CHAPTER 88: SHARPENING FOR THE LISTS (2)

Soren felt his stomach tighten. House Lanther had lost their heir during the expedition, Edric, cut down while fleeing. To face his brother in the tournament’s opening round carried unmistakable political significance.

"Lord Lanther will view it as an insult," he said carefully.

"Precisely." Veyr’s fingers tapped against the map, a rhythm that matched his accelerating thoughts. "He believes you somehow cursed or marked, spared by Sylas while his son died. This match forces a public reckoning. Defeat his remaining son in honorable combat, and you begin to rewrite the narrative. Lose..."

He left the consequence unspoken, though its shape loomed between them like a shadow.

"The other houses have been preparing for months," Soren pointed out. "I’ve had three weeks since returning from—"

"Yes, yes," Veyr waved away the objection. "Time, experience, training, all relevant factors under normal circumstances. But these are not normal circumstances, are they?" His pale eyes fixed on Soren with sudden intensity. "Something happened in that forest. Something beyond what you’ve admitted to my father or brother."

The shard went from cool to freezing against Soren’s skin. He fought to keep his expression neutral, though his pulse quickened traitorously.

"I told Lord Callen everything I saw," he said, the careful phrasing feeling inadequate even as he spoke.

"What you saw," Veyr repeated, stepping closer. "An interesting distinction. What about what you heard? What you felt? What you learned?"

The heir’s perception had always been unnervingly acute. Where Ayren wielded charm and Callen commanded through cold authority, Veyr observed. Noticed patterns others missed. Connected fragments into wholes.

"I survived by chance," Soren insisted. "Nothing more."

"Chance." Veyr’s laugh held no humor. "House Velrane doesn’t entrust its future to chance, Soren. Neither should you." He tapped the tournament brackets with one ink-stained finger. "Three days. That’s what you have to transform from survivor to victor. I suggest you use them wisely."

The heir returned to his map, the dismissal clear. Soren stood for a moment longer, the weight of expectation settling across his shoulders like a physical burden. Then he turned to leave, the shard cold against his chest.

’He knows you’re hiding something,’ Valenna whispered as he descended the stairs. ’The question is whether he’ll protect that secret... or expose it.’

Soren didn’t answer. He couldn’t afford to be seen talking to himself, not with servants watching from every shadow, not with the tournament looming like an executioner’s blade. Instead, he headed back toward the training yard, where Kaelor waited with criticism that suddenly seemed preferable to Veyr’s perceptive gaze.

The yard had grown more crowded during his absence. Knights from minor houses allied with Velrane had arrived for final preparations, their colored surcoats adding splashes of brightness to the usual Velrane blacks and silvers.

They moved with the nervous energy of men aware they performed for unseen observers, each drill carrying the weight of political calculation.

"There he is," someone muttered as Soren approached. "Velrane’s lucky charm."

"Lucky or cursed," another voice added, just loud enough to carry. "We’ll see which in the ring."

Soren kept his face carefully blank as he retrieved his practice blade. The whispers had become familiar companions over the past weeks, sometimes hushed in fear, sometimes sharp with accusation, always present like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

Kaelor watched his return with narrowed eye, assessing his expression with the practiced skill of a man who had spent decades reading opponents.

"The young lord had wisdom to impart?" the Swordmaster asked, voice pitched low enough that only Soren could hear.

"Brackets," Soren replied quietly. "I face Lanther’s second son in the opening round."

Kaelor’s eye widened slightly before narrowing to a calculating squint. "Bold move. Or desperate." He shifted, wincing as the movement pulled at his healing wounds. "Lanther will want blood after losing his heir. Literal blood, not tournament victory."

Soren nodded, the weight of what awaited him settling deeper into his bones. Three days to prepare for a match designed to either redeem or destroy him. The shard pulsed cold against his chest, almost in rhythm with his quickening heartbeat.

"Show me the Ashgardian counter again," he said, raising his practice blade. "The one that opens the right flank."

Kaelor studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Stance wider. Weight back. You’ll need everything I can teach you and more."

As the sun climbed higher, servants appeared along the gallery’s edge, unfurling the tournament banners that had been carefully stored since last season.

House Velrane, crimson for Trescan, midnight blue for Dravien, green for Karvath. The sight sent a ripple of tension through the training yard. The physical manifestation of what approached, what could not be avoided.

By midday, the yard had transformed. What had been routine training now carried the sharp edge of imminent judgment.

Knights drilled with fierce intensity, each stroke measured not just by its technical precision but by its political implications.

Who would represent their houses? Who would bring glory or shame? Whose performance might shift alliances that had stood for generations?

"Your guard is still dropping," Kaelor called, his voice rougher now with fatigue. "A tournament may have rules, but Lanther’s boy will aim to cripple, not score."

Soren adjusted, feeling sweat trickle down his spine despite the cool air. His muscles burned with the effort of maintaining proper form after hours of repetition.

The shard against his chest alternated between cool and cold, Valenna’s attention sharpening each time he executed a sequence correctly.

’He’ll attack your left side,’ she murmured as Soren moved through the pattern again. ’They all do. They see the street rat and assume you’ll favor your stronger side from brawling.’

’How would you know?’ Soren thought back, keeping his face carefully neutral.

’I’ve watched a thousand tournaments,’ she replied, her voice carrying that ancient certainty that still unsettled him. ’The patterns never change, only the men enacting them.’

A commotion at the yard’s entrance drew Soren’s attention. Lord Callen had appeared on the upper gallery, his tall figure commanding immediate notice even before he spoke. Beside him stood Ayren, dressed in the formal blacks that marked official House business rather than his usual courtly attire.