CHAPTER 63: LORD OF THE HOUSE

The Velrane estate erupted with activity as if someone had kicked over a hive of particularly well-dressed bees. Soren stood in the courtyard, dust from the road still clinging to his boots, watching servants sprint across the grounds with the grim determination of soldiers preparing for war.

’What in seven hells is happening?’ he thought, stepping aside as two men hurried past with a silver banner longer than a jousting lance.

The shard pulsed cold against his chest, Valenna’s presence sharpening with what felt like amusement. ’Welcome to the true battlefield, little knife. Swords may draw blood, but words leave deeper wounds.’

Everywhere Soren looked, preparations unfolded with practiced urgency. Servants polished armor that would clearly never see combat, its decorative scrollwork too delicate for anything but display.

Others arranged jewels on velvet-lined trays, the stones catching sunlight and fracturing it into dazzling patterns against the stone walls. In one corner of the courtyard, a master-at-arms inspected a line of house guards, adjusting sashes and straightening insignias with meticulous care.

Even the air felt different here, charged with an anticipation that made the hair on Soren’s arms stand on end. The training yards had been straightforward, brutal in their simplicity. This... this was something else entirely.

"Don’t gawk," Veyr muttered as he passed, not bothering to slow his stride. "You look like you’ve never seen preparations for a noble gathering before."

"I haven’t," Soren replied, falling into step beside him. The admission slipped out before he could consider how it revealed his ignorance.

Veyr’s expression flickered with something that might have been surprise before settling back into its customary mask of bored superiority. "Well, consider this your education. Tonight’s gathering is a battlefield where the weapons are smiles and the armor is made of perfect manners."

Before Soren could respond, a steward intercepted them, his thin face pinched with urgency.

"Lord Veyr," the man said with a shallow bow, "your father demands your immediate presence in his solar. Both of you," he added, eyes flicking briefly to Soren.

Something tightened in Veyr’s jaw, a momentary tension quickly suppressed. "Now?"

"Without delay, my lord."

Veyr nodded once, dismissing the steward with a gesture that looked casual but carried unmistakable authority. He turned to Soren, lowering his voice.

"Remember what I taught you about court manners. Speak only when addressed directly. Keep your eyes down except when making a point. And for gods’ sake, don’t mention the shrine incident."

The journey to Lord Callen’s solar felt longer than their entire road trip from the capital. Servants parted before them like water around stones, their eyes carefully averted but missing nothing. Soren felt their assessment as a physical weight, each glance measuring his worth, each whisper tallying his deficiencies.

The corridor narrowed as they approached the private wing of the estate. Here, the opulence took on a different quality, less ostentatious, more assured. The wealth displayed wasn’t meant to impress visitors but to remind inhabitants of their own status. Portraits of stern-faced Velranes lined the walls, generations of cold eyes following their progress.

The steward who had delivered the summons stood waiting outside a heavy oak door banded with iron. He knocked once, announced them, then stepped aside with the efficiency of someone who had performed this ritual countless times.

"Enter," called a voice from within, deep, measured, commanding absolute obedience.

Soren followed Veyr into the solar, the shard cold against his chest. The chamber was larger than he’d expected, its high ceiling crossed with dark wooden beams.

Tall windows admitted the afternoon light, illuminating a space that managed to be both imposing and austere. No unnecessary ornaments cluttered the surfaces, no frivolous decorations softened the hard lines. Everything served a purpose, everything communicated power.

Lord Callen Dathen Velrane stood with his back to them, gazing out at the estate grounds through leaded glass.

Even from behind, his presence dominated the room. Tall and broad-shouldered, he maintained a military-straight posture that made him seem taller still. His ash-silver hair was swept back from his face, neat and precise.

When he turned, Soren caught the full impact of those pale gray eyes, cold as northern ice, seeing everything, revealing nothing.

He was dressed in what Soren supposed constituted "austere noble finery"...layers of black silk with silver thread trim that caught the light when he moved.

A signet ring sat heavy on his right hand, the Velrane crest etched into metal that might have been silver but somehow seemed harder, more substantial. A sword rested on a stand near his desk, not a ceremonial piece but a warrior’s weapon, its hilt worn smooth from use.

Lord Callen’s gaze settled on his son first, assessment as tangible as a physical touch.

"You’ve arrived." The words were neutral, neither approval nor criticism, merely acknowledgment of fact.

"Yes, Father," Veyr replied, his voice carefully modulated.

Lord Callen nodded once, then shifted his attention to Soren. The weight of that gaze felt like stones piled on his chest, each heartbeat requiring more effort than the last.

"So," he said after a moment that stretched like heated glass, "you survived the swordmaster’s temper. That makes you either stubborn, or useful." His mouth curved slightly, not quite a smile. "I’ve yet to decide which."

Soren kept his expression neutral, unsure if a response was expected. The shard pulsed once against his chest, neither warning nor encouragement, simply acknowledgment that Valenna was listening.

"I’m told you acquitted yourself adequately on the road," Lord Callen continued, moving to his desk with deliberate steps. "Kaelor reports your progress is... acceptable, given your limitations." He settled into his chair, the movement smooth despite his size. "Ayren says you learn quickly, though you still cling to certain... sentimentalities."

The casual revelation that all three had been discussing him sent a chill down Soren’s spine. He’d known he was being evaluated, of course, but hearing it stated so plainly made the scrutiny feel more invasive somehow.

"Your place tonight is not to speak," Lord Callen said, his tone making it clear this was not merely advice but command. "You stand as Veyr’s Blade. Nothing more." His eyes hardened, pale gray turning to flint. "When you draw, it will be my house’s voice you speak with. That weight will crush you if you stumble."

The warning landed like a physical blow. Soren inclined his head slightly, acknowledging both the honor and the threat contained in those words.

Lord Callen turned his attention back to Veyr. "House Velrane has been invited to a gathering at the Marrath estate tonight. We will attend."

Veyr’s posture shifted subtly, a straightening of the spine, a slight tension in the shoulders. "All of us, Father?"

"Yes." The single word carried layers of meaning Soren couldn’t fully decipher. "Your brother is otherwise engaged. Your presence is required."

"Who else will attend?" Veyr asked, his tone carefully neutral.

"Houses Trescan, Karvath, and Dravien have confirmed. Royal envoys will likely make an appearance." Lord Callen’s fingers tapped once against the desk’s polished surface. "It’s a significant gathering. The alliances formed or broken tonight will echo through the coming season."

The name Trescan sent a jolt through Soren’s body. The memory of the confrontation on the road flashed through his mind, the arrogant heir, the red-faced squire, blades drawn in public view. Would they remember? Would they seek retribution?

Lord Callen rose from his chair, moving around the desk until he stood directly before Veyr. Despite their similar height, he somehow loomed over his son, presence extending beyond physical form.

"Do not falter," he said, voice low and intense. "Do not let them dismiss you. If you cannot hold their gaze, they will own you before you’ve opened your mouth."

Veyr inclined his head, accepting the instruction without visible reaction. "I understand, Father."

Lord Callen turned to Soren, those cold eyes narrowing slightly. "And you, boy." The term wasn’t meant as an insult but as a reminder of his place. "If you shame this house, I’ll see you buried beneath it."

The threat wasn’t delivered with heat or anger, which somehow made it more terrifying. Lord Callen spoke as one stating simple fact, as certain as sunrise.

"You’ll ride with me," he continued, turning away in clear dismissal. "Be ready within the hour. And remember: there are no second chances among wolves."

Soren followed Veyr from the solar, the weight of Lord Callen’s words pressing against his chest. The corridor seemed darker now, the portraits more judgmental, the very air heavier with expectation.

’This night will test me as much as any blade,’ he thought, the realization settling into his bones like winter cold.

The shard pulsed once in agreement, Valenna’s presence close but offering no comfort. ’Indeed, little knife. And unlike the training yard, there will be no one to stop the killing blow.’