CHAPTER 58: THE ESCORT

Kaelor’s training blade cracked across Soren’s knuckles, sending pain racing up his arm like lightning seeking ground.

"Pathetic," the swordmaster growled, already circling for another strike. "If this is your best, perhaps we should send you back to whatever gutter spawned you."

Soren readjusted his grip on the practice sword, ignoring the fresh blood welling from split calluses. He’d almost had it that time, the elusive First Petal form that continued to dance just beyond his reach.

The shard against his chest remained cool and silent, Valenna offering neither encouragement nor criticism.

"Again," Kaelor barked, raising his training sword for another punishing lesson.

Before the blow could fall, a figure appeared at the edge of the yard, one of the house stewards, his silver-trimmed uniform immaculate despite the dust that seemed to coat everything else in Velrane’s domain.

The man’s thin face betrayed nothing as he approached, though his eyes lingered briefly on Soren’s bloodied hands.

"Master Thorne," the steward said, his voice as pressed and proper as his clothing. "Lord Veyr requires your immediate presence in the east wing. You are to attend him without delay."

Kaelor’s single eye narrowed, but he lowered his weapon. "It seems you’ve earned a reprieve, boy." The swordmaster’s mouth twisted into what might have been a smile on a less scarred face. "Don’t mistake it for mercy."

Soren nodded once, returning his practice sword to the rack with hands that trembled from exhaustion rather than fear. What did Veyr want now? Another lesson in courtly manners? More questions about his observations of the other recruits? Or perhaps punishment for some transgression he wasn’t yet aware of committing.

’Whatever it is,’ he thought grimly as he followed the steward through the corridors of House Velrane, ’it can’t be worse than another hour with Kaelor.’

The shard pulsed once against his chest, neither agreement nor contradiction, simply acknowledgment that Valenna was listening to his thoughts.

The steward led him deeper into the east wing than he’d ventured before, past chambers whose purposes he could only guess at. Unlike the austere corridors of Ayren’s domain, this section featured rich tapestries depicting hunting scenes and ancient battles.

Beneath Soren’s boots, thick carpets muffled his footsteps, a luxury that still felt foreign after years of Nordhav’s cobblestones and mud.

They stopped before a polished oak door carved with Velrane’s house crest. The steward knocked once, sharp and precise, then stepped aside.

"Enter," Veyr’s voice called from within, the single word carrying a note of impatience that made Soren’s shoulders tense.

The chamber beyond was larger than he’d expected, dominated by a massive desk strewn with maps and documents. Unlike Ayren’s meticulous organization, Veyr’s space suggested controlled chaos, the workshop of a mind that moved in multiple directions simultaneously.

A fire crackled in the hearth despite the mild weather, casting dancing shadows across walls lined with bookshelves and mounted weapons.

Veyr himself stood by a window, his back to the door as he gazed out at the estate grounds. The setting sun painted his silhouette in amber and gold, lending him a momentary aura of importance that even his slight frame couldn’t diminish.

Soren’s steps faltered as he realized Veyr wasn’t dressed in his usual finery. Instead, he wore what appeared to be traveling clothes, sturdy boots, dark breeches, and a fitted jacket of deep green that bore only subtle markers of his rank. A cloak hung from his shoulders, clasped with a silver pin that caught the firelight.

"Close the door," Veyr said without turning.

Soren obeyed, his mind racing. Was this some new test? Another of the endless evaluations that seemed to define his existence in House Velrane?

"You’ll accompany me to the capital," Veyr announced, finally turning to face him. His expression revealed nothing, no explanation, no room for question or refusal. "We leave within the hour."

Soren blinked, caught off guard by the abrupt command. "The capital?" he repeated, as if the words themselves might make more sense spoken aloud.

Veyr’s mouth curved in a slight smile, though his eyes remained cool and assessing. "Yes, Thorne. The capital. Surely you’ve heard of it? Large city, many buildings, seat of power and all that."

The mocking tone was familiar territory, but the command beneath it left Soren struggling to find his footing. "May I ask why, my lord?"

"You may ask," Veyr replied, moving to his desk where he began gathering papers into a leather satchel. "Though I’m not obligated to answer." He glanced up, that faint smile still playing at the corners of his mouth. "I have business with a priest. Business that requires discretion rather than force. Your presence serves my purposes."

’Which purposes?’ Soren wanted to ask, but swallowed the question. The shard against his chest warmed slightly, Valenna’s presence sharpening with interest.

"Why you?" she whispered through his mind, the words like cool water over stones. "A noble traveling to the capital would normally bring guards. Knights. Not a half-trained recruit with bloodied hands."

The observation crystallized Soren’s own suspicions. This wasn’t merely an errand, it was another evaluation. Another opportunity for Veyr to measure his usefulness beyond the training yard. Or perhaps a test of loyalty, to see how he functioned away from the watchful eyes of Kaelor and Ayren.

"There are preparations," Veyr continued, closing his satchel with a sharp snap. "Berrick will show you to the stables. You’ll find appropriate gear has been arranged."

As if summoned by his name, the steward reappeared at the door. His expression remained impassive, but something in his eyes suggested he found this assignment as unusual as Soren did.

"This way, Master Thorne," he said with a small bow. "Everything has been prepared according to Lord Veyr’s instructions."

Soren followed, his mind still processing the abrupt change in circumstances. The corridor seemed longer on the return journey, each step carrying him toward an uncertainty that felt more dangerous than Kaelor’s predictable violence.

The stables smelled of hay and horsehair, the familiar scents a strange comfort after the rarified air of Velrane’s chambers. Lanterns hung from roof beams, casting warm light over the stalls where horses shifted and snorted in the gathering evening.

A young stablehand approached, leading two horses already saddled and equipped for travel. Soren’s eyes narrowed as he assessed the mount apparently intended for him, smaller than Veyr’s sleek chestnut, with a gleam in its dark eyes that suggested spirit rather than docility. Another test, perhaps. To see how he handled a challenging mount after weeks of exhausting training.

"Your gear," Berrick said, gesturing to a pile arranged neatly on a nearby bench.

Soren approached cautiously, as if the items might somehow be trapped. The clothing was finer than anything he’d worn before, a traveling cloak of dark wool, lined gloves, sturdy boots that looked suspiciously close to his size.

Beneath these lay something that made his breath catch, a short blade in a simple leather sheath. Not a practice sword, but actual steel. Utilitarian rather than decorative, clearly meant for practical use rather than ceremony.

"I’m permitted to carry this?" he asked, unable to keep the surprise from his voice.

Berrick’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his eyes, amusement, perhaps, or pity. "Lord Veyr’s instructions were quite specific. You are to be equipped as befits an escort, not a prisoner."

The distinction felt important somehow, though Soren couldn’t articulate exactly why. He changed quickly, the new clothes settling against his skin with unfamiliar weight and texture. The blade he strapped to his hip with hands that remembered the motion despite never having performed it in Velrane’s service before.

By the time Veyr appeared in the stable yard, Soren stood ready beside his mount, trying to project a confidence he didn’t entirely feel. The smaller horse snorted and shifted beneath his hand, confirming his suspicion that this pairing had been deliberate.

Veyr approached his own mount with the casual ease of someone who’d been riding since before he could walk. He swung into the saddle in a single fluid motion, adjusting his cloak with practiced efficiency.

"Try not to fall off before we reach the city gates," he said, that faint smile returning. "It would reflect poorly on us both."

Soren bit back a retort, focusing instead on mounting his own horse without embarrassing himself.

The animal sensed his tension immediately, sidestepping and tossing its head as if testing his resolve. He tightened his grip on the reins, silently thanking whatever gods might be listening for the riding lessons he’d received as part of his training.

Torches flared along the estate’s perimeter as they rode through the main gates, the sunset giving way to true dusk. Behind them, House Velrane’s stone edifice loomed against the darkening sky, windows glowing like watchful eyes. Ahead, the road stretched into shadow, leading toward a capital Soren had heard of but never seen.

The shard pulsed against his chest as they left the estate’s boundaries, Valenna’s voice whispering through his thoughts once more.

"Be wary, little knife. When nobles travel light, they expect blood to flow."

Soren adjusted his grip on the reins, the unfamiliar weight of the blade at his hip both reassuring and unsettling. Whatever game Veyr was playing, the rules remained opaque. All he could do was watch, learn, and try to avoid becoming a sacrifice on the board.

They rode in silence for nearly an hour, the steady rhythm of hoofbeats the only sound besides the occasional night bird or rustling leaves.

The road wound through farmland and scattered copses, the full moon providing enough light to navigate without torches. Soren’s mount had settled somewhat, though it still occasionally tossed its head or sidestepped as if reminding him that their partnership remained tentative at best.

"Tell me about Tavren," Veyr said suddenly, his voice cutting through the quiet night. "His weaknesses. His allies. What you’ve observed."

The question came without preamble, sharp as a blade thrust. Soren gathered his thoughts quickly, recognizing the test for what it was.

"Tavren Morwell. Third son of a minor noble house. Skilled swordsman but prone to overconfidence. Maintains a circle of five followers, mostly younger sons of allied families. His greatest weakness is his fear of disappointing his father, who threatened disinheritance after a gambling incident last year."

Veyr made a noncommittal sound, neither approval nor criticism. "And how would you manipulate him, if necessary?"

Soren hesitated, Ayren’s lessons warring with his own instincts. "I would approach through his pride," he said finally. "Offer recognition his father withholds, creating a debt of gratitude. Or..." he paused, choosing his words carefully, "threaten to expose his gambling to his father if more direct leverage was required."

"Crude but effective," Veyr assessed, his tone suggesting he’d expected nothing more.