CHAPTER 68: THE TEST NAMED SYLAS

The carriage wheels groaned beneath them like dying men as the Velrane coach lurched back toward the estate.

Moonlight sliced through the curtained windows, painting silver bars across Veyr’s impassive face. The young lord sat with perfect posture despite the vehicle’s constant rocking, seemingly untouched by the evening’s tensions.

Soren leaned into the leather seat, his formal attire suddenly stifling after hours of standing rigid behind Veyr’s chair. The weight of a hundred stares still pressed against his skin, nobles assessing, knights dismissing, servants wondering. His fingers worked unconsciously at the collar that felt too tight against his throat.

The silence between them stretched, broken only by the rhythm of hooves and the occasional creak of wood.

Outside, the capital’s streets gradually gave way to the wider road leading back to the Velrane estate. The shard against Soren’s chest remained cool, Valenna’s presence withdrawn to that watchful distance she sometimes maintained when gathering her thoughts.

After what felt like an eternity, Veyr spoke, his voice casual as if continuing a conversation already in progress.

"What did you make of them?" he asked, gaze still fixed on the passing shadows beyond the window.

Soren hesitated, weighing his response. The question felt like another test, another opportunity to prove his worth, or to fail spectacularly.

"The nobles?" he clarified, buying time.

"No, the serving girls," Veyr replied, that familiar edge of mockery creeping into his tone. "Yes, the nobles. What did you observe?"

Soren straightened, recalling his training with Ayren. Information was currency; observation was power. "They’re afraid," he said finally. "Not just of the assassin. Of each other."

"Obvious," Veyr dismissed with a slight wave. "What else?"

The shard against Soren’s chest warmed suddenly, Valenna’s presence sharpening in his mind with a burst of dark amusement.

’Tell him how Lord Karvath’s hands shake when he reaches for his wine,’ her voice whispered through his thoughts. ’How Lady Dravien’s eyes linger too long on the Trescan heir. How the knights’ postures reveal old injuries and fresh anxieties. Such trivial observations, is this what Ayren taught you?’

Soren pushed back against her intrusion, determined to form his own assessment. "House Trescan wants control of the hunting party," he continued. "They nominated themselves three times in different ways. And Lord Ashren seemed... prepared for his appointment. Like he knew it was coming."

Veyr’s eyebrow lifted slightly, the first crack in his careful mask of indifference. "Better," he acknowledged. "What about the alliances?"

’Pathetic,’ Valenna cut in before Soren could respond. ’You see the surface ripples but miss the currents beneath. The Trescan lord’s second son has vanished from court, why? The Karvath trade ships change their routes to avoid the northern passages, what do they know that others don’t? And that silver-haired lord with the quiet voice, did you notice how the others fell silent when he spoke? Not from respect, little knife. From fear.’

Her interruption sparked frustration in Soren’s chest, but also clarity. The pieces realigned in his mind, surface observations connecting to deeper patterns.

"House Dravien and Marrath are publicly allied but privately fractured," he said with growing confidence. "They sat together but never shared glances when important points were raised. And despite the talk of cooperation, no one mentioned contributing actual soldiers, only knights. They’re keeping their real forces in reserve."

Veyr’s mouth curved in what might almost have been approval. "And what does that tell you?"

"They’re preparing for something bigger than one assassin," Soren replied, the realization crystallizing as he spoke. "This hunt is just... a distraction. Or a test of loyalty."

"Now you’re seeing," Veyr said, settling back against his seat. "The capital runs on currents deeper than most can fathom. Those who drown are those who mistake the surface for the depths."

The carriage hit a rut, jostling them both. Veyr adjusted his position with practiced ease, then fixed Soren with a gaze that suddenly felt more calculating than casual.

"My father will contribute two blades to the hunting party," he said, the statement landing between them like a thrown gauntlet.

Soren waited, sensing there was more to come. The shard pulsed once against his chest, neither warm nor cold, simply attentive.

"You," Veyr continued after a deliberate pause, "and the Swordmaster."

The words hung in the confined space of the carriage, their implications unfolding in Soren’s mind like a blade being slowly unsheathed. He fought to keep his expression neutral, aware that Veyr was watching his reaction with predatory focus.

"I see," he managed, though his heart had begun hammering against his ribs. The hunting party. Tracking a killer who had already claimed three noble lives. And Lord Callen was sending him, not a trained knight, not a seasoned warrior, but a recruit barely months into his training.

"Do you?" Veyr pressed, leaning forward slightly. "Do you truly understand what this means?"

The shard warmed against Soren’s chest, but Valenna remained silent, leaving him to navigate these treacherous waters alone.

"It’s a test," Soren said finally, meeting Veyr’s gaze directly. "Another way to measure my worth."

Veyr’s laugh was short and without humor. "A test, yes, but not just of you. My father gains political capital by contributing his heir’s personal Blade to the hunt. It demonstrates House Velrane’s commitment to the common cause." His eyes hardened. "It also throws you into a crucible to see if you survive."

"And the Swordmaster?" Soren asked, though he already suspected the answer.

"Insurance," Veyr replied coldly. "Kaelor ensures Velrane’s name will not be shamed if you fall. One expendable blade and one proven weapon, my father’s strategy in miniature."

The casual cruelty of the calculation hit Soren like a physical blow. Expendable. A pawn to be sacrificed for political advantage. The shard against his chest flared hot, anger pulsing through him in waves that matched his quickening heartbeat.

"So I’m just... proof of loyalty?" he said, unable to keep the edge from his voice. "A disposable token to show how seriously House Velrane takes this hunt?"

"You’re whatever my father needs you to be," Veyr replied, unmoved by Soren’s obvious anger. "Did you think it would be otherwise? That your comfort or survival would factor into his calculations?" He shook his head, a gesture that managed to convey both pity and disdain. "Blades are forged in fire, Thorne. You don’t temper steel with kindness."

The shard against Soren’s chest pulsed with sudden heat, Valenna’s laughter rippling through his mind.

’Finally,’ she whispered, her voice rich with dark amusement, ’someone who speaks my tongue. The boy understands what you still resist, power demands sacrifice, and those who hesitate to pay the price remain forever powerless.’

Soren’s jaw tightened, caught between Veyr’s cold pragmatism and Valenna’s approving mockery. Both of them viewing him as a weapon to be honed, a tool to be used and discarded when its purpose was served.

"And what if I refuse?" he asked, the question escaping before he could reconsider.

Veyr’s expression shifted to something almost like genuine surprise. "Refuse? You might as well refuse to breathe." He leaned back, studying Soren with renewed interest. "This is your moment, Thorne. The opportunity you’ve been training for. Survive, and even my father will have no choice but to acknowledge you. Fail..." He left the end unsaid, the implication hanging between them like a suspended blade.

The carriage hit another rut, harder this time, the jolt sending a spike of pain through Soren’s still-healing ribs. He gripped the edge of the seat, steadying himself as the vehicle rocked back into rhythm.

The pulse of the shard in his chest throbbed like a war drum, setting a counterpoint to his racing thoughts. A hunting party. A killer who moved like mist and struck like lightning. Knights with years of training and battle experience. And him, street fighter turned reluctant recruit, thrust into a deadly game of noble politics.

’This is what you wanted,’ Valenna reminded him, her voice cool and insistent. ’To rise. To prove your worth. To be more than the orphan from Nordhav’s gutters. Did you think ascension came without cost?’

Veyr watched him, those calculating eyes missing nothing, not the tightening of Soren’s jaw, not the whitening of his knuckles against the seat’s edge, not the momentary flicker of uncertainty that crossed his face before being banished by stubborn resolve.

The carriage rolled onward through the night, its wheels marking the steady rhythm of approaching fate.