CHAPTER 50: THE ELDER’S GAME (3)

He pulled the parchment back, replacing it with another. This one showed a map of territories Soren didn’t recognize, marked with colored boundaries and tiny notations.

"These are the hunting grounds of House Karvath," Ayren explained. "Rich in timber, poor in defensibility. Their eastern border touches Velrane lands."

His finger traced a winding line that presumably represented a river.

"They’ve offered us access to their forests in exchange for military protection."

Soren studied the map, noting the sparse settlements, the expansive woodlands, the exposed position relative to what must be mountainous regions to the north. "It seems... beneficial," he ventured. "We gain resources, they gain security."

"Indeed," Ayren agreed smoothly. "And their troops would bolster our northern garrisons, freeing our own soldiers for more pressing concerns elsewhere."

Something in his tone made Soren hesitate. This felt too straightforward, too obviously advantageous. "What’s the cost?" he asked, caution threading through his voice.

"Minimal," Ayren replied with a dismissive wave. "A marriage alliance, perhaps. Some minor concessions on trade tariffs. Nothing House Velrane cannot afford."

Soren’s instincts prickled. The deal sounded perfect, suspiciously so. What was he missing? He scanned the map again, looking for hidden traps, for the angles Ayren wasn’t revealing.

"I would accept their offer," he said slowly, still searching for the catch. "The benefits outweigh the costs."

Ayren’s eyes hardened to amethyst ice. "Then you would lead House Velrane to ruin," he said, his voice deadly quiet. "House Karvath sits on depleted mines that poison their water. Their timber operations are a front for smuggling operations. Their troops are half-trained conscripts who would desert at the first sign of real conflict."

He snatched the map away, his movements suddenly sharp with controlled anger. "Never take the board as it is given. Question everything. Trust nothing. Especially information that seems to perfectly align with your desires."

Shame burned through Soren, hot and unwelcome. He’d failed another test, walked blindly into another trap.

"I didn’t know—" he began.

"Of course you didn’t know," Ayren cut him off. "That is precisely the point. In the game of houses, ignorance is not a defense...it is a weakness to be exploited. Your enemies will hand you beautiful lies wrapped in plausible truths, and smile as you hang yourself with them."

The shard pulsed against Soren’s chest, a steady beat that matched his quickening heart. Valenna remained silent, but her presence sharpened, observing this lesson with keen interest.

Ayren drew another parchment from the stack, this one bearing a list of names Soren didn’t recognize.

"The western provinces face famine after three years of poor harvests," he said, tone shifted back to cool instruction.

"House Velrane has grain stores sufficient to feed half the affected region. The other great houses have similar resources." His gaze fixed on Soren. "What do you do?"

Soren considered carefully, wary now of easy answers. The obvious response would be to distribute the grain, to prevent starvation. But Ayren would see that as weakness, as indulgence...

"Sell the grain," he said finally. "But at prices the desperate can afford. Not charity, but not extortion either."

"Half right," Ayren replied, his voice cold.

"You sell, yes, but not to all. You choose which regions receive your grain based on strategic value, those whose loyalty is worth securing, those whose resources you covet, those whose rebellion you fear."

His fingers drummed once against the desk. "The rest? They can starve. Their weakness is not your concern unless it can be leveraged to your advantage."

Soren felt something inside him recoil at the calculated cruelty. Let people starve for political advantage? Even in Nordhav’s brutal streets, there had been codes, lines that weren’t crossed.

"That’s—" he stopped himself before the word ’wrong’ could escape.

"Practical," Ayren finished for him, his eyes knowing.

"The world has limited resources, Thorne. Those who control them control everything else." He leaned forward, voice dropping to that silken murmur again.

"Sentimentality is a luxury for those who need not worry about survival. House Velrane cannot afford such indulgences."

The lesson continued, scenario after scenario, choice after impossible choice. With each one, Ayren stripped away another layer of what Soren might have called decency, replacing it with cold calculation.

Who to betray. When to lie. How to manipulate noble houses through their pride, merchant families through their ambition, common folk through their fears.

By the time they reached the final parchment, Soren’s head throbbed nearly as badly as his battered body. The moral certainties he’d carried from Nordhav’s streets, crude but clear lines between right and wrong, lay in tatters around him.

"You grasp the fundamentals," Ayren said finally, gathering the parchments into a neat stack. "Though your instinct for mercy remains problematic."

"Thank you, my lord," Soren replied automatically, unsure if this qualified as praise or merely acknowledgment of basic competence.

Ayren’s mouth curved in that knife-edge smile again. "Don’t thank me yet, Thorne. We’ve barely begun." He rose from his chair in one fluid motion, moving to a cabinet behind the desk. From it, he withdrew a crystal decanter and two glasses.

"My brother believes talent can overcome birth," he said as he poured amber liquid into each glass. "That a sword is a sword, regardless of the hand that wields it." He offered one glass to Soren, who accepted it with fingers that still trembled slightly from exhaustion.

"A charming notion, if somewhat naive."

The liquor burned Soren’s throat as he sipped it, but the warmth that spread through his chest was welcome after the chamber’s persistent chill.

"Veyr will teach you how to smile and win hearts," Ayren continued, studying Soren over the rim of his glass. "I will teach you how to twist the knife when the heart is yours. Together, that is how Velrane survives."

He set his glass down with deliberate precision. "We are done for today. Next time, bring me the weakness of every recruit in your barracks."

Soren blinked, caught off guard by the abrupt dismissal and the unexpected assignment. "Their weaknesses?"

"Yes," Ayren confirmed, his tone suggesting the request should be obvious. "What they fear. What they desire. What they would betray their oaths to protect or acquire."

His gaze was steady, uncompromising.

"Learn to wield men as you would a sword. Understand where they are strong, where they are brittle, where they will break under pressure."

Soren rose from his chair, muscles protesting the movement after so long seated in one position.

The thought of returning to the barracks, of cataloging the vulnerabilities of men he lived alongside, left a sour taste in his mouth that had nothing to do with Ayren’s expensive liquor.

"As you command, my lord," he said, inclining his head in what he hoped passed for appropriate deference.

Ayren’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if detecting the reluctance beneath Soren’s compliance. "One final lesson, Thorne," he said, his voice soft but carrying an edge sharp enough to draw blood.

"Hesitation is the gap through which defeat enters. When you make a choice, commit to it wholly or not at all."

With that, he turned his back, a clear dismissal. Soren moved toward the door, each step a negotiation between dignity and pain. As he reached for the handle, Ayren spoke once more.

"And Thorne? Don’t be late ever again."

The corridor outside felt impossibly bright after the muted lighting of Ayren’s chamber. Soren leaned against the wall for a moment, letting his eyes adjust, letting his mind process the lessons, if one could call them that, of the past hour.

The shard pulsed against his chest, warmer now, and Valenna’s voice whispered through his thoughts.

’He is right about one thing,’ she murmured. ’Hesitation kills. But mercy is not always weakness.’