CHAPTER 48: THE ELDER’S GAME (1)

Consciousness hit Soren like a physical blow. He opened his eyes to find himself sprawled in the dust of the training yard, his body a map of pain with no safe territories. Overhead, the sky had taken on the deep purple of early evening, though he had no memory of the sun’s descent.

"Get up," a voice commanded from somewhere above him. "Lord Ayren waits, and he’s not known for patience."

Soren blinked, trying to bring the world into focus. A page stood over him, nose wrinkled with distaste at the sight of his blood-smeared, sweat-soaked form. The boy couldn’t have been more than twelve, yet he managed to look down at Soren as if examining something scraped from the bottom of a boot.

"Did you hear me?" the page pressed. "Lord Ayren. Waiting. Now."

The shard against Soren’s chest pulsed once, the first sign of Valenna’s presence since Kaelor’s demonstration had driven him to his knees. Her voice whispered through his mind, cool and distant as winter stars.

’Rise, little knife. One battlefield merely gives way to another.’

Soren rolled to his side, every muscle screaming in protest. His palms left bloody prints in the dirt as he pushed himself up, blisters weeping fresh fluid where they’d split open during his failed attempts to summon Aura.

His legs trembled beneath him as he stood, threatening to fold at any moment.

"I need to wash," he managed, his voice a rasp that barely carried.

The page’s expression suggested this was both obvious and inconvenient. "Follow me. Quickly."

The walk to the bathing chamber was a blur of agony. Soren focused solely on putting one foot before the other, fighting the darkness that hovered at the edges of his vision.

He barely registered the corridors they passed through, the servants who flattened themselves against walls to avoid contact with his filthy form.

The chamber itself was mercifully empty. Steam rose from a large copper tub, the water already drawn and waiting. Soren wondered dimly how long the page had known of this summons, how precisely the Velranes timed even their afterthoughts.

"Clean clothes there," the page said, pointing to a folded stack on a nearby bench. "You have ten minutes."

Then he was gone, leaving Soren alone with steam and silence.

Stripping proved almost as difficult as standing had been. His fingers refused to cooperate, fumbling with lacings and buckles that suddenly seemed impossibly complex. When he finally managed to remove his blood-stained tunic, the sight beneath almost sent him back to his knees.

His torso was a canvas of violence, purple-black bruises layered atop yellow-green ones, angry red welts where Kaelor’s training sword had struck with particular force.

The skin over his ribs had split in two places, dried blood crusted in thin lines that cracked when he moved.

’Gods,’ he thought, staring down at himself. ’I look like I’ve been trampled by horses.’

The water stung his open wounds as he lowered himself into the tub, a hiss escaping through clenched teeth. For a moment, the pain was so intense he considered climbing back out.

Then, gradually, the heat began to work its way into his abused muscles, and the agony subsided to a more manageable throb.

He scrubbed quickly, mindful of the page’s time limit. The water turned a murky pink as blood, sweat, and dirt sloughed off his skin.

His palms burned fiercely as soap found its way into open blisters, but he forced himself to clean them thoroughly. Infection would be far worse than momentary pain.

The clean clothes were simple but of better quality than his recruit’s uniform, a charcoal tunic of fine wool, black breeches, soft leather boots that looked freshly polished.

All in House Velrane’s colors, he noted, but without crest or identification. Not a uniform, then. Something else.

He dressed with fingers that still trembled, his damp hair leaving dark patches on the tunic’s shoulders.

The fabric felt strange against his skin, too soft after weeks of rough-spun cotton. The boots fit perfectly, another unsettling reminder of how closely he was being observed.

The page returned exactly when promised, expression souring when he saw Soren’s still-damp hair. "Come," he said without preamble. "You’re late."

’Late for what?’ Soren wanted to ask, but saved his breath for the walk ahead. The shard pulsed once against his chest, neither warning nor encouragement, simply acknowledgment that another trial awaited.

They traversed corridors Soren had never seen before, each more austere than the last. Where Veyr’s domain had been all maps and weapons, trophies and warm wood, this section of the estate breathed cold efficiency.

The stone floors were polished to a mirror shine, walls bare of ornament save for the occasional portrait, stern-faced Velranes from generations past, their eyes following him with painted suspicion.

The page stopped before a door of dark, unadorned wood. No carvings, no gilding, nothing to suggest the importance of the chamber beyond. He knocked once, sharp and precise, then stepped aside without waiting for a response.

"Enter," a voice commanded from within, Ayren’s voice, cool and measured as a winter stream.

Soren pushed the door open, stepping into what felt like a physical manifestation of calculation.

This chamber was larger than he’d expected, but somehow seemed smaller for its contents. Every wall was lined with shelves, each bearing ledgers and scrolls arranged with mathematical precision.

Maps covered the spaces between, pinned flat against the stone, marked with notations in a cramped, elegant hand. A massive desk dominated the center of the room, its surface buried beneath stacks of parchment and open books, though even this apparent disorder suggested purpose rather than chaos.

Unlike Veyr’s chambers, no fire burned in the hearth. The only light came from oil lamps placed at careful intervals, their flames steady in the still air.

The room was cold, not merely in temperature, though that was noticeable enough after the warmth of the bath, but in essence. This was a place where emotion came to die, where only logic and calculation survived.

Ayren Velrane sat behind the desk, quill moving across parchment with fluid precision. He didn’t look up as Soren entered, didn’t acknowledge him in any way.

His violet-black hair fell across his forehead in what appeared to be artful carelessness, though Soren suspected every strand had been deliberately arranged.

His high-collared coat was the same shade of charcoal as Soren’s new tunic, the cuffs embroidered with House Velrane’s crest in thread so fine it was barely visible.

Soren stood just inside the doorway, uncertain whether to announce himself or wait to be recognized. His body still ached from Kaelor’s punishment, muscles trembling with the effort of remaining upright, but he forced himself to stand straight. Weakness here would be fatal, he sensed that without being told.

The silence stretched, broken only by the scratch of quill against parchment and the soft tick of a clock somewhere out of sight. Soren’s chest tightened as the moment extended, his lungs seemingly unable to draw sufficient air in this cold, still room.

Finally, after what felt like minutes but was likely only seconds, Ayren set down his quill and looked up. His amethyst eyes assessed Soren with clinical detachment, revealing nothing of his thoughts.

"You’re late," he said, the words precise as knife cuts. "Again."