CHAPTER 39: WHISPERS IN THE YARD

Soren staggered through the barracks door, each step a negotiation between pain and gravity. His right eye had swollen nearly shut, and the taste of copper lingered on his split lip.

Kaelor Varas had spent the afternoon teaching him exactly how much he didn’t know about swordplay, primarily by beating it into him with methodical precision.

The usual evening chatter died as he entered. Dozens of eyes tracked his progress across the room, cataloging each bruise, each bloodstain, each unsteady step. The silence had weight, pressing against his skin like a physical thing.

He made it to his cot before anyone spoke.

"By the Eight," Dane whistled low, his massive frame casting a shadow over Soren. "Did you fall down the mountain, or did someone push you?"

Soren eased himself onto the thin mattress, his ribs protesting every movement. "Training," he managed, the word scraping his dry throat.

"Training?" Dane’s eyebrows shot up. "With who? We were all in the main yard all day. You weren’t there."

The question hung in the air, drawing attention from the surrounding bunks. Soren felt the shift in the room’s atmosphere, curiosity hardening into something sharper, more dangerous.

"Kaelor Varas," he said simply, reaching for his water skin. No point lying when the truth would come out anyway.

The name rippled through the barracks. Whispers bloomed in its wake, spreading from bunk to bunk like fire through dry brush.

"—the Swordmaster himself—"

"—skipping regular drills for private lessons—"

"—must have someone important backing him—"

Tavren’s voice cut through the murmurs, deliberately loud. "Well, well. Looks like the gutter rat found himself a noble patron." His sneer was audible even from across the room. "Wonder what he did to earn that kind of attention."

A few laughs followed, mean-spirited and brittle. Soren ignored them, focusing instead on unlacing his boots with fingers that felt twice their normal size. The shard pulsed warm against his chest, Valenna’s presence alert but silent.

Dane settled his bulk onto the adjacent cot, the wood frame creaking in protest. "So," he said, keeping his voice low, "you’re getting special treatment."

It wasn’t a question. Soren looked up, meeting the big recruit’s steady gaze. Dane’s face revealed nothing, no envy, no judgment, just calm assessment.

"Not the kind anyone would want," Soren replied, gesturing to his battered face. "Kaelor doesn’t believe in going easy."

"That’s not the point," Dane said. His massive hands rested on his knees, knuckles scarred from years of fighting. "Special is special, even if it hurts. The others see it. They don’t like it."

Soren glanced around the barracks. Most recruits were pretending not to watch, but their attention was palpable. Tavren had gathered his usual crowd, their heads bent together in whispered conversation that occasionally broke into laughter when they looked his way.

"They can like it or not," Soren said, falling back on the mask he’d perfected in Nordhav’s alleys, face blank, eyes flat, voice even. "Doesn’t change anything."

Dane shrugged his massive shoulders. "Maybe not. But it changes how they see you. How they’ll treat you." He paused, then added, "Just watch your back. Some of them might decide to give you their own special training."

Before Soren could respond, the barracks door swung open with a bang that silenced all conversation. Veyr Velrane strode in, his mismatched hair catching the lamplight, his stride confident and unhurried.

The young noble wore riding clothes, though Soren doubted he’d been anywhere near a horse. His boots were too clean, his cheeks too free of wind-burn.

Every recruit scrambled to their feet, all except Soren, whose body flatly refused the command to stand. Veyr waved them down with a casual flick of his wrist.

"At ease," he said, his voice carrying the easy authority of someone who’d never had to raise it to be heard. His eyes scanned the room before settling on Soren. "Ah, there you are! I’ve been looking for you."

He crossed to Soren’s cot, ignoring the stares that followed him. Up close, his smile had an edge of genuine amusement, as if Soren’s battered condition was somehow entertaining.

"I see Kaelor didn’t kill you," Veyr observed, perching on the edge of Dane’s vacated cot. "That’s promising. Most don’t survive their first day with him."

The barracks had gone deathly quiet. Every recruit stood frozen, hardly daring to breathe as the heir to House Velrane chatted casually with the lowest-born among them.

"He tried his best," Soren replied, keeping his voice neutral despite the pain radiating from what felt like every inch of his body.

Veyr laughed, the sound bright and sharp in the silence. "I’m sure he did! But talent always shows, doesn’t it?" He glanced around at the watching recruits, his smile widening. "That’s why Kaelor asked for him specifically, you know. Said he saw something worth sharpening."

The lie was so smooth Soren almost believed it himself. Kaelor hadn’t asked for him, Veyr had arranged the whole thing, probably with his father’s reluctant blessing. But the falsehood served its purpose. Soren could almost feel the atmosphere in the barracks shifting, jealousy tempered by a new uncertainty.

If the fearsome Swordmaster had personally selected Soren, perhaps there was more to the gutter rat than they’d assumed.

"It’s good for all of you, really," Veyr continued, addressing the room at large now. "House Velrane needs strong blades. When one of your own rises, it reflects well on everyone." His smile never wavered, but his eyes were calculating as they swept across the faces watching him. "We all benefit when talent is recognized, don’t we?"

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the barracks, though Soren noted that Tavren and his closest allies remained silent, their expressions sullen.

Veyr clapped his hands together once, the sound sharp as a whip crack. "Excellent! I’m glad that’s settled." He rose, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from his immaculate coat. "Thorne, you’ll continue with Kaelor tomorrow. The rest of you, carry on with your regular training. Make us proud."

With that, he strode out as suddenly as he’d arrived, leaving a wake of whispers and speculative glances behind him.

Dane returned to his cot, settling his bulk down with a grunt. "Well," he said quietly, "that’s one way to handle it."

Soren nodded, feeling the weight of dozens of recalculating stares. Veyr’s intervention had been skillful, not denying the special treatment, but reframing it as something that benefited everyone. A rising tide lifts all boats, even if some rise higher than others.

But not everyone would buy it. Already, he could see the recruits sorting themselves into camps, those who accepted Veyr’s explanation, those who resented it, and those who were still deciding which way to lean.

From the doorway where Veyr had exited, a shadow detached itself from the wall. Soren caught a glimpse of violet-black hair and the gleam of amethyst eyes as Ayren Velrane slipped away, a cold smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

The second son had been watching the entire exchange, Soren realized, perhaps had even orchestrated it.

One test layered atop another, like nested blades.

The evening passed in a blur of pain and whispered conversations. Soren cleaned his wounds as best he could, choking down the stale bread and hard cheese that passed for dinner.

Most recruits gave him a wide berth, uncertain how to treat him after Veyr’s visit. A few nodded in his direction, a newfound respect in their eyes. Others glared when they thought he wasn’t looking.

He was wrapping a bandage around his split knuckles when a shadow fell across his cot. Looking up, he found Kaelen, the mage, watching him with undisguised amusement.

"Still in one piece, I see," Kaelen observed, his robes rustling softly as he moved closer. "Kaelor must be getting soft in his old age."

Soren tied off the bandage, wincing as the rough cloth caught on raw skin. "Or he’s saving the worst for tomorrow."

"Probably," the mage agreed cheerfully. "He likes to break recruits down methodically. Like carving a statue...first the rough shape, then the details." He studied Soren’s battered face with clinical interest. "Most give up after the first day. The pain becomes... unbearable."

"I’ve had worse," Soren said, though in truth he couldn’t remember when.

Kaelen’s eyebrows rose slightly. "Have you? Interesting." He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "What did he teach you today? Besides how to bleed efficiently."

The question caught Soren off guard. He considered lying, then decided against it. The mage would know.

"That I telegraph my moves," he admitted. "That I fight to survive each strike instead of planning ahead."

Kaelen nodded, satisfaction flickering across his features. "Good lessons. Hard to learn, harder to unlearn." He straightened, his gaze suddenly distant. "Pain is an excellent teacher, but a dangerous master. Remember that when he has you on the ground tomorrow."

With that cryptic advice, the mage turned and left, his robes swirling around his ankles like smoke. Soren watched him go, wondering if the conversation had been another test, another assessment from yet another angle.

The barracks gradually settled into night routine. Lamps were extinguished one by one, plunging the room into darkness broken only by the occasional glow of a dying ember in the hearth.

Soren lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling he couldn’t see, every heartbeat pulsing through his bruised body.

Around him, the sounds of sleep filled the darkness, snores, mumbled words, the creak of wooden frames as bodies shifted. But beneath those familiar noises ran an undercurrent of whispers, too low to make out individual words but clear enough to recognize the topic.

Him. His sudden rise. His special training. His unknown past.

The shard warmed against his chest, Valenna’s presence stirring in his mind.

’They sharpen you with words now, not just steel,’ she whispered, her voice clear despite the darkness. ’Listen to them. The blade that fears the whetstone stays dull.’

’I’m not afraid of them,’ Soren thought back.

’No,’ she agreed. ’But being sharpened by steel is simple, little knife. Being sharpened by envy is far deadlier. Steel only cuts the body. Envy cuts deeper...it finds the cracks in your spirit and widens them until you shatter from within.’

Soren shifted, trying to find a position that didn’t press on some new bruise or cut. ’So what do I do?’

’Use it,’ came the reply, cold and certain. ’Let their jealousy make them careless. Let their whispers reveal their alliances. Every blade turned against you shows you where the real threats lie.’

The logic was sound, but it offered little comfort. Soren closed his eyes, feeling the ache in his bones settle into something deeper, more permanent.

Tomorrow would bring more pain from Kaelor’s relentless training. More tests from the Velrane brothers. More whispers from recruits who saw him as either a threat or an opportunity.

He thought of Dane’s warning about watching his back. In Nordhav’s alleys, threats came from the front, direct, honest in their violence. Here, they would come wrapped in smiles and false camaraderie, poison disguised as wine.