CHAPTER 40: BLOOD IN THE MESS HALL

The mess hall was a battlefield fought with spoons instead of swords.

Soren hunched over his bowl, methodically shoveling the bland porridge into his mouth. Each bite tasted like wet paper, but he’d eaten worse. Much worse. The shard rested cold against his chest, a small weight that had become as familiar as breathing.

Around him, the hall buzzed with noise, boasts about training scores, complaints about blisters, the clatter of wooden spoons against wooden bowls.

Everyone seemed to be talking at once, their voices rising and falling in that peculiar rhythm that happened when people with too much energy were confined to benches.

He kept his eyes on his food, but his ears caught the whispers.

"—special training with Kaelor—"

"—Veyr’s new pet—"

"—probably on his knees for the nobles—"

The last one came from two tables over, just loud enough to carry. Soren didn’t look up. He’d learned long ago that reaction was what they wanted. Reaction was weakness.

He took another bite of porridge, chewing slowly. Three days had passed since his first session with Kaelor Varas.

The bruises had faded from purple to yellow-green, but new ones had joined them, a rainbow of pain across his ribs and back. Progress, Kaelor called it. You only bruised where you failed.

Footsteps approached from behind—heavy, deliberate, making no attempt at stealth. Soren felt the presence stop directly behind him, looming like a storm cloud.

"Well, if it isn’t Veyr’s pet project," a voice drawled, loud enough to draw attention from nearby tables. "Eating all alone? No noble masters to feed you scraps today?"

Soren recognized the voice without turning. Jerric Halworth. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a face that might have been handsome if it wasn’t perpetually twisted into a sneer.

Son of a minor noble from the western provinces, but he carried himself like he was heir to the throne.

The mess hall quieted slightly, conversations dying as heads turned toward the confrontation. Soren continued eating, each movement measured and controlled.

"What’s wrong, gutterborn?" Jerric pressed, moving around to the opposite side of the table so Soren would have to look at him. "Forgot how to speak to your betters?"

Soren raised his eyes slowly. Jerric stood with arms crossed over his chest, his recruit’s tunic stretched tight across shoulders built from years of proper nutrition and supervised training. Behind him, three of his usual followers watched with anticipation, already smirking at whatever was about to unfold.

"I speak when there’s something worth saying," Soren replied, his voice level.

The mess hall grew quieter still. Spoons paused halfway to mouths. Conversations trailed off mid-sentence.

Jerric’s face flushed red. "Bold words from someone who should be cleaning the latrines instead of training with the Swordmaster." He leaned forward, planting his palms on the table. "Everyone knows you didn’t earn your place here. What did you do, gutterborn? Beg? Steal? Or just spread your legs for the right noble?"

A few nervous laughs rippled through the hall. Soren set his spoon down carefully, the wood making a soft click against the table. The shard pulsed once against his chest, a flutter of warmth like a half-forgotten memory.

"I earned my place," he said quietly. "The same as anyone. With steel."

"Steel?" Jerric laughed, the sound sharp with mockery. "That’s what they’re calling it now?" He straightened, looking around at his audience, playing to the crowd. "No wonder you’re an orphan...your parents probably killed themselves to be rid of you."

The words struck like a physical blow. Soren felt his breath catch, a sudden tightness in his chest that had nothing to do with bruised ribs. The shard flared hot against his skin, pulsing with a rhythm that matched the sudden roaring in his ears.

’Your parents killed themselves to be rid of you.’

The words echoed, amplified by memory, the orphanage matron’s cold eyes, the street vendor who’d chased him away from his stall, the night watchman who’d caught him sleeping in a doorway. All of them had said some version of the same thing. Abandoned. Unwanted. Trash.

The shard burned hotter, its pulse quickening to match his heart. Valenna’s presence stirred beneath his skin, no words yet, just a sensation like a blade being drawn from its sheath.

Jerric was still talking, his mouth moving, more insults spilling out, but Soren couldn’t hear them over the blood rushing in his ears.

The world narrowed, colors sharpening, sounds receding. He felt his hands clench into fists beneath the table, knuckles popping one by one.

’He doesn’t know,’ a distant part of his mind whispered. ’He’s just guessing. Just trying to hurt you.’

But it didn’t matter. The shard pulsed again, hotter still, and something inside Soren snapped.

He lunged across the table. Bowls and cups clattered to the floor. Jerric’s eyes widened in surprise, he’d expected words, not violence, but he had no time to react before Soren’s fist connected with his jaw.

The impact jarred up Soren’s arm, a shock of pain that felt clean and right. Jerric staggered backward, off-balance, and Soren followed, vaulting over the table with a fluid grace that spoke of street fights rather than training yard duels.

His second blow caught Jerric in the stomach, driving the air from his lungs in a whoosh that carried the sweet scent of expensive wine. The taller boy doubled over, gasping, and Soren brought his knee up hard into his face.

Blood erupted from Jerric’s nose, spraying across Soren’s tunic in a warm mist. The sight of it, bright red against the dull fabric, only fueled the rage burning through him. He drove his elbow down between Jerric’s shoulder blades, sending him crashing to the floor.

Somewhere beyond the roaring in his ears, he heard shouts. Cheers from some, cries of alarm from others. None of it mattered. Nothing mattered except the body beneath him, the face that had spoken those words.

Soren straddled Jerric’s chest, pinning his arms with his knees. His fists rose and fell in a rhythm older than training, older than thought, the brutal, efficient violence of someone who’d learned to fight not for honor or sport, but for survival.

Each blow landed with a wet sound that should have been sickening but instead felt righteous. Knuckles split against teeth. Blood smeared across skin. Jerric’s struggles weakened, then stopped entirely as consciousness fled.

Still, Soren’s fists rose and fell.

Blood flecked his face, hot and sticky. His knuckles screamed with pain, skin torn, possibly bones broken. The shard against his chest pulsed in time with each blow, a second heartbeat urging him on.

’Enough,’ that distant part of his mind whispered. ’He’s done. You’ve won.’

But the rage hadn’t burned out yet. It coiled inside him like a living thing, hungry for more. Another blow. Another. And another.

Then, cutting through the haze, Valenna’s voice rang clear and cold in his mind.

’Good,’ she said, satisfaction dripping from the word like honey from a blade. ’Violence silences envy. You did right, boy.’

Her approval washed over him, cooling the rage to something more controlled, more purposeful. His fist paused mid-air, trembling with the effort of restraint.

Jerric lay motionless beneath him, face barely recognizable beneath the mask of blood. His nose was flattened, lips split in multiple places. At least two teeth had been knocked loose, visible in the bloody froth around his mouth. One eye was already swelling shut, the skin around it purpling rapidly.

Soren became aware of the silence around him. The mess hall had gone completely still, every recruit frozen in place, watching with expressions that ranged from horror to grudging respect. No one had tried to stop him. No one had dared.

He rose slowly, knees protesting after being pressed against the hard floor. Blood dripped from his knuckles, pattering on the stones like rain. His chest heaved with exertion, each breath carrying the copper-salt taste of violence.

"Anyone else have something to say about my parents?" he asked, his voice unnervingly calm despite the storm that had just passed through him.

No one spoke. No one moved.

"I didn’t think so."

The doors at the far end of the hall burst open with a bang that echoed off the stone walls. Master Durnach stormed in, his weathered face darkening as he took in the scene, Jerric unconscious and bloodied on the floor, Soren standing over him with crimson hands, the circle of silent recruits maintaining a careful distance.

"What in the eight hells happened here?" Durnach demanded, striding forward. His gaze locked on Soren, narrowing dangerously. "Thorne? Explain yourself."

Soren met his eyes without flinching. "He insulted my family," he said simply. "I corrected him."

Durnach’s jaw tightened, but something in his expression shifted, not approval, exactly, but understanding. He’d been a warrior long enough to recognize the aftermath of justified violence.

"Get him to the healers," he barked at two nearby recruits, who jumped to obey, carefully lifting Jerric’s limp form. Blood smeared the floor where he’d lain, a dark stain that would likely never fully wash out.

Durnach turned back to Soren. "Report to my office when you’ve cleaned yourself up," he said, his voice gruff but not angry. "There will be consequences."

With that, he turned and followed the recruits carrying Jerric, leaving Soren alone in the center of the silent hall.

The rage had burned itself out, leaving only a cold, clear certainty in its wake. Valenna’s presence settled beneath his skin, satisfied and approving. ’They needed to see,’ she murmured. ’Now they know. You are not prey.’

Soren flexed his damaged hands, feeling the sting of split knuckles, the deeper ache of possibly broken bones. It didn’t matter. The pain was clean, honest in a way that words could never be.

He returned to his seat, ignoring the stares that followed him. His bowl had survived the chaos, though his porridge had gone cold.

He picked up his spoon with bloody fingers and resumed eating as if nothing had happened.

Around him, the mess hall remained unnaturally quiet. Recruits returned to their meals with mechanical movements, eyes darting to Soren and away again.

Some looked fearful, others calculating, a few even impressed. But all of them looked at him differently now.

Not just as Veyr’s chosen. Not just as the gutter-born recruit with special training.

But as someone terrifying to cross.

Soren finished his porridge in silence, savoring the quiet. The shard had cooled against his chest, but its presence felt stronger somehow, more defined. As if it approved of what had happened. As if this had been necessary.

’Maybe it was..’