kallen was panting now, his chest rising and falling sharply, eyes burning with defiance and frustration. While archery might not be as physically taxing as sword play, the vascular and mental drain was high.

He inhaled deeply, forcing the anger down.

"Okay… I'll see you later," he muttered before turning away, departing with ragged breath.

Atticus watched him go, his lips still with it's signature small curl. Amusement danced in his gaze, but beneath it, was a hint of pity, but mostly entertainment.

'You can't break so easily, little brother. The face of the Patriarch shouldn't belong to a weak-willed man.'

Atticus' gaze lingered on Kallen's retreating figure, sharp and calculating.

This cousin of his was worth every ounce of attention. A monstrous genius, exceptionally skilled, a master of combat, frighteningly intelligent. His only flaw? Experience. But even that was beginning to take shape.

The snobbish, cold little prince wouldn't have given him the time of day before. This wasn't the first time Atticus had tried to approach him... far from it.

But back then, Kallen would ignore him with the arrogance befitting royalty, acting as if Atticus was nothing more than another shadow in his periphery.

That had changed.

A slow grin stretched across Atticus' face, his usual charismatic charm curving into something utterly cynical.

"Don't worry. Both you and the Crimson family will be safe in my hands." He muttered lightly.

---

Kallen walked with a sluggish, dejected gait, his entire demeanor the perfect image of a boy drowning in turmoil.

His shoulders were slumped, breaths uneven, and fists clenched just tightly enough to suggest frustration without outright rage.

To anyone watching, he was a child weighed down by his own inadequacy, broken by the harsh reality of his limitations.

But the moment he slipped out of sight, the illusion shattered.

His posture straightened in an instant, the defeated slump erased as if it had never existed. His breathing steadied, deep and controlled, each inhale and exhale a quiet testament to his discipline.

The vulnerability drained from his face, replaced by an aloof, almost glacial indifference.

His eyes, like striking, reflective crimson pools; were utterly vacant, reflecting nothing but the cold clarity of a mind untouched by sentiment.

When one looked into them, they wouldn't find depth, nor turmoil, nor even a hint of what lay beneath. Instead, they would see only a reflection of themselves.

They say the eyes are the windows to the soul.

But as for Kallen's? They might as well be mirrors to yours.

"He's truly deserving of his praise," Kallen mused, his expression unreadable as his mind dissected every detail of their exchange.

"A sharp mind for his age… there are things he has yet to learn still. One day, he might cross the wrong person, someone who won't tolerate his arrogance.

"Someone who will kill him without hesitation. That pride of his needs tempering."

If anyone could hear his thoughts at this moment, they would be struck dumb, and perhaps even rendered catatonic from sheer disbelief.

Kallen Crimson. Praising someone?

Even worse; calling someone else arrogant?

Claiming another might offend the wrong person?

It would be enough to make them question the very fabric of reality.

Because Kallen was pride incarnate . His self-worth wasn't something cultivated through effort or shaped by his achievements. No! It was ingrained in his very being, an innate superiority that had been fostered from birth.

At least that was what they thought.

Everything was just the persona he decided to wear, as that was the perfectly normal character, the son of a Patriarch was supposed to have.

Others might call it arrogance, but Kallen never saw it that way. In his eyes, he wasn't boasting; he was merely playing his game.

Atticus on the other hand... In that brief interaction, Kallen had seen through him entirely; his strengths, his weaknesses, the subtle cracks beneath his charisma, and largely his inexperience.

As a child, he was already much of a genius, his only problem being that he was just too inexperienced. Such a flaw was easy for someone like Kallen to catch on.

And the thing about highly intelligent people was that intelligence often bred a dangerous kind of pride, one that could be manipulated in the right hands.

An experienced person would discover that Kallen's reaction to his hidden jab was largely exaggerated... Infact, it was completely false.

First was the barely noticeable twitch of his eye. In that situation, it could be explained as him trying his best to not show any reaction, which was understandable considering he had to keep face as the son of the Patriarch.

But what about the gloom, the clench of fists that turned his knuckles white, the slightly irrational actions that came after?

Those were not things someone who was trying to calm and act unaffected would display. And if Atticus was not full of himself, he would have caught on to that.

Kallen had envisioned countless ways he could break him. To shatter his mind, to reduce him to nothing more than a broken child writhing in the agony of his own overconfidence, while they were in that field.

But he had chosen otherwise... It wasn't time yet, nor was it necessary.

And more importantly, he now saw him as a valuable piece, worth keeping on the board. His role in the plans Kallen had for the future, would be hard to replace.