ShadowBound: The Need For Power

Liam wrote as Mabel spoke.

Morale / information rhythm. Protected rest. Panic control. Rumor management. Morning/evening updates. Confirm missing/injured status when possible.

Mabel leaned slightly closer. "Also, responsibility rotation. Not just watches. If the same students always get the worst tasks, resentment builds. Some students will accept hard roles if they understand fairness. Others will look for favoritism the moment exhaustion touches them."

Liam added that beneath the first note.

Task fairness / rotate worst duties unless skill requirement prevents it. Explain exceptions.

"And one more," Mabel said.

Liam glanced up.

"Do not underestimate boredom."

He stared at her.

Mabel stared back.

After a moment, Liam said, "Boredom."

"Yes."

"In Eldervale."

"Yes."

"With threats, objectives, failing communication, unknown terrain, and possible death."

"Yes."

Liam looked at her as if she had personally insulted the idea of danger.

Mabel did not back down. "Not every hour will be an attack. If they spend long stretches waiting inside Veyrhold, tired but unable to rest properly, fear becomes boredom, boredom becomes stupidity, and stupidity becomes someone sneaking out to prove they are brave. You have dealt with students long enough to know this."

Liam paused.

Then his expression darkened faintly because he did know this.

"Mid-ranked idiots," he muttered.

"Exactly."

He wrote again.

Idle time = danger. Assign controlled tasks/training/maintenance. Prevent proving behavior.

Mabel watched him write, then nodded once. "That is what I would add."

Liam looked over the new section, then set the writing material down. "Useful."

"Such warmth."

"Do not get greedy."

"I would never."

"You would."

"I would."

Liam looked at the notes again, then at her. "Thank you."

Mabel’s eyes softened slightly. It was not surprise exactly, but the quiet acknowledgement of something said simply and meant directly. "You are welcome."

Liam stood from the desk. "I am going to wash."

"Try not to drown."

"In a washroom?"

"You have many talents."

He gave her a tired look and gathered a fresh pair of pants before disappearing into the washroom. Mabel remained in the room, her attention drifting back to the desk. She did not pry beyond the notes he had allowed her to read, but she did look over the phases one more time, mentally comparing them with what she knew of academy deployments, field command, and escort work. The boy denied leadership like it was a disease, yet he thought like someone who understood what broke groups from the inside. That was rare. Also deeply inconvenient, because he would rather die of stubbornness than admit it.

Minutes passed before Liam stepped out of the washroom.

He wore only the new pair of pants he had carried in with him, the towel draped over his head as he dried his hair with more force than gentleness. Water still clung faintly to his shoulders, and his damp hair fell forward in dark strands with faint red traces, longer than he liked and clearly determined to ruin his mood.

He crossed the room toward his wardrobe, still rubbing at his head, while Mabel remained near the desk and did not pay him much attention beyond noting his usual lack of concern with modesty around someone he trusted.

Then he started cursing at his hair.

Quietly at first.

Then less quietly.

"Useless thing," he muttered, dragging the towel down and trying to push the damp strands back. They fell forward again almost instantly. "Can’t even stay out of the way."

Mabel’s eyes moved toward him.

Liam grabbed a shirt and pulled it over his head, then had to shove his hair out from under the collar. "Air-wasting fossil of a problem."

"Your hair is not wasting air," Mabel said.

"It is wasting mine."

"That does not make sense."

"It does to me."

He tried to sweep the longer strands behind his ear. They slipped free almost immediately. His face went blank in the way it did when annoyance had gone so far that emotion abandoned him out of self-preservation.

Mabel watched him for another few seconds. "You can just cut it."

Liam looked at her.

"If it bothers you that much," she said, "get a barber. It is not much of a problem."

"I know."

"You do not want to."

"No."

"For a reason?"

"Yes."

Mabel waited.

Liam did not elaborate.

She gave a faint sigh through her nose. "Of course."

He turned back toward the small mirror near his wardrobe and tried once more to push his hair back. It did not cooperate. Mabel let him suffer through another attempt before speaking again.

"If you are not going to cut it," she said, "then at least tie it up. In battle, hair in your face is more than a nuisance. I know that from experience."

Liam stared at her reflection in the mirror. "We both know I tried to learn."

"I know."

"It was useless."

"It was clumsy."

"That is another word for useless."

"No, it is a word for untrained."

"Not really."

She waved off his reason with one hand. "Come here."

Liam turned slowly. "Why?"

"Because I am going to solve a problem you have decided is a personal curse."

"I did not decide that."

"You absolutely did."

He studied her for a moment, suspicion clear in his expression. Mabel stood near the chair beside his desk, one hand already dipping into a small pouch at her waist. She pulled out a simple black hair tie and held it between two fingers.

Liam’s eyes narrowed. "Why do you have that?"

"I have hair."

"You use yours already."

"I also have more than one hair tie because I am not helpless."

"That felt aimed."

"It was."

He stared at her a moment longer.

Mabel’s eyes remained calm. "Trust me and get closer."

Liam hesitated. Not because he did not trust her, but because anything involving his hair had recently become a source of unnecessary humiliation, and Mabel looked far too composed for someone about to witness it. Still, he walked toward her.

"Turn around," she said.

Liam paused.

"You can’t be serious."

"Turn around."

He looked like he wanted to argue, then decided the faster path to ending this was obedience. He turned, standing with his back to her while she stepped closer. Her hands moved to his hair carefully, gathering the damp strands with an ease that immediately irritated him because it made the thing look simple. She did not pull hard. She separated the longer portions at the back from the loose strands around his face, testing the length with her fingers.

"It is not long enough for anything too clean," she said. "But it is long enough to keep most of it out of your eyes."

"That is all I need."

"You say that like you will not complain about the rest."

"I will complain less."

"How wonderful."

She placed the hair tie in his hand. "Reach back and hold your hair."

Liam lifted both hands awkwardly.

"No," Mabel said immediately. "Lower. You are trying to strangle your own head."

"I am holding hair."

"You are declaring war on it."

"That is accurate."

She stepped closer, her hands covering his from behind. "Feel the movement. Do not think about it too much. Gather first. Twist lightly. Fold it in. Tie around once, then again, and pull only enough to hold. Not enough to rip your scalp off."

Liam let her guide his hands.

It was strange. The movement was simple when she directed it, but the coordination of fingers, hair, tie, and tension had always fallen apart when he tried alone. Mabel’s hands corrected the angle of his wrists, adjusted how much hair he held, and moved the tie through the proper loop. She shaped the result into a small, simple bun at the back of his head, leaving some shorter hair loose because there was no way to gather all of it properly yet. A few strands remained near his face, but not enough to fall irritatingly over his eyes.

"There," Mabel said. "Not elegant, but functional."

Liam stood still, feeling the unfamiliar lightness around his face.

Mabel stepped to the side. "Did you remember the movement of your hands?"

He considered it. "Mostly."

"Mostly."

"It was rough. You were holding them."

"Yes, because your hands were making poor choices." She reached up and undid the bun, letting his hair fall loose again. "Now replicate what you remember."

Liam looked down at the hair tie in his hand.

For a moment, he clearly expected failure. Then he reached back, gathered his hair, and tried to repeat the movement. Mabel watched closely but did not intervene. His first twist was too tight, and he adjusted it with a faint scowl. The second motion was smoother. He folded the gathered hair, looped the tie once, looped it again, and pulled with careful restraint.

The bun held.

Not perfectly.

But it held.

Liam blinked.

Mabel’s eyes warmed with amusement. "There. I suppose that was the only way to teach you. I should have thought of it sooner."

Liam turned toward the mirror.

He studied himself with open suspicion, as if expecting the reflection to betray him. The bun was simple and a bit rough, with some hair left loose at the back because the length was not quite enough for a cleaner tie. A few strands framed his face, but they were thinner and less invasive than before. Compared to the horrifying things he had once managed to create on his head, this was almost respectable.

He turned his head slightly.

"It is decent," he said.

"Of course it is."

Mabel crossed her arms. "You will need to practice until you can do it without thinking."

"I can do that."

"Good. Try not to turn it into a battle."

"It started as one."

"Only in your mind."

"Well the hair was winning."

"It was not."

"It was."

Mabel’s eyes curved again. "Then congratulations on your first victory against it."

Liam looked at her through the mirror, then turned fully. "Thank you. For the help."

"You already thanked me once today," she said. "Careful. This might become a habit."

"Unlikely."

"We’ll see."

Liam picked up his discarded towel and tossed it over the back of the chair, then grabbed his outer shirt properly, settling it over himself. With his hair finally out of his face, he looked slightly less irritated, though the effect was probably temporary. He glanced toward the desk once more, then toward the door.

"I am hungry," he said.

"Of course you are."

"I am leaving."

"I figured that much."

Liam walked toward the door, then paused with his hand near the handle. He looked back once, not at the notes this time, but at Mabel. "Do not rearrange anything."

"I would never disrespect your little commander scripture."

His eyes narrowed.

Mabel’s gaze remained plainly innocent.

"Do not call it that," he said.

"Of course."

"You will call it that again."

"I will try not to."

Liam sighed, opened the door, and stepped out into the hallway, leaving Mabel alone in the room with the notes, the quiet, and the faint satisfaction of having won two battles in one evening: one against Liam’s hair, and one against his refusal to admit he cared.

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