Who The Hell Is Main Character?

[House Severan.]

Beyond the main residence, the land opened into a wide clearing surrounded by old hedges and tall trees.

The grass had been cut recently, but the earth beneath it remained uneven in places. A narrow stone path crossed the clearing and disappeared into the trees.

There were no guards here, or any servants.

No cameras had been installed around this section of the estate, and anyone who wished to come this far had to cross several hundred meters of open land before reaching the clearing.

A man stood at its edge. He wore a dark coat that reached below his waist, the sleeves were folded neatly around his wrists.

An old brass watch rested beneath one cuff.

It’s white face yellowed with age and a thin crack running across the glass.

He checked the time. Six seconds past the hour.

His left hand remained still while his right lifted a leather glove toward the falcon perched on it.

The bird wore a dark hood over its head, he removed it with two fingers, and the falcon immediately spread its wings.

It pushed away from his arm, crossed the clearing at low height, and then climbed above the hedges.

The man just simply watched it fly, his eyes followed its movement without any change in his posture.

He pressed the stem of the watch, and the second hand began moving.

Roan Severan. Eldest of all Severan branch heirs, with a combat grade classification of 2.

A branch heir of that level was already trusted with matters most members of the family would never be allowed to approach.

His eyes remained on the falcon as footsteps approached him from behind.

"Sir." The man stopped several steps away.

"Rafferty received a communication from the academy," the man spoke.

"About?" Roan did not turn to face the face the man, yet.

"It’s about Young Master Marcellus. It seems Rafe Pretoria has recovered from his injuries," the man spoke.

Roan’s fingers stopped against the watch.

"And how might this be connected to Marcellus?" he asked.

"Marcellus...confirmed his intervention to Rafferty," the man replied.

"You’re saying that someone who has lived all his life as a mere support, ’healed’ the opponent he had injured beyond recovery?" Roan turned to face Rafferty.

"Yes, Sir."

"Is it verified? The information," he asked.

"There had been no news from our source in the academy, but we will have confirmed intelligence within hours," The man spoke.

"Then verify the information. He may very well lie for all I care, and I wouldn’t be surprised about it either," Roan replied.

"I spent years making sure that boy never revealed more of himself than the family needed to know, and now that he enters the academy, the little bird suddenly has wings now," Roan scoffed.

"Maybe the last warning just wasn’t enough for him," the man suggested.

"Could be. Weak or not, he’s a Severan either way," Roan said.

"I think we might need to have a word with Bishops," he added.

"I’ll arrange for a meeting," The man bowed and left with silent and even steps.

Roan remained where he was, the clearing had become quiet again, with only the movement of the branches breaking the stillness.

He looked toward the sky, the falcon was nowhere in sight.

A few seconds passed.

Then a dark shape appeared above the hedges. It descended in a wide circle before folding its wings and dropping toward the clearing. Roan extended his gloved wrist and the bird landed.

It’s talons settled against the leather, and its wings folded neatly against its body.

Roan removed the hood from his coat and placed it over the bird’s head. Only then did look at his watch again.

The hands had moved several minutes past the hour.

He closed the cracked glass cover with his thumb.

"Troublesome boy." He turned and walked toward the estate.

.-.-.-.-.-.

*Thwap!*

Marcellus saw the a4 size envelope dropped on the glass table in the living room, and then looked at Maeve.

"What’s this?" he asked.

"Forensic analysis report, the one you asked for before arriving here at IAA, Young Master," Maeve replied and dropped onto the sofa next to him.

"Ah, the two women that were found dead in my room?" He remembered and picked up the white envelope.

Marcellus tore the envelope’s seal with his thumb, and pulled out a thick stack of printed sheets, photographs clipped behind them.

"Took them long enough," he muttered, flipping past the summary page.

Maeve leaned over slightly, then thought better of it and looked away instead.

"You know you can browse social media when you know blood and gore makes you faint," Marcellus said.

"I was going to do exactly that," she hesitated, and took out her phone.

Marcellus held the first photo up to the light, then set it down and picked up the wound-pattern diagrams behind it, a full body outline with dozens of small red marks, numbered and cross-referenced measurements.

"Hm," he tapped one line of text. "Depth variance under point two millimeters across forty one separate lacerations. There was no hesitation, overlap or restart points, which is odd,"

"What does that mean?" Maeve asked.

"A blade even in a trained hand leaves different angles in cuts when wrist tires, forty one cuts with less than point two mm of variance isn’t a knife or thread but all of the cuts were made at the exact same time," he said.

"Exact same time?" Maeve furrowed her brows.

"As in...altogether?" she asked.

Marcellus nodded, and kept reading.

He turned the page around so Maeve could see and carefully placed his hand over the photograph beneath it.

"Particulate analysis. Silicate composition, aggregate binder, trace iron oxide. That’s concrete, building grade, not anything a weapon would be made from." He said.

"It’s strange because it’s inside all the wounds, and nowhere else in the room," he set the page down and picked up spatter analysis.

"Concentration decreases the further you get from each cut, like something was pulled directly out of the wall and put back, hilarious," he said.

"..." Maeve just looked at him as if he was mumbling random stuff.

"The droplet spacing here is gridded..." he murmured flipping through pages.

"Weird, but well nothing’s weird in this world, the wall and ceiling material reshaped at a resolution fine enough to mimic a thread and they were used as a weapon, which probably created a horrific visual in the room stunning the ladies before they faced their demise, figures, or, it’s the most probable deduction at least," he said.

"Wait...earth type with that level of manipulation cannot be any branch family," Maeve chimed in.

"You have someone in mind?" he asked.

"The Bishops obviously. Their force control dwells into the very control of earth on an expansive level, to the point that they were able to mimic a thread type user from earthly structures," she leaned forward.

"My goodness, your admirers were after me before you were even with me? That is just another level of dedication," Marcellus scoffed.

"No, this is serious, why would Bishops be after you? And forget that part; this incident occurred inside the House Severan itself, and on it’s heir at that, this could lead to confrontations with the Bishop family---"

"Yes, but informing the house that Bishops ’might’ be involved could be such a dull move. Think about it, they can just fake a suspect," Marcellus said.

"I know, but informing the family gives a he-"

Marcellus flicked her forehead, and leaned back.

"Relax, would you. There’s no way people from House Severan are not involved in the incident. Informing the house will give the other party leverage, not secure our environment if that’s what you’re worrying about."

"Honestly, you need to adapt and think outside your job’s aspect too, you’re not working for House Severan, you’re working for me, and I don’t think anyone else besides the head of Severan family has authority that exceeds mine," Marcellus said.

Maeve remained quiet. She had heard him say similar things before, but never so directly. The words should have offended her but not anymore. Because she understood that there was no consistent version of him to adapt to.

"Then...what exactly do you want me to do?" She asked.

"The family can have its interests, I have mine. When the two conflict, I expect you to understand which one you need to weigh more." He said.

"But..." his usual smile returned. "You’re already way smarter than me when it comes to politics, I trust your decision,"

"...Oh..." She looked at him in daze.

’He certainly does not make me feel smarter,’ she thought.

"I understand---" she nodded. "Wait."

"What’re you going to do if you’re not informing the family?" she asked.

"That..." He scratched his cheek and squinted his eyes.

"I did not think about it yet," he concluded.

"..."

"That’s very strategic," she murmured.

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