CHAPTER 41: THE LORD’S VERDICT

They came for him before the blood on his hands had dried.

Four guards, wearing House Velrane colors, their faces unreadable beneath the shadow of their helms.

The barracks door banged open and they entered like a storm front, boots striking the stone in perfect unison.

"Soren Thorne," the lead guard announced, his voice echoing in the sudden silence. "You will come with us. Now."

Soren rose from his cot, feeling the stiffness in his knuckles where Jerric’s blood had congealed. The other recruits watched with a mixture of fascination and relief, grateful the guards had come for him and not them.

Dane caught his eye from across the room and gave an almost imperceptible nod. Not sympathy, exactly, but acknowledgment.

"Where to?" Soren asked, though he already knew the answer.

The guard’s mouth tightened. "Lord Velrane awaits. Do not make us drag you."

Soren straightened his blood-spattered tunic, a pointless gesture, but it gave his hands something to do besides shake. The shard pulsed once against his chest, neither warm nor cold, just... present. Valenna remained silent, but he felt her watching through his eyes, alert and curious.

’This was always coming,’ he thought as he stepped forward. ’The moment I stopped being invisible.’

The guards flanked him, two ahead and two behind, a formation meant for dangerous prisoners rather than recruits.

Their hands rested on sword hilts, though Soren doubted they expected him to run. Where would he go? Back to the streets? The gutters? There was nothing left for him there.

They marched him through corridors he’d never seen before, each more opulent than the last. Polished marble gave way to inlaid stone, geometric patterns spiraling beneath his boots in dizzying complexity.

The ceilings arched higher, supported by columns carved to resemble ancient warriors, their stone eyes seeming to track his progress.

Servants flattened themselves against walls as the procession passed, their whispers following like ripples in still water.

"—the one who nearly killed young Halworth—"

"He beat him senseless right in the mess hall!!"

"—Lord Callen will have his head—"

Soren kept his gaze forward, his face a mask that revealed nothing of the calculations racing behind it. He’d seen judgment before, in Nordhav’s street courts, where sentences were swift and brutal. But this was different. Here, justice would be shaped by politics, by what was useful rather than what was fair.

They approached a set of massive double doors, carved from wood so dark it was nearly black. Golden sunbursts, the Velrane crest, gleamed at eye level, polished to mirror brightness by generations of reverent hands. The lead guard rapped his knuckles against the wood in a precise pattern, then stepped back.

The doors swung inward without a sound, revealing the Great Hall of House Velrane in all its terrible splendor.

Soren’s breath caught despite himself. The hall stretched before him like a cavern carved by gods rather than men. Massive pillars soared upward, supporting a vaulted ceiling painted with scenes of ancient battles. Between them hung banners, dozens of them, perhaps hundreds, each bearing the crest of a noble house allied with Velrane.

They rippled slightly in air currents too subtle to feel, creating the impression of a multicolored forest swaying in an unfelt breeze.

The floor was black marble veined with gold, polished to such a shine that it reflected the banners above like a still lake at midnight. Tall windows of stained glass lined the walls, sending shafts of colored light cutting across the chamber.

And at the far end, seated on a raised dais, Lord Callen Velrane waited.

The Patriarch of House Velrane sat in a chair that wasn’t quite a throne but served the same purpose. Carved from the same dark wood as the doors, its high back was inlaid with gold and silver in patterns too complex to follow. Lord Callen himself seemed an extension of the chair, straight-backed, immobile, his face set in lines of weathered authority.

To his right stood Ayren, elegantly poised as always, his violet-black hair catching the light from the stained glass windows. His face betrayed nothing, though his amethyst eyes tracked Soren with the calculating interest of a collector examining a curiosity.

To Lord Callen’s left, Veyr shifted his weight from foot to foot, a barely perceptible movement that nonetheless revealed his discomfort. When his gaze met Soren’s, something flickered in his eyes, not quite apology, but perhaps concern.

The guards halted Soren at the base of the dais, stepping back to form a perimeter around him. The hall fell silent, the last whispers dying away like candles snuffed by a sudden draft.

Lord Callen let the silence stretch, a tactic Soren recognized from the streets. Make them wait. Make them sweat. Make them fill the emptiness with their own fears.

He refused to fidget, keeping his bloody hands at his sides, his eyes level but not challenging. The shard pulsed once against his chest, a reminder that he wasn’t as alone as he appeared.

Finally, Lord Callen spoke, his voice carrying effortlessly across the vast chamber without seeming raised.

"Soren Thorne," he said, the name emerging like a judgment in itself. "You stand before me having committed violence against a fellow recruit. Violence so excessive that Jerric Halworth now lies under the care of three healers, with injuries that may leave permanent marks."

Soren said nothing. There was no question to answer yet.

Lord Callen’s gray eyes narrowed slightly. "In most houses, such an act would merit immediate expulsion. Perhaps even execution, given Jerric’s lineage." He paused, letting the words sink in. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

The question hung in the air, a trap baited with the illusion of fairness. Soren weighed his options carefully. Apology would be seen as weakness. Defiance would be seen as disrespect. The truth... the truth might be his only chance.

"He insulted my family," Soren said, his voice steady despite the dryness in his throat. "Said my parents killed themselves to be rid of me."

A ripple of whispers passed through the watching servants and retainers. Lord Callen silenced them with a single raised hand.

"And for words...mere words...you nearly beat him to death?" The Patriarch’s tone was ice over deep water, smooth but concealing deadly currents.

Before Soren could answer, Veyr stepped forward. "Father, Jerric has been baiting him for days. Everyone knows it. He targeted Thorne specifically because of the special training, because he was jealous—"

"Silence." Lord Callen didn’t raise his voice, but the command cut through Veyr’s words like a blade. "You will speak when asked, not before."

Veyr’s jaw tightened, but he stepped back, his eyes flashing with barely suppressed frustration.

Lord Callen returned his attention to Soren. "Continue."

Soren drew a slow breath, organizing his thoughts. "In the place I come from, words like that aren’t just insults. They’re challenges. Threats." He met Lord Callen’s gaze, careful to keep his own respectful but not cowed. "Where I learned to fight, you answer a threat immediately and completely, or you answer it with your life later."

"This is not the gutter," Lord Callen said, his voice flat. "This is House Velrane. We have rules. Discipline. Honor."

"Yes, my lord." Soren nodded once. "I understand that now."

"Do you?" Lord Callen leaned forward slightly, his gaze penetrating. "I wonder. Honor is not merely about defending one’s name. It is about control. Mastery of oneself before mastery of others."

Veyr stepped forward again, unable to contain himself. "Father, Jerric knew exactly what he was doing. He was trying to provoke Thorne into exactly this response. Ask anyone who was there—"

"I said silence," Lord Callen snapped, his composure cracking for the first time. He fixed Veyr with a glare that would have withered a lesser man. "Your attachment to this recruit clouds your judgment."

"My judgment is perfectly clear," Veyr retorted, his voice rising. "Thorne has shown more potential in weeks than recruits with years of training. Jerric attacked with words because he knew he couldn’t win with steel. Are we to punish Thorne for defending himself against a coward’s tactics?"

Lord Callen’s face darkened. "If words are enough to undo you," he said, his voice dangerously soft, "then you are not fit to wear steel in this house."

The statement hung in the air, aimed at Veyr but clearly meant for Soren as well. Veyr fell silent, his hands clenched at his sides, but his eyes still burned with defiance.

Lord Callen rose from his chair, his height imposing even without the added elevation of the dais. He looked down at Soren, his expression unreadable.

"You have potential, Thorne. I will not waste it by casting you out." He paused, and Soren felt a flicker of hope that was immediately extinguished by his next words. "But neither will I allow such lack of control to go uncorrected."

Lord Callen’s gaze shifted to someone behind Soren. "Kaelor."

Footsteps approached from behind, the familiar uneven gait of the Swordmaster. Kaelor Varas stepped into Soren’s peripheral vision, his single eye gleaming with something that might have been anticipation.

"My lord," Kaelor acknowledged with a slight bow.

"Seven days," Lord Callen declared. "Seven days of your drills, doubled in weight, doubled in hours. No rest. No reprieve." He looked back at Soren. "You will learn control, Thorne, or you will break in the attempt."

Kaelor’s mouth curved in a faint smile. "As you command, my lord."

Soren kept his face carefully blank, but inside, his mind raced through the implications. Seven days of Kaelor’s normal training had left him bruised and exhausted. Doubled weight, doubled hours... it was a death sentence disguised as discipline.

Veyr started to protest again, but Ayren placed a restraining hand on his arm, speaking for the first time. "The Lord has ruled, brother. Accept it."

Veyr shook off the hand but remained silent, his expression stormy.

Lord Callen resumed his seat, his decision made, his interest already moving on. "Take him to the yard," he ordered Kaelor. "Begin immediately."

Kaelor bowed again, then gestured for Soren to follow. As they turned to leave, Soren caught Veyr’s eye one last time. The young noble’s face was a study in frustrated concern, not just for Soren, he realized, but for what this meant for Veyr’s own plans.

’I’m a weapon to him,’ Soren thought as he followed Kaelor from the hall. ’And a broken weapon has no value.’

The double doors closed behind them with a sound like a tomb being sealed.