Cyrus of House Hourshift

The eldest legitimate son of House Hourshift, eighteen or nineteen, lean, with a sharp chin and pronounced brow ridges; beneath his grey academy robe, his cuffs are lined with the bronze hourglass motif of House Hourshift. He sits with his back straight and his gaze fixed forward, never reaching out to mingle with any of the new students—even the heirs of the inner-circle families keep at least one empty stool between themselves and him.

He is the frontrunner for the throne, and Roen's chief rival within the academy. He is not a villain; he simply believes that order must be upheld by the strong.

His routine is precise to the point of discomfort. What hour he rises, what hour he eats, what hour he trains—not a minute off; whichever stroke the academy bell is on, that is where he is. His year-mates say privately that a single day of watching him tells you what the whole of House Hourshift looks like.

That he does not approach the new students is not purely arrogance. In the Hourshift upbringing, approaching someone of your own accord is an act that requires a reason, and most of the time he has none.

Beneath the grey academy robe, his cuffs are lined with the bronze hourglass motif of his house. The motif only shows when he raises an arm, and he does not raise his arm often.

He is never late, and never early. The door opens and he is there, as though he had calculated exactly how long that stretch of corridor takes.

At the opening demonstration, he used the bronze crest of House Hourshift to hold a bronze ball suspended 1 inch above the ground, freezing time for 3 breaths. The whole thing was effortless—to him, this was merely the new students' first lesson.

What he didn't know was that in those very 3 breaths, across the plaza, the bronze clasp held against the chest of a nameless new student was quietly turning toward the patch of space he had stilled.

His routine is precise to the point of discomfort. The hour he rises, the hour he dines, the hour he drills—not a minute off; whichever stroke the Blacktower bell is on, that is where he is.

His year-mates say privately that a day of watching him tells you what the whole of House Hourshift looks like. They are not wrong—the family's discipline is to cut time into cells, and what fills each cell is decided in advance.

He sees nothing remarkable in it. Time is a manageable thing, and a man who cannot manage time will manage nothing afterwards.

The only thing that breaks his rhythm is waiting. He is poor at waiting; his fingers tap lightly on his knee, and the tapping keeps time too.

He does not approach any new student, and even the heirs of the inner circle sit at least one empty stool from him.

It is not all arrogance. Among the Hourshift precepts is one rule: until a man's position is established, do not let him close. Position meaning house, branch, and which side he will eventually stand on.

He sits with his back straight and his gaze forward, and does not look about while eating. Strung together the movements read as a wall, and the wall is built on purpose.

Beneath the academy's grey robe, his cuff is lined with House Hourshift's bronze hourglass. Only a corner of the pattern shows. How much shows has also been calculated.