CHAPTER 65: THE GATHERING (1)

The great hall of House Marrath swallowed sound like a hungry beast. Vaulted ceilings soared overhead, their dark wooden beams disappearing into shadow despite the blaze of a hundred candles.

Banners hung from iron fixtures, proud colors of ancient houses, some faded with age, others bright with new ambition. Braziers cast pools of amber light that failed to chase away the darkness lurking in the corners.

Soren paused at the threshold, the weight of scrutiny settling over him like a physical thing.

’This is it,’ he thought, squaring his shoulders beneath the unfamiliar weight of formal attire. ’The real battlefield.’

The chamber sprawled before him, dominated by long tables arranged in a semi-circle around a central speaking area. Each table bore the crest of a noble house, silver goblets catching firelight like stars fallen to earth.

The nobles themselves were already seated, men and women draped in silks and jewels, their faces composed into masks of careful disinterest that failed to hide the hunger in their eyes.

Behind each lord stood at least one knight, sometimes more, armored figures as still as statues in the flickering light. They might have been decorative were it not for the blades at their hips and the watchful tension in their postures.

The shard against Soren’s chest cooled sharply as he followed Lord Callen and Veyr into the hall. Valenna’s presence sharpened in his mind, her voice cutting through his thoughts like winter wind through thin cloth.

"Look at them," she whispered, contempt edging each syllable. "Lord Karvath grips his goblet like it might flee, fear of poison, or the tremors of a secret drinker? And there...Lady Dravien sits too straight, too rigid. Old wound, poorly healed. Pain she won’t acknowledge."

Soren kept his face carefully neutral as they proceeded down the center aisle, though his eyes darted from lord to lord, seeing them now through Valenna’s merciless assessment.

"The fat one with the red beard," she continued, "sweats despite the chill. His heart labors beneath all that flesh and finery. And the thin lord to his right...see how his fingers drum against the table? Impatience masking insecurity. They all wear fear like perfume, little knife. You need only learn to smell it."

Lord Callen moved with unhurried confidence, his pace deliberate, his bearing regal without straining for effect. Veyr walked half a step behind, slipping effortlessly into the role of heir apparent, chin lifted, eyes forward, back straight as a blade. Soren followed, mimicking their posture while keeping his hand casually near his sword hilt.

Dozens of eyes tracked their progress. Not just the lords and ladies, but their knights as well, assessing the newcomers with predatory focus. Soren felt their stares like physical touches, some curious, others dismissive, a few openly hostile.

Whispers followed in their wake, too soft to catch entirely but clear enough in fragments:

"—the Blade of Velrane—"

"—orphan from the streets, they say—"

"—Callen’s new pet weapon—"

The shard pulsed cold against his chest. "They fear what they don’t understand," Valenna murmured. "And you, little knife, are very much a mystery to them."

Lord Callen reached their designated table and took his place at its center, Veyr settling smoothly to his right. Servants materialized from the shadows to pull out their chairs, pour wine, adjust the placement of silver implements whose purpose Soren couldn’t begin to guess.

No chair awaited him. His place was behind them, standing guard as the other knights did for their lords. Soren took his position, feet shoulder-width apart, hands clasped behind his back in the stance Kaelor had drilled into him through endless hours of punishment.

From this vantage, he had a clearer view of the other houses’ knights. They stood like carved figures, their discipline evident in every line of their bodies. Perfect. Immaculate. Born to their positions through blood and breeding.

While he...

The contrast couldn’t have been more stark. Though dressed in Velrane black and silver, nothing could hide his origins. Not the formal attire, not the polished boots, not the carefully styled hair. Something in his stance, in his eyes, in the way he held himself, it all proclaimed him outsider.

And they knew it. Every knight in the hall knew it.

A muscle twitched in his jaw as he caught fragments of their whispered assessments.

"—street rat with a noble’s sword—"

"—wonder if he’s bedding the younger lord—"

"—won’t last a season—"

The shard cooled further, Valenna’s presence a balm against the burning in his chest. "Their opinions matter as much as a fish’s thoughts on flying," she said. "Let them talk. Words break against skill like waves against stone."

Soren forced his breathing to steady, focusing on the room rather than the whispers. He studied the layout, noting exits, counting armed men, identifying potential threats. The training with Kaelor and Ayren had prepared him for this, at least, seeing beneath the surface to the dangers lurking below.

Lord Callen rose from his seat, and the hall fell silent as if a blade had cut through the murmurs. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t bang a goblet for attention. His mere presence, his simple act of standing, commanded complete focus.

"My lords and ladies of the council," he began, his tone measured and cool. "We gather in troubled times. The roads grow dangerous. Trade falters. Unrest spreads through the outlying provinces."

His pale eyes swept the assembled nobility, lingering briefly on each face. "House Marrath has graciously provided this neutral ground for our discussions. Let us use it wisely." A pause, perfectly timed. "The agenda before us is clear: we must address the threats to stability, the disruptions to trade, and the rogue elements that challenge the established order."

The words were diplomatic, even bland, but something in Lord Callen’s delivery lent them weight and edge. This wasn’t a suggestion or a request. It was a command, delivered with such quiet certainty that it brooked no argument.

Soren watched, fascinated despite himself, as the assembled lords and ladies nodded in agreement, some more reluctantly than others. This, then, was how true power worked, not through shouting or threats, but through the absolute confidence that one would be obeyed.

A lord from the far table rose, his crimson robes marking him as a member of House Trescan. "If I may, Lord Callen." His voice carried a careful deference that didn’t quite mask the challenge beneath. "Before we discuss trade routes and grain taxes, perhaps we should address the more immediate threat to our collective security."

Lord Callen inclined his head slightly, granting permission to continue.

"I speak of the assassin," the Trescan lord said, his voice rising. "Three nobles dead in two months. Lord Halwick found with his throat cut in his own bedchamber. Baron Tessier ambushed on the north road. And just last week, Count Dravien’s cousin, skewered like a festival pig in broad daylight."

Murmurs rippled through the hall. Lady Dravien’s face tightened at the mention of her kinsman, her knuckles whitening around her goblet.

"They call him the Noble Killer," someone added from another table. "A man with hair green as summer grass and eyes to match."

The murmurs grew louder, more urgent. Soren noted how the atmosphere in the hall had shifted, tension replacing formality, fear cracking the masks of indifference.