CHAPTER 87: SHARPENING FOR THE LISTS (1)

The bruise on Soren’s ribs had finally turned from purple to a sickly yellow-green, but the memory of Sylas remained as fresh as an open wound.

Three weeks had passed since their return to Northaven, three weeks of whispers that followed him through House Velrane’s halls like persistent shadows. The expedition’s survivors had scattered to their respective houses, but the stain of failure clung to them all.

Lords who had once boasted of hunting glory now spoke in hushed tones of strategy and preparation. Knights who had fled before Sylas’s blade now trained with desperate intensity, as if steel and sweat could wash away the shame.

"Again," Kaelor barked from the edge of the training yard, his voice stronger than it had been in days. The Swordmaster sat propped against a wooden post, his torso still wrapped in bandages beneath his loose shirt. Despite the healers’ insistence on bed rest, he had dragged himself to the yard each morning, refusing to yield even to his own body’s limitations.

Soren pivoted, blade flashing in the early sunlight as he executed the sequence Kaelor had demanded. The movements felt different now, sharper, more urgent.

Before Sylas, training had been about proving himself worthy of House Velrane. After Sylas, it was about survival.

"Your guard drops after the third strike," Kaelor called, his single eye narrowed in assessment. "A child could slip past that defense."

’A child wouldn’t need to,’ Soren thought grimly. ’Sylas would have taken my head before I completed the first movement.’

The shard pulsed cold against his chest, Valenna stirring from her morning silence. ’True,’ she whispered, her voice like frost forming on glass. ’But you’re still breathing. Learn from that.’

Across the yard, other Velrane knights trained with similar intensity. The upcoming tournament loomed over them all, a political showcase thinly disguised as sport, where House Velrane would be judged not just on skill but on recovery. After the expedition’s failure, they needed a victory to reassert their standing among the noble houses.

"The Ashgard contingent arrives tomorrow," Ser Torven mentioned as he passed, adjusting the straps of his practice armor. The older knight’s face had grown more lined since their return, new gray streaking his beard. "Lord Callen has ordered full ceremony."

Soren nodded, wiping sweat from his brow. House Ashgard’s participation in the tournament carried particular weight after the expedition. Their presence represented either continued alliance or careful assessment of Velrane’s weakened position, no one was quite certain which.

"Perhaps they’ll bring that female knight," another voice added, Derren, one of the younger Velrane swordsmen. "The one with the scar across her jaw. She moved like water during the retreat."

"She moved like someone with sense," Kaelor grunted, shifting his position with a barely concealed wince. "Unlike our noble contingent."

Silence fell across the yard at the Swordmaster’s words. The expedition’s failure remained a wound too fresh to probe carelessly, especially with Kaelor’s injuries as a constant reminder.

Soren resumed his drills, focusing on the sequence that had earned Kaelor’s criticism. The shard against his chest warmed slightly as he moved, Valenna’s presence sharpening with interest.

’They’re watching you,’

she observed, her attention shifting toward the upper gallery where several shadows moved behind the latticework. ’The wolves observe their investment.’

Soren didn’t need to look up to know she was right. He had felt the weight of those eyes since dawn, Velrane eyes, assessing, calculating. With the tournament approaching, every knight’s performance was scrutinized for weakness.

For him, the stakes were higher still. As Veyr’s chosen Blade, his failure would reflect directly on the heir’s judgment.

"Lord Veyr requests your presence," a servant announced, appearing at the yard’s edge with the silent efficiency that marked all House Velrane’s retainers. "The archive. Immediately."

Soren lowered his blade, nodding acknowledgment. Kaelor’s expression soured further, though he made no direct objection.

The Swordmaster had grown increasingly irritable as the tournament approached, especially when his training sessions were interrupted by Veyr’s summons.

The shard cooled against Soren’s skin as he sheathed his practice blade. ’The young wolf calls,’ Valenna murmured, her tone carrying that mixture of disdain and curiosity she always reserved for Veyr. ’Perhaps he’s finally found something useful in those dusty scrolls.’

The archive occupied the eastern wing of Velrane Manor, its windows positioned to capture morning light rather than afternoon heat.

Soren climbed the narrow stairs leading to its entrance, his muscles protesting after hours in the training yard. The guards flanking the heavy oak doors assessed him with professionally blank expressions before stepping aside.

The archive’s familiar scent greeted him, parchment, ink, leather bindings, and the faint metallic tang of preservation spells.

Shelves stretched toward the vaulted ceiling, laden with the accumulated knowledge of generations. Unlike the grand libraries of other houses, designed to impress visitors with their opulence, the Velrane archive existed purely for function.

Every text had earned its place through utility rather than beauty.

Veyr stood at the central table, pale fingers tracing lines on an unrolled map. He didn’t look up as Soren entered, too absorbed in whatever pattern he sought among the faded markings. Ink stained his fingertips black, matching the shadows beneath his eyes from what had clearly been another night without proper rest.

"You’ve been avoiding the gallery observers," Veyr remarked without preamble, still studying the map. "My father noticed."

Soren hesitated, caught off-guard by the observation. "I’ve been focusing on Kaelor’s instructions."

"Hmm." Veyr finally looked up, those pale eyes carrying their usual mix of calculation and barely concealed exhaustion. "A convenient excuse. The truth, perhaps, but not complete."

The heir straightened, wincing slightly as his left leg protested the movement. The childhood injury that had left him with a permanent limp seemed to trouble him more when fatigue set in, though he would never admit to such weakness.

"The tournament approaches," Veyr continued, gesturing toward a stack of documents at the table’s edge. "House Velrane’s standing hangs by a thread after the expedition’s... outcome. My father intends to use this opportunity to demonstrate that we remain undiminished."

Soren recognized the implication immediately. "He expects me to compete."

"Not just compete." Veyr’s mouth curved in what might have been a smile on another man. "Win. Convincingly enough to silence the whispers about curses and cowardice that have followed you since the forest."

The shard against Soren’s chest pulsed cold. ’A test,’ Valenna whispered. ’Fail, and the wolves will tear you apart themselves.’

"I’m not ready," Soren admitted, the words scraping his throat raw. Pride demanded he claim otherwise, but pragmatism recognized the truth. "The other houses will field knights with years more experience—"

"Yes," Veyr interrupted, returning his attention to the map. "They will. Knights who fled before Sylas while you remained standing. An interesting contrast, wouldn’t you say?"

The observation hung between them, sharp-edged and double-sided. A compliment wrapped around an expectation, a reminder disguised as encouragement.

"My father has arranged the brackets," Veyr continued after a moment. "You’ll face House Lanther’s second son in the opening round. A deliberate choice."