CHAPTER 69: RIDERS OF THE HUNT

Morning mist swallowed the world beyond arm’s reach, turning House Velrane’s courtyard into an island of stone floating in a sea of gray.

Soren tightened the cinch on his saddle, the leather creaking beneath his hands as he worked. The shard against his chest felt colder than usual, as if responding to the chill that hung in the air.

"You’re doing it wrong."

The Swordmaster’s voice cut through the silence like a blade. Kaelor stood beside his own mount, a massive gray destrier that seemed too large for any normal man to control.

The scarred warrior didn’t look at Soren as he spoke, his attention seemingly fixed on adjusting his own tack.

"The buckle needs to be one notch tighter," he continued, still not looking up. "Unless you fancy tumbling from your saddle the first time we encounter rough terrain."

Soren bit back a retort and adjusted the strap as instructed. The horse, a chestnut gelding with more spirit than he would have preferred, snorted and shifted its weight, clearly unhappy with the tighter binding.

"At least one of you has sense," Kaelor muttered, patting his own mount’s neck. "Though I suspect it’s not the one who walks on two legs."

The courtyard remained oddly empty save for them and the small contingent of Velrane guards who would escort them to the meeting point. No servants bustled about with last-minute provisions. No stable hands hovered nearby to offer assistance. And most notably, no Lord Callen stood at the steps to see them off.

’His absence speaks clearly enough,’ Soren thought, running a hand along his horse’s flank. ’Success or don’t return at all.’

"Expecting a farewell feast?" Kaelor asked, his single eye fixing on Soren with uncomfortable intensity. "Perhaps a blessing from the lord himself?" The swordmaster’s mouth twisted into what might have been a smile on a less scarred face. "Noble sentiment is reserved for those whose return is actually desired."

Soren mounted his horse without responding, settling into the saddle with the careful precision Kaelor had drilled into him during their limited riding lessons. The gelding danced sideways, eager to be moving.

A figure appeared at the top of the manor steps, and for a moment, Soren thought Lord Callen had decided to make an appearance after all.

But it was Veyr who emerged from the mist, wrapped in a heavy cloak against the morning chill. The young lord’s face remained as unreadable as ever as he descended to the courtyard.

"Try not to embarrass us too thoroughly," Veyr said, stopping a few paces from Soren’s mount. His eyes flicked between the recruit and the Swordmaster. "The hunting party includes some of the finest blades in the region. It would be... inconvenient if House Velrane’s contributions proved lacking."

Soren nodded stiffly, uncertain whether the comment was directed more at him or at Kaelor. The Swordmaster merely grunted, already turning his mount toward the gate.

"We ride," Kaelor announced, not bothering to wait for further farewells.

As Soren nudged his horse to follow, he caught Veyr watching him with an expression he couldn’t quite decipher, something between calculation and... something else. Concern? Doubt? Whatever it was vanished quickly behind the young lord’s customary mask of indifference.

The gates of House Velrane swung open, revealing a world shrouded in white. The mist seemed to swallow sound itself, the clop of hooves muffled as if the horses walked on clouds rather than packed earth.

Ahead, Kaelor rode with rigid posture, his broad back a wall between Soren and whatever dangers might lurk in the haze beyond.

Four Velrane guards fell into formation around them, their blue-and-silver surcoats bright spots of color in the colorless morning. None spoke, their attention fixed on the road ahead and the treeline to either side.

The shard against Soren’s chest warmed suddenly, Valenna’s presence sharpening in his mind after hours of silence.

’Running away so soon?’ she murmured, her voice tinged with mockery. ’And here I thought you were finally becoming comfortable playing the noble’s pet.’

’We’re hunting a killer,’ Soren thought back, irritation flaring. ’At Lord Callen’s command.’

’Hunting,’ she repeated, amusement rippling through the word. ’Is that what you believe this is? A simple chase with blade and bow?’ Her laughter felt like ice water trickling down his spine. ’Oh, little knife. You still don’t see the board you’re playing on.’

The road wound through farmland, mist gradually thinning as the sun climbed higher. Soren’s mount settled into a steady rhythm beneath him, the initial skittishness fading as the miles passed.

Kaelor rode in silence, his attention seemingly fixed on the horizon, though Soren knew the Swordmaster missed nothing, not the tension in the guards’ postures, not the occasional bird calls that might signal scouts ahead, certainly not Soren’s own discomfort as the hours wore on.

When Kaelor finally spoke, they had been riding for nearly two hours, the estate long behind them, the road now cutting through a sparse woodland.

"The noble houses aren’t sending their knights to find this assassin," he said abruptly, his voice rough from disuse. "They’re sending them to watch each other."

Soren frowned, adjusting his position to ease the ache building in his thighs. "What do you mean?"

Kaelor’s laugh was a harsh, broken sound. "You think they care about justice? About protecting their precious bloodlines?" He shook his head. "This hunt is a performance. Each house sending their blades to demonstrate appropriate concern while simultaneously positioning themselves for whatever comes next."

"Next?" Soren echoed, trying to parse the Swordmaster’s meaning.

"War," Kaelor said simply. "Or something close enough to it. The assassin is just the spark. The kindling has been laid for generations."

The casual certainty with which he spoke sent a chill through Soren that had nothing to do with the morning air. The shard against his chest cooled sharply, Valenna’s presence drawing closer.

"He’s right," she whispered. "For once, the scarred man sees clearly. This hunt is merely the opening move in a game that’s been playing out since before you were born."

Soren’s hand drifted to the hilt of his sword, the gesture unconscious but telling. "Then why send me? I’m hardly qualified to represent House Velrane in a conflict of this magnitude."

Kaelor glanced back, his single eye narrowing. "Because you’re expendable," he said bluntly. "We both are. If we succeed, Callen claims the glory. If we fail..." He shrugged. "Two pawns sacrificed while the more valuable pieces remain protected."

The words stung despite their truth, or perhaps because of it. Soren had known his position from the beginning, yet hearing it stated so plainly drove the reality home with fresh force.

"Two masters pulling your strings," Valenna observed slyly, "and neither cares if you snap. Callen sees a tool to be used until it breaks. Kaelor sees a reflection of his own failures. And caught between them, the little street rat who thought a sword and fine clothes would make him something more."

’Shut up,’

Soren thought back viciously, anger flaring hot in his chest.

Her laughter rippled through his mind. "Such spirit. Save it for the hunt, little knife. You’ll need it when the real predators show their teeth."

The guards accompanying them maintained a respectful distance, close enough to protect if needed but far enough to allow private conversation.

Soren wondered how much they knew of the politics surrounding this hunt, were they also pawns, or simply soldiers following orders without questioning the larger game?

"The nobles at this gathering," Kaelor continued after a long silence, "they’re deadlier than any assassin. They’ll smile while sliding daggers between your ribs. They’ll toast your health while poisoning your cup." His voice dropped lower, almost as if speaking to himself. "I’ve seen what happens when noble houses go to war. It’s never the lords who bleed first."

The road widened as they approached what appeared to be a crossroads. In the distance, Soren could make out the outline of a fortified waystation, a common sight along major trade routes, offering protection to merchants and travelers.

But this one seemed unusually busy, banners of various colors snapping in the breeze above the stone walls.

"The gathering point," Kaelor said unnecessarily. "Remember your training. Speak little. Observe much. And keep your hand near your sword at all times."

As they drew closer, Soren could distinguish individual banners, the crimson and gold of House Trescan, the forest green of House Karvath, the midnight blue of House Dravien.

Each representing power, wealth, and ambition stretching back generations. And here he rode, bearing Velrane’s colors, an orphan from Nordhav’s streets playing at nobility.

The shard pulsed cold against his chest, Valenna’s presence sharpening with what felt like anticipation.

"Now," she whispered, "we see if you can swim among sharks without bleeding."

The waystation’s gates stood open, revealing a courtyard filled with horses and armed men. Knights in polished armor conversed in small groups, their voices carrying on the morning air. Squires hurried about with provisions and equipment, preparing for the journey ahead. At the center of it all, a wooden platform had been erected, presumably for Lord Ashren to address the gathering.

As Soren’s party approached, heads turned, conversations faltering as knights assessed the newcomers. Recognition dawned on several faces, not of Soren himself, but of Kaelor. The Swordmaster’s reputation clearly preceded him, earning nods of respect from some and wary glances from others.

They dismounted at the edge of the courtyard, Velrane guards taking charge of their horses. Kaelor straightened to his full height, rolling his shoulders as if preparing for combat rather than a gathering of allies.

"Stay close," he muttered to Soren. "And try not to look like you’re about to vomit from fear."

Soren squared his shoulders, forcing his expression into the neutral mask he’d practiced in Ayren’s lessons. "I’m not afraid."

Kaelor’s laugh was sharp and without humor. "Then you’re a bigger fool than I thought."

They moved into the courtyard proper, navigating between groups of knights and their attendants. Soren took in the gathering with careful attention, noting the quality of armor, the bearing of each man, the subtle hierarchies evident in who spoke and who listened.

Some houses had indeed sent their finest, veteran knights with the confident posture of men who had seen real combat. Others had contributed younger blades, some barely older than Soren himself, clearly chosen because they were more expendable than their senior counterparts.

"House Velrane graces us with its presence at last," called a voice from nearby, the words pitched to carry.

Soren turned to find a knight in Trescan colors approaching, his crimson surcoat immaculate, his hand resting casually on his sword hilt. With a jolt of recognition, Soren identified him as the same young knight who had challenged him at the noble gathering—Harrick.