We move on to chapter four, which will be divided into three parts. The chapter begins with POV from a different character than Ren and Kutho, so don't be alarmed by the change in characters.
In the previous part, Ren gave Kutho the strength to attain his first breach (superpowered mode) and he easily trounced the team of Strear and Delk. Then Ren, her brothers, and Kutho left the arena, with Ren trying hard to not feel proud of her victory.
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Chapter Four: Jesdam's Request
“Lord Rahto, if you could return to the manor, I have something that might be of some interest to you.”
His valet’s voice crackled through his earpiece. Rahto Tokaim sighed and twirled the plummer's tiller. The sleek, razor-winged craft dipped towards the rapids, so quickly it almost buried its nose into the gleaming rocks jutting from the river surface. But Rahto wouldn’t let that happen. He yanked on the tiller and the plummer shot into the air with so much momentum he was slammed against the seat.
“I’ll be there in a few minutes, Imit,” he said. “What is it?”
“I think it’s better if you see for yourself, my lord.”
“That doesn’t inspire much confidence in me, you know…” Rahto said. “I take this is bad news?”
“No, not quite,” Imit said. “You might even call it good.”
“Really, now?” Rahto said. He guided the plummer higher, until it skimmed the treetops. The river was a shining snake dividing the forest in half. Several hundred spans to the north, it plunged into a foaming white waterfall. Rahto had ridden the fall in a riverskimmer before: the experience had been exhilarating, but he had no desire to repeat it. He enjoyed brushes with danger and death, which was why he took out the plummer every day, but only when said danger was firmly under his control.
“Yes, my lord,” Imit said. “It has everything to do with your…talent search, you could say.”
“Really!” Rahto said again. For the first time, a thin vein of enthusiasm quivered inside him. He was still miffed that his plummer time had been interrupted, but he was willing to put that aside if he thought an interesting young talent had risen in the world of Mid Munera. And he trusted Imit’s word. If the valet said that a pair was worth checking out, then by damn Rahto would check them out. Imit had once been a prominent Mid Munera player himself, so he had a well-developed eye for talent.
“I’ll be there,” Rahto said. “Where’s Zurhayel?”
“Training, I believe.”
“Tell him to join me.”'
“I shall, my lord.”
A click announced Imit signing off. Rahto turned a dial on the dashboard, revving the plummer’s skystone to its full power. The tiller throbbed under his hands, responding to the sudden surge of power. Rahto seized it and shot off in a straight line towards the gleaming spire in the distance. Today was a clear day, so Rahto could see all the way to the top of the Spire, which was adorned with a Munera stadium at which the annual City Championship was held. It was barely visible as a white smudge perched on the needlepoint tip.
Rahto tugged the tiller and the plummer tilted upward. Hundreds of Wings, which bore platforms ranging from a few square spans to five city blocks in size, branched off from the Spire, making it resemble an enormous crystalline tree. Rahto’s manor was located on one of the highest Wings, and he was wealthy and influential enough to have a platform all to himself.
He pulled on his goggles and pressed a button on the dashboard. The plummer’s shield ward fell, exposing to his body to the constant gusts at these heights. Strands of dark brown hair blew in his face; he shook his head to clear his vision. Whistling a hymn to the wind god Ravaanasa, he nudged the plummer into following the contours of the wind. Rahto would never tell anyone, but he worshipped nothing more than the wind—the wind which bore his tiny plummer aloft, the wind that snapped and tugged at his clothes like dozens of invisible hands, the wind that caressed him like a lover. In the wind, for at least a few minutes, he could be himself. Not anybody’s son or any Household’s master, but just Rahto.
When he leveled with his own platform, he returned the plummer to a horizontal position and flew towards the shield ward surrounding the platform, which both prevented falls and blocked the wind. “This is Rahto,” he said into his earpiece. “Kindly do open the ward.”
The magicians in the control tower obliged, and the ward fizzed and crackled as a small oval opening—just wide enough to fit a plummer—spread over its shimmering surface. Rahto accelerated, shooting forward into his manor proper.
It felt strange inside the shield, where the only movement of the air was the artificial tailwind created by his craft. If Rahto alone had been residing in the manor, he’d have done without a ward, but he knew that most people did not want to live in a place constantly scoured by hundred-mile gusts. He flew above the smoothly manicured grounds, heading to the private chamber located at the top of the west-facing tower.
Rahto slid the plummer into a graceful landing on the chamber’s plummer dock, which protruded beneath the window like a balcony. He turned the switch that powered down the skystone, and the machine whirred as the magic bled out of its systems. Before sliding open the glass door, Rahto patted the plummer’s shiny black flank and whispered, “Don’t worry, I won’t be gone long.”
He straightened his collar as he entered the small, tastefully furnished chamber. It was the least he could do, since his appearance was otherwise hopeless: in a baggy flight jumpsuit, and with wind-tousled hair, he looked less like a Household Head and more like a common pilot. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with glowing cinnamon-hued skin and black-rimmed gray eyes. The feeds called him handsome, which Rahto supposed might be true.
His valet Imit bent over a desk at which seven screens played various recorded feeds, all of Munera battles. Rahto’s macor, Zurhayel, stood at the edge of the desk, watching the flickering images with his usual silent detachment.
“Well, I’m back,” Rahto said. “What did you want to show me again?”
“My lord, welcome back,” Imit said. He was an old man, lined and graying, but his body was still well-toned beneath his black servant’s tunic. “You returned in record time.”
“You just caught my attention is all,” Rahto said dryly. “If you meant what I think you meant.”
“Master,” Zurhayel said, inclining his head in Rahto’s direction. A lock of sleek black hair slid loose from where he’d tucked it behind a pointed ear; Rahto resisted the urge to tuck it back in place. “How was your flight?”
“Pretty good,” Rahto said. “But short.”
“Look at this,” Imit said, indicating the center-most screen. Rahto folded his arms and examined it.
The image quality was grainy, so it must have come from a low-quality camset. Rahto barely made out a dingy indoor arena in which a battle was occurring. The master on one side was tall, the other tiny. Only one macor seemed to be on the field, a hulking giant crouched over an enormous crack in the ground.
“Can you zoom in a little and touch up the quality?” Rahto said. “I can’t quite tell what’s going on.”
Imit obliged, while Zurhayel said, “Master, this battle was recorded earlier this morning in the Munera Center in the Garment District.”
“Wait,” Rahto said. “The Garment District? You’re sure?”
“Don’t trust me, my lord?” Imit pointed to a sequence of numbers in the corner of the screen. “If you don’t, you can always search for that camset stamp in the Arc. It’ll definitely match up to the Garment District.”
“Oh, I won’t have to go through all that effort,” Rahto said. “I trust you. Now, what do we have here…”
He leaned closer. Now that the camset was tighter on the scene, he could better see what was happening. The tall opponent was a young man dressed like a caricature of a gutter dandy. Rahto wondered if he was in costume; he refused to believe that anyone could unironically wear such clothes. The other was a girl in a plain tunic and skirt, curled in a fetal position on the floor. She must be a newcomer. The first thing any semi-experienced master learned was to control their pain.
“Who are these people? Whatever happens has got to be special, otherwise you’re wasting my time with footage from Garment, of all places.”
“That’s Delk, son of Corsan, champion of the Garment District,” said Imit. “And this is Ren, daughter of Ilen, and as far as we can tell, this is her first battle. The macor is Delk’s. A havel registered as ‘Strear.’”
“Where’s the girl’s macor?” said Rahto.
He got his answer when Strear reached into the crack and dragged something out by the neck—no, someone. A male macor with a head of gleaming golden hair. Rahto’s eyes narrowed.
“That’s a watara macor. I didn’t know anyone in the Bowl had access to those, and if they do, there’s no way they can afford one.’
“Keep watching,” Imit said.
Rahto did. He stumbled back when the macor began to glow with a rich golden light. Whirling around, he locked eyes with Zurhayel, who gazed back impassively. “He’s breaching,” Rahto said.
Zurhayel nodded.
“What is this macor registered as?” Rahto demanded. On the screen, the macor was standing on the ground, looking more bestial than before. “He can’t be the girl’s. He must be a runaway…”
“The macor is, as far as we can tell, unregistered,” Imit said.
“What,” Rahto didn’t ask so much as say.
“If you’ll look closely at him,” Zurhayel said, “you’ll see that his aspect is rather lion-like, and his moves feral. Clearly untrained. I would hazard a guess that he is a wild Icim, from one of the Ifali tribes.” He spat the word like an insult.
“What…” Rahto said again. He breathed in deeply, once, twice, forcing down the emotions swirling in the pit of his stomach. No, he mustn’t let them overwhelm him…he must stay in control. Must analyze the situation carefully, from every angle, before jumping to conclusions.
“An unregistered wild macor,” Imit said. “Never thought I would see the day.”
Rahto finally felt confident enough to put together a sentence. “So this macor…this is his first official Munera battle. And he attained his first breach.”
“That would appear to be the case, my lord,” Imit said.
“Ah.” Rahto exhaled and unclenched his hands from fists. His palms were slick with sweat. “Ah…well…”
It would be best not to leap to conclusions, but the logical conclusion to this puzzle was staring him right in his face. An opportunity he must not waste. It seemed too good to be true.
“Master…?” said Zurhayel, looking at him with something approaching concern. “What will you do?”
“It’s obvious,” Rahto said, as a small smile flitted across his face. He owed himself at least that satisfaction. “We must watch this girl—Ren, is it?—and her macor carefully from here on now. Don’t make any sudden moves. Watch and wait. Soon, when the opportunity arises, we’ll seize hold of it. And we won’t let go. Understood?”
His servant and his macor dipped into brief bows, and Rahto dismissed them with a brief wave of his hand. Imit left without a word, but Zurhayel threw Rahto a glance over his shoulder.
“I’ll be with you shortly,” Rahto said. “Until then…”
Zurhayel nodded and left. Rahto clutched the edges of the desk until his knuckles turned white, and leaned close to the screen. He gazed upon the golden-haired, golden-skinned macor, and then at the little dark girl, and he gave in to his urges. A high, wild laugh rose to the ceiling of the chamber, a laugh that thanks to the room’s soundproofing ward, no one would ever hear. No one but him.
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Don't be shy; go ahead and review!
I haven't much to say but praise, again. I love it! I adore it! 
You are damn well talented and just like your Linked Worlds, I am in love. You cannot stop writing these as I will have to unleash my Kutho powers on you and they will be painful. I haven't much else to say but just give you praise. I fell pretty darn useless.