After the silent oath, Cael kept to himself for two days. He still took his usual place at meals and showed up at the practice yard when called, but otherwise he vanished into the quieter corners of the house.On the morning of the third day, Edric summoned him without looking up from his own plate."You're useless with a blade and too soft for the yard," Edric said. "Fine. Go sit with Master Renn and learn something worth earning your keep. If you can count, at least you'll be less of a disgrace."That was all, no explanation or room to refuse.Cael didn't argue. In fact this worked perfectly for his own plans.He only nodded once and rose while Jorlan snorted into his cup.By the time he reached the scribe's counting room, Master Renn was already hunched over a ledger, quill scratching. He didn't even glance up when Cael arrived."Sit," Master Renn muttered after a long pause, still writing. "If you're going to waste my air, boy, at least keep your hands off the ledgers until I tell

The yard was quiet at night. Too quiet for a place that bore so much noise by day.Cael eased the door shut behind him, muffling the faint creak with the edge of his sleeve. The moon hung low over the ridge, spilling just enough light across the packed dirt of the training circle to see without a torch. He pulled the practice blade from where he'd hidden it under the fence and stepped into the ring.The air was cold enough to sting his lungs, but it didn't slow him. It woke him.He rolled his shoulders, shook the stiffness from his arms, and planted his feet in the center of the circle.Here we go again.The past three nights had blurred together, all of them like this. And yet he came back every time, because each night he could feel himself… changing.He began slow at first, moving through the drills Matilde had taught him long ago. The sword still felt heavy, but not nearly as bad as it had that first morning in the yard with Jorlan. That morning, the blade had dragged his arms dow

The scent of parchment and ink always clung to the scribe's tower.Cael was beginning to like it.He climbed the narrow stair two at a time, the quiet murmur of voices drifting down toward him. Just short of the landing, he stopped, pressing his palm on the wall to listen.Two men. Not the scribes, their voices were rougher and sounded like merchants."…told you the crop would fail," one said, sharp with irritation. "Frost came too early and the rain too late. They say it's worse in Dorvale, whole fields blackened before harvest.""And?" the second replied, calmer. "That's why we raise the price. Supply dwindles, price rises. Common sense."Cael narrowed his eyes."Common sense?" the first scoffed. "You say that now, but the merchants' guild is already sniffing around. Two of their men were in Alne last week, promising cheap foreign grain. If they manage to undercut us once, we're finished."The second man exhaled through his nose before speaking. "If they do bring in foreign grain, w

The morning was clear but cold, the kind of cold that seeped through even a padded jacket and lingered in the joints.Cael stood just inside the archway of the training yard for a long moment before stepping out, breathing in the damp air and the faint smell of dust and sweat.The yard was already alive. Squires striking at posts. Guards crossing blades. Servants carrying buckets to and fro between the barracks and the well.He folded his hands behind his back and took his usual place near the fence. Nobody noticed him which worked better according to his ideas.Her words still lingered.Your bloodline is cursed. It clings to things best left buried... Magic, isn't it?He exhaled slowly, watching two guards sparring in the sand. The word magic burned in his mind.Coming to think of it, what did she see? What did he see?The Veil shimmered faintly at the edge of his sight, threads stretching like spiderwebs across the yard, impossible to shut out completely.He blinked and they dimmed.

The pouch in his sleeve weighed more than the coin inside. It felt more like acknowledgement, a sort of test, and a warning all in one.Don't disgrace yourself in the tournament.His father's voice was still clear in his head.In the Southern Duchy, tournaments were no idle sport. Every two years, the Duke of Leth hosted the Tournament of Rethmar — part spectacle, part proving ground. To the crowd it was entertainment, but to the noble houses it was reputation, money, and power decided in the open.Victors earned prestige, favors, and sometimes direct offers from wealthier houses. Defeat brought mockery, and repeated defeat carved deep wounds in a house's reputation.For House Varissen, once spoken of for its fighting strength, the tournament was more than a spectacle, it was a chance to prove they were still dangerous.The last time they had competed, they'd been eliminated on the first day. A second embarrassment would brand them as weak beyond recovery, while a strong showing could