CHAPTER 70: ASHES BEFORE THE FIRE

Harrick of Trescan planted himself directly in Soren’s path, his lips curling into something too sharp to be called a smile.

"Well, well. The street rat returns, and in knight’s clothing no less." His voice carried just enough to draw attention without seeming deliberate. "Tell me, boy...does House Velrane truly have no actual knights to send, or did Lord Callen simply wish to be rid of you?"

Soren’s fingers twitched toward his sword hilt before he caught himself. Kaelor’s warning echoed in his mind: ’Speak little. Observe much.’ The courtyard suddenly felt smaller, knights from nearby groups turning to watch with predatory interest.

A stocky knight in Karvath green nudged his companion. "This should be entertaining."

Harrick stepped closer, the morning light catching on the gold thread in his crimson surcoat. "Nothing to say? Perhaps they haven’t taught you to speak yet." He glanced around at his growing audience. "Velrane’s new pet can wear the clothes, but lacks the breeding to fill them properly."

The shard against Soren’s chest cooled sharply, Valenna’s presence surging forward.

’He baits you like a common tavern drunk,’ she whispered. ’How disappointing that noble training produces such... pedestrian tactics.’

Soren kept his face carefully neutral, his jaw clenched tight enough to ache. Five knights now watched openly, their expressions ranging from amusement to calculated assessment.

"Are you deaf as well as mute?" Harrick pressed, his hand resting casually on his ornate sword hilt. "Or perhaps—"

"I’d sooner converse with my horse’s backside, Trescan." Kaelor’s voice cut through the tension like a blade through silk. The Swordmaster hadn’t moved from his position, but somehow seemed to fill more space. "At least the beast produces shit for a reason."

A ripple of laughter spread through the onlookers. Harrick’s face flushed crimson to match his surcoat.

"Swordmaster Kaelor," he acknowledged stiffly. "Still playing nursemaid to Velrane’s strays, I see."

Kaelor’s scarred face shifted into something that might have been a smile on a less damaged visage. "And you’re still mistaking a wagging tongue for a sharp blade." His single eye flicked dismissively over Harrick. "When you’ve actually killed something more dangerous than a practice dummy, perhaps I’ll bother learning your name."

The gathered knights’ laughter grew louder. Even a Dravien knight, tall and severe in midnight blue, failed to completely suppress a smile. Harrick’s hand tightened on his sword, knuckles whitening before he mastered himself.

"We’ll see who proves more valuable on this hunt," he said, voice tight with controlled fury.

Kaelor shrugged, already turning away. "We certainly will."

Soren followed the Swordmaster as he moved deeper into the courtyard, feeling Harrick’s glare burning into his back. The brief confrontation had drawn attention they didn’t need, but had also established boundaries, and revealed alliances.

The waystation’s courtyard teemed with knights from across the region, their colors forming distinct clusters. House Dravien’s contingent stood apart near the eastern wall, their midnight blue surcoats adorned with silver stars. They maintained rigid posture, speaking little even among themselves.

Near the stables, the green-clad knights of House Karvath shared a wineskin, their laughter louder than necessary. Their armor showed signs of actual use, nicks and scratches that suggested experience beyond tournaments.

’Look at them,’ Valenna murmured, her voice rich with disdain. ’Peacocks sharpening talons, preening while they plot where best to strike.’

Smaller houses had contributed single knights who hovered at the edges, seeking inclusion with larger contingents. A knight in gray and white, House Lanther, if Soren remembered correctly, received curt nods from the Dravien group but no invitation to join them.

"They’ve been at this for generations," Kaelor said quietly as they found a relatively isolated spot near the northern wall. "The rivalries you see now have roots older than either of us."

Soren nodded, studying how knights positioned themselves, who stood with backs to walls, who maintained clear sightlines to potential rivals, who mingled freely and who remained isolated.

"House Trescan and Karvath are formal allies," he observed, "but their knights barely acknowledge each other."

Kaelor grunted in approval. "Recent trade dispute. Karvath ships were denied preferred docking at Trescan-controlled harbors." The Swordmaster’s eye narrowed. "Politics makes for fragile alliances."

A lone knight in Velrane colors approached them, Ser Torven, whom Soren recognized from their journey to the capital. The bearded knight offered a stiff nod.

"Swordmaster. Thorne." His greeting held neither warmth nor hostility, merely acknowledgment. "Lord Callen ordered me to join you for the hunt."

Before Kaelor could respond, a horn blast cut through the courtyard’s clamor. The effect was immediate, conversations ceased, knights straightened, all eyes turning toward the main building.

Through the waystation’s inner door came a figure who commanded attention without seeming to seek it. Lord Erion Ashgard moved with the deliberate economy of a predator conserving energy. Tall and austere, his steel-gray hair cropped short against his skull, he wore no ostentatious armor or house colors, only practical leather and steel in shades of deep gray. Four aides flanked him, carrying maps and documents rather than weapons.

Unlike Lord Callen’s cold authority or Harrick’s blustering confidence, Ashgard’s power resided in his presence.

Knights who had been boasting loudly moments before fell silent without being commanded. Even the most senior among them straightened unconsciously as he passed.

The shard against Soren’s chest pulsed once, neither hot nor cold, but somehow alert, like a hound catching an unfamiliar scent.

Ashgard ascended the wooden platform at the courtyard’s center with fluid grace that belied his years. He stood silent for a moment, steel-gray eyes sweeping over the gathered knights. Something in that gaze made Soren feel simultaneously assessed and dismissed, measured against some standard and found neither particularly wanting nor particularly impressive.

"Knights of the noble houses," Ashgard began, his voice carrying effortlessly without seeming raised. "You stand here representing the finest blades in the realm. House Trescan." He nodded toward the crimson-clad contingent. "House Dravien. House Karvath. House Velrane." Each acknowledgment came with a brief glance toward the respective groups. "And the smaller houses whose contributions are no less valued."

He paused, allowing the courtesy to settle before his tone hardened.

"You are not here for glory. You are not here for honor. You are here to hunt a killer."

Ashgard gestured, and one of his aides unrolled a map on a table beside the platform.

"Sylas, known to commoners as the Emerald Reaper...has claimed three noble lives in as many months. Lord Halwick, Baron Tessier, Count Dravien’s cousin." His eyes found the Dravien knights, acknowledging their loss before continuing. "Some call him an assassin. Others, revolutionary. What he calls himself matters not at all."

Ashgard’s voice remained measured, yet something in it raised the hair on Soren’s arms.

"What matters is this: he is methodical. Intelligent. Utterly without mercy. And he is not finished."

A murmur passed through the gathered knights. Ashgard silenced it with a raised hand.

"This is not a tournament. This is not a ceremonial hunt where failure means merely wounded pride." His gaze swept the assembly again, harder now. "Sylas has killed lords in their own halls, surrounded by guards who never saw him enter. Fail to treat him as more than a man, and you will join his tally."

The shard against Soren’s chest cooled further, Valenna’s presence sharpening with interest.

’Finally,’ she whispered, ’someone who understands the nature of true hunting.’

Ashgard pointed to the map, where his aide had marked several locations with red ink.

"We ride north at dawn, following his last known trail. Our purpose is simple: find him, flush him from hiding, and end this threat before more noble blood is spilled."

Soren studied the older man’s face, finding neither fear nor bloodlust, only the calm certainty of one who had hunted dangerous prey before.

"Questions will be addressed by my aides. Supplies have been prepared. Each house contingent will receive their specific assignments before nightfall." Ashgard straightened, his posture somehow becoming even more commanding. "Make your preparations. Tomorrow, we hunt."

As knights began to disperse, Harrick’s voice carried from somewhere to Soren’s right.

"Let’s hope Velrane’s dead weight doesn’t slow us down," he muttered, just loud enough to be heard.

Ashgard’s eyes flicked in the direction of the comment, though he made no direct acknowledgment. Instead, his voice simply rose slightly, continuing as if there had been no interruption.

"This endeavor requires discipline, focus, and unity of purpose. Those incapable of setting aside petty rivalries would do better to remain behind."

The rebuke, delivered without directly addressing Harrick, carried more weight than any direct confrontation. The Trescan knight fell silent, properly chastened without being granted the dignity of direct attention.

"Rest well," Ashgard concluded. "At dawn, the fire is lit."

As the gathering broke apart, knights moving with renewed purpose toward their assigned quarters, Soren remained rooted in place. The reality of what lay ahead settled over him like a physical weight. This wasn’t training in Velrane’s yard. This wasn’t political maneuvering in Callen’s shadow. This was war in its earliest form, deadly, purposeful, inescapable.

The shard pulsed cold against his chest, Valenna’s voice a whisper that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.

"Now the game begins."