The Winds of Tepr

Untitled Part 51

The room is thick with the scent of incense and freshly inked scrolls, a quiet tension lingering in the air between Kuan and Yile as they sit across from each other, their attention seemingly focused on the documents spread before them. Hunan watches from the far end of the table, his gaze flicking between the two boys, both absorbed in their work. He doesn't speak, but the weight of his presence is felt in every deliberate stroke of their brushes, in every careful word they commit to paper.

To the outside eye, they appear as model students, diligent and composed. Kuan's posture is rigid, precise, his brushstrokes graceful but firm as he drafts a response to a missive from the southern provinces. Across from him, Yile works with equal dedication, his expression calm and unbothered, though a slight curve at the corner of his lips betrays what is going in his mind.

In public, they are brothers. In private, they are rivals.

Hunan has seen the signs for years—the small, yet perceptible ways they compete, the glances exchanged when one outdoes the other, the subtle tension that simmers just beneath the surface. He encourages it. The world is not kind to those who grow soft in their comfort. Competition sharpens the mind, hardens the will. Only the strongest will rise to lead, and Hunan knows that neither of these boys will relent without a fight.

Yile finishes first, his brush lifting from the parchment with a final, delicate flick. He glances up, catching Hunan's eye before he looks toward Kuan, his expression unreadable but satisfied. "I'm done, father," he says, voice smooth and respectful.

Kuan stiffens, not outwardly, but Hunan notices the pause in his brushstrokes. He's behind—again. Yile never misses a chance to be first, and today is no exception. Kuan suppresses the bitterness that rises in his chest, but the ink feels heavier in his hand now, the weight of failure pressing against his ribs.

Hunan approaches, leaning over Yile's shoulder to inspect the document. "Impressive," he murmurs, eyes scanning the elegant lines of text. "You've captured the tone perfectly."

Kuan grinds his teeth, forcing himself to focus on the words before him. It's flawless work, just as Hunan has taught him, but that doesn't matter if it isn't done first.

"Thank you, father," Yile replies, his voice thick with satisfaction. He stands, leaving the table with a quiet grace that makes Kuan bristle. His steps are slow, deliberate, and as he passes Kuan, he lowers his voice to a whisper. "Try not to keep him waiting."

The words are like a needle under Kuan's skin, and he grips his brush tighter, the ink blotting on the parchment. Hunan's gaze shifts to him now, his expression unreadable, but Kuan can feel the silent pressure. He breathes through the frustration, finishing his work with hurried strokes before placing his brush down. Too late. The edge belongs to Yile—again.

Kuan stands, bowing slightly as he presents the finished work. Hunan takes the scroll, his eyes skimming over it quickly. A flicker of approval, but no praise. Not like the praise Yile received.

"It's well done," Hunan says, but his tone is flat, as though it's expected rather than earned. He hands the scroll back without further comment, and Kuan feels the familiar sting of being good, but not good enough.

Yile lingers in the doorway, watching with an innocent expression, though Kuan knows better. He can feel Yile's eyes on him, measuring, judging, reveling in another small victory. Since Yile's arrival, Kuan's place as Hunan's heir—once assured—has become uncertain. Hunan hasn't spoken of it since, and Kuan understands that nothing is promised anymore. His future is a battlefield now, and every day is a fight to prove his worth, a fight Yile seems more adept at winning.