CHAPTER 67: THE GATHERING (3)

"What are you suggesting, Lord Ashren?" asked the Trescan lord, eyes narrowing.

"I suggest we face an idealist," Lord Ashren replied. "And idealists are far more dangerous than mercenaries. They cannot be bought off or reasoned with. They must be understood, then eliminated."

The debate splintered again, lords and ladies breaking into smaller discussions, voices rising and falling like waves against a shore. Soren remained at his post, studying their faces, noting which arguments sparked anger and which inspired fear.

"The commoners call him the Emerald Reaper," someone said, voice carrying across the hall. "They say he appears like mist, kills, and vanishes between one heartbeat and the next."

Scoffs and murmurs greeted this, though Soren noticed how several knights shifted uncomfortably at the mention of supernatural abilities.

"Superstitious nonsense," declared Lord Karvath. "He’s a man, nothing more. And men can be killed."

"Three nobles would disagree with you," Lady Dravien remarked dryly. "If they still had heads with which to speak."

The tension in the room ratcheted higher with each exchange. Soren felt it building like pressure before a storm, the air growing thick with unspoken threats and barely contained hostility. His hand drifted closer to his sword hilt, a movement mirrored by several other knights around the hall.

"Careful," Valenna cautioned. "They’re looking for any excuse. The youngest Trescan knight has been watching you since we entered, hand never far from his blade, eyes hungry for confrontation. They remember the road incident, little knife. Don’t give them the opening they seek."

Soren forced his hand to relax, though he kept it within easy reach of his weapon. The Trescan knight, hardly more than a boy, really, with a patchy attempt at a beard, continued to stare, challenge written plainly across his features.

Lord Callen rose again, and the hall fell silent in waves, conversation dying out as attention returned to the commanding figure at the center table.

"Speculation serves no purpose without action," he said, each word precise as a surgeon’s cut. "I propose a coordinated effort. Each house will contribute men to a hunting party. Not common soldiers, but your finest blades. We will find this Sylas and determine who, if anyone, directs his hand."

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the assembly, though Soren noted the careful calculations happening behind noble eyes, weighing how many men they could spare, which knights they could afford to risk, what advantages might be gained or lost in the arrangement.

"And who would lead this hunting party?" asked the Trescan lord, suspicion evident in his tone. "House Velrane, perhaps?"

Lord Callen’s mouth curved in what might have been a smile on a warmer man. "The party requires a leader with experience tracking dangerous prey. I nominate Lord Ashren, whose expertise in such matters is well established."

The silver-haired lord inclined his head in acknowledgment, though his expression revealed nothing of his thoughts on the assignment.

Soren watched the subtle play of politics with growing fascination. Lord Callen had neatly sidestepped the implied accusation while simultaneously placing the responsibility on a neutral party.

The other nobles couldn’t object without insulting Lord Ashren, whose reputation apparently commanded respect across house lines.

"A sound proposal," Lord Marrath declared, rising from his seat. "Let each house commit two knights to the effort. They will assemble at dawn two days hence, under Lord Ashren’s command."

The assembled nobles nodded in agreement, some more reluctantly than others. Soren noted which houses seemed eager to participate and which appeared to accept the arrangement only under duress.

"We still don’t know why he targets nobles specifically," Lady Dravien said, her fingers tracing the rim of her goblet. "What grievance drives such focused hatred?"

"Perhaps he simply recognizes where true power lies," suggested Lord Karvath with a humorless laugh. "Cut off the head, and the body falls."

"Then we must ensure our necks remain intact," Lord Callen replied, his tone making it clear the discussion was concluding. "This council will reconvene in one week to hear Lord Ashren’s report. Until then, I suggest we all review our household security."

As the formal proceedings wound down, the gathering dissolved into smaller conversations, lords and ladies clustering in familiar patterns of alliance and shared interest. Servants moved more freely now, refilling goblets and offering platters of delicacies.

Soren remained at his post, watching the room through narrowed eyes. The hunt for Sylas would dominate the coming days, but he sensed the green-haired killer was merely a convenient focus for deeper tensions running through the noble houses.

"Politics and bladecraft," Valenna murmured. "Not so different after all. Both require precision, timing, and the willingness to draw blood when necessary."

Lord Callen rose from his seat, a subtle gesture indicating that Veyr should follow. Soren straightened, preparing to move with them as they made their way toward a cluster of lords gathered near one of the large braziers.

As they passed the Trescan table, the young knight who had been watching Soren stepped forward, deliberately placing himself in their path.

"Lord Callen," he said, offering a bow that managed to be both technically correct and subtly insolent. "I wonder if your... attendant... might join our discussion of sword techniques. We’re most curious about the... unusual methods employed by your household."

The emphasis made the insult clear. Soren felt heat rise in his throat but kept his expression carefully neutral, waiting for Lord Callen’s response.

The Velrane patriarch regarded the young knight with the same expression one might use when discovering something unpleasant on the sole of one’s boot.

"When my Blade speaks, it will be with steel, not words," he said, his tone carrying absolute finality. "Pray you never hear his voice, boy."

Without waiting for a response, Lord Callen continued on his path, the Trescan knight left standing with color rising in his cheeks and humiliation evident in his rigid posture.

Soren followed, keeping his eyes forward despite the fierce satisfaction burning in his chest. In that moment, he glimpsed the true purpose behind his presence at the gathering, not just as a symbol of Velrane strength, but as an extension of Lord Callen’s will, a silent threat made manifest.

"You see now," Valenna whispered, her voice rich with dark amusement. "In this battlefield, you are both weapon and warning. They fear what they cannot understand, and nothing confuses these nobles more than power that rises from unexpected places."

As the evening progressed, Soren stood guard while Lord Callen and Veyr engaged in the intricate dance of noble politics. He observed how alliances shifted with each conversation, how information became currency more valuable than gold, how threats were delivered in compliments and promises made in casual asides.