CHAPTER 35: A KNIFE AT THE TABLE

The great hall doors closed with the finality of a tomb sealing, the last whisper of recruits fading into silence. The sound hung in the air for a moment, then dissolved like salt in water.

Soren’s presence lingered in the room like the memory of a wound, felt but no longer seen. The duel in the courtyard had changed something, shifted the balance in ways Callen Velrane clearly hadn’t anticipated.

Lord Callen sat motionless at the head of the long table, his goblet untouched before him. His eyes, cold and sharp as winter steel, flicked from son to son before settling on the mage.

The light from the high windows caught the silver in his ash-gray hair, making it gleam like polished armor.

"Explain," he said. The single word carried the weight of command that had bent a thousand men to his will over the decades.

Kaelen clasped his hands behind his back, his posture casual yet calculating. The sleeves of his robe still carried the faint scorch marks from the morning’s encounter.

"He should not have lasted three breaths," Kaelen said, his voice measured and precise. "Yet he read my illusions, and he cut through flame without flinching." He paused, letting the implications settle across the table. "That is not chance. It is... instinct. And instinct is dangerous."

Veyr leaned forward, seizing the moment. His mismatched hair, blonde and black streaks, caught the light as he moved, casting strange shadows across his eager face.

"That is why I want him," he said, words quick and sharp. "You saw it...no polish, no pretense. Just precision." His eyes gleamed with unconcealed hunger. "He belongs to us before another house takes notice."

Ayren Velrane sat opposite his brother, one elegant finger tracing the rim of his goblet. His midnight hair carried that distinctive violet sheen in the sunlight streaming through the windows. Where Veyr burned with obvious ambition, Ayren’s face remained a perfect mask, revealing nothing but what he chose to show.

"Or perhaps," Ayren said, his voice smooth and edged like glass, "he belongs to no one." His perfect smile never reached his amethyst eyes. "A gutter-born blade that cuts even flame? Intriguing, yes... but unpredictable." He tilted his head slightly, studying his father’s reaction. "What happens when it cuts the hand that wields it?"

He lifted his goblet, sipping as though savoring the thought.

"Still, every throne needs its dagger. Better ours than another’s."

Lord Callen’s fingers drummed once against the polished table, the only sign of his internal deliberation. His expression remained immobile as carved stone as he listened, weighing each word like a merchant assessing gold.

"He is a knife," Callen said finally, his words cutting without wasted breath. "Nothing more. And knives are easy to lose... or to turn."

He let the silence grow, filling the chamber like invisible smoke. The crackle of the hearth-fire was the only sound, punctuating the tension with occasional pops and hisses.

"Veyr, you may keep him close," Callen continued. "But the leash will not be yours alone." His gaze flicked between Kaelen and Ayren. "Both of you...will test him further. If he breaks, the problem ends itself. If he does not..."

A pause, deliberate as a blade drawn slowly from its sheath.

"Then perhaps this House gains a weapon no other dares hold."

The decision lingered in the chamber like smoke after a battle. Each son smiled for a different reason.

Veyr’s lips curved with satisfaction, the triumph of getting what he wanted.

Kaelen’s expression held only curiosity, the patient interest of a man who had seen too much to be easily surprised.

Ayren’s smile remained perfect and unchanged, revealing nothing of the schemes clearly unfolding behind those violet eyes.

And Callen showed nothing at all.

The family was unified only in one thing: Soren Thorne was no longer just a recruit.

He was now the knife on their table, and every man present wanted a hand on the hilt.

–

In the barracks that night, Soren sat on the edge of his cot, the rough wool blanket bunched beneath his fingers. The memory of the duel replayed in his mind, the heat of the flame against his skin, the weight of dozens of stares pressing down on him like physical things.

He flexed his bandaged hand, feeling the pull of blistered skin beneath Mira’s careful wrapping.

’They’re watching now,’ he thought, scanning the dim barracks where other recruits pretended not to stare. ’All of them.’

The shard pulsed against his chest, warmer than usual. Valenna’s presence hummed beneath his skin, alert and restless.

’Did I make a mistake?’ he asked her silently.

’No mistake,’ came her reply, cool and certain. ’But a choice that cannot be unmade. You are no longer invisible, little knife.’

A shadow fell across his cot. Soren looked up to find Dane looming over him, the big recruit’s face unreadable in the half-light.

"They’re saying you’ve got magic," Dane said without preamble, his voice pitched low enough that only Soren could hear. "That’s how you stood against Kaelen."

Soren met his gaze steadily. "And you believe that?"

Dane’s shoulders shifted in what might have been a shrug. "Doesn’t matter what I believe. Matters what they believe." He jerked his chin toward the far corner of the barracks where Tavren sat surrounded by his usual crowd, their heads bent together in whispered conversation.

"They’re drawing lines," Dane continued. "Picking sides. Those who think you’re worth following, those who think you need to be put down." He paused, his massive hands hanging loose at his sides. "Thought you should know."

Before Soren could respond, the barracks door swung open with a creak that silenced all conversation. A page entered, the same round-faced boy who had delivered Veyr’s message earlier. His eyes scanned the room before settling on Soren.

"Thorne," the boy called, his voice cracking slightly. "Lord Veyr requests your presence. Now."

The silence in the barracks deepened. Soren felt every eye turn toward him, a prickle of attention against his skin. He rose from his cot, careful to keep his movements unhurried.

"Thanks for the warning," he murmured to Dane as he passed.

The big recruit nodded once. "Watch your back."

Soren followed the page through corridors that grew progressively more ornate with each turn.

Tapestries replaced bare stone, their embroidered scenes depicting battles where House Velrane’s banners flew victorious over fallen enemies. The floor beneath his boots changed from packed earth to polished marble, each step echoing in the silence.

The page stopped before a set of carved doors and knocked twice. "He’s inside," the boy said, then scurried away before Soren could ask any questions.

The doors swung open, revealing a chamber unlike any Soren had seen in the estate. Books lined the walls from floor to ceiling, their leather spines gleaming in the light of oil lamps. Maps spread across tables, held down by crystal weights at each corner.

The air smelled of ink, old paper, and something sharper, some herbal concoction that made his nose tingle.

Veyr Velrane sat in a high-backed chair near the window, a book open in his lap. He didn’t look up when Soren entered, his mismatched hair falling across his forehead as he turned a page with deliberate slowness.

"Close the door," Veyr said, still not looking up.

Soren obeyed, letting the heavy door swing shut behind him. The sound seemed to seal him in, cutting off his retreat.

Veyr finally raised his head, his eyes finding Soren’s with unsettling directness. "You made quite an impression today," he said, marking his place in the book with a ribbon before setting it aside. "Not many recruits would have the courage...or the stupidity...to face Kaelen as you did."

The noble rose, moving to a side table where a decanter stood beside two glasses. He poured amber liquid into both, then offered one to Soren.

"Blackridge whiskey," he explained when Soren hesitated. "Consider it a reward for not dying in the courtyard."

Soren accepted the glass but didn’t drink. The liquid caught the lamplight, glowing like trapped fire. "I wasn’t trying to impress anyone," he said.

Veyr’s mouth curved in a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "And yet you did. My father included." He took a sip from his own glass, studying Soren over the rim. "He’s decided you’re worth keeping alive. For now."

The shard against Soren’s chest pulsed once, a warning flare of heat. Valenna’s voice whispered in his mind: ’Be careful. He offers a leash disguised as friendship.’

"What does that mean for me?" Soren asked, keeping his tone neutral.

Veyr moved to the window, looking out at the darkened courtyard below. "It means you’re no longer just another recruit. It means opportunities. Training. Access." He turned, fixing Soren with a penetrating stare. "It means you belong to House Velrane now. To me, specifically."

The words settled in the air between them, heavy with implication. Soren took a careful sip of the whiskey, letting the burn coat his throat as he considered his response.

"And if I don’t want to belong to anyone?" he asked.

Veyr laughed, the sound sharp and genuine. "Then you’re in the wrong place, Thorne. Everyone belongs to someone here." He set his glass down with a soft clink. "The question isn’t whether you serve, but how, and who, and what you get in return."

He crossed to one of the map tables, gesturing for Soren to join him. The parchment spread before them showed the northern territories, House Velrane’s lands marked in gold, surrounded by the colors of rival houses.

"Tomorrow you begin special training," Veyr said, tracing a finger along the border where Velrane gold met Kaldris blue.

"Kaelen will teach you to recognize and counter basic magic. My brother Ayren will instruct you in the politics of the Houses."

His finger stopped at a small mark on the map, a castle sitting at a strategic mountain pass. "And I will show you what it means to be the sword of House Velrane."

Soren studied the map, noting the careful detail, the tiny notations in a script too small to read easily. "Why me?" he asked, looking up to meet Veyr’s gaze. "There are dozens of recruits with better bloodlines."

"Bloodlines," Veyr scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. "Half the nobles in this kingdom can’t hold a sword without cutting themselves. You may be gutter-born, Thorne, but you have something they lack."

His eyes gleamed in the lamplight. "You have nothing to lose. That makes you dangerous. And I like dangerous things."

The shard warmed against Soren’s skin, Valenna’s presence sharpening with interest. ’He sees a weapon, not a person,’ she whispered. ’But weapons can choose their targets.’

Veyr watched him expectantly, waiting for a response. Soren knew this was a moment of decision, a line drawn that would shape everything that followed.

He thought of the courtyard, of the way the flames had parted before his blade. He thought of the whispers that followed him now, the lines being drawn among the recruits. He thought of how far he’d already come from the streets of Nordhav, and how much further he might go.

"When do we start?" he asked.

Veyr’s smile widened, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. "We already have."

The whiskey burned in Soren’s stomach, a small fire to match the one kindling in his chest. He was no longer just surviving. He was climbing.

And the view from the top, he suspected, would be worth the scars earned in the ascent.